I just read a blog by Steph in the City about a Marie Clare blogger who railed against fat people. If you want to read the original MC blog, Steph has a link to it. This is going to be more of a commentary about obesity and society.
It's in the news all the time. The latest dither has been about airlines dealing with obese customers who take up way more space than their paid-for seat. Then there was the fast food restaurant employee who sued his employer because he got fat while working there and eating the restaurant's food. And then there was... You get the idea.
I deal with obese patients all day long at work. I have seen thousands and thousands of overweight and obese individuals, and I feel comfortable with the following statement: 99% of obese people are fat because they are lazy. That doesn't mean that these people aren't stellar employees, loving partners and parents, or pillars of their communities. It means that they are fat because they didn't give any effort to their bodies. Lazy. It's hard to choose veggies over cheesecake. It takes effort to stop relaxing at home and instead put on sneakers and go for a walk around your neighborhood. It is take diligence and focus to read labels and say "no" to quick, easy fast food. It takes heart. It takes will power. And most of all, it takes energy! Energy that people are choosing to spend elsewhere and not on their health.
I know of which I speak. I am overweight. I am fat. Not chubby, not pleasingly plump, not carrying a little extra junk in the trunk. Fat. I am fat because I am lazy. I am not fat due to some extremely rare metabolic or endocrine disorder. I am fat because I am lazy. Every inch of fat on my ass first passed my lips as a food choice. I choose to eat foods that aren't nutritious. I am fat because I'm lazy. I choose to slack off on exercise and going to the gym. I'm not depressed. I'm not struggling with "issues." I am fat because I'm lazy. I'm not so busy that I couldn't find time to care for my body. Anyone who says they're too busy is full of shit because I have a house full of kids, two jobs, I'm a college student, and I volunteer at my kids' school, and I still could find the time and energy to take care of myself. I am fat because I'm lazy.
That's a hard thing to hear sometimes... that we choose not to take care of ourselves. It's not like you magically got fat overnight. Health is something that you've deprioritized your whole life. But you know better, you know what you should be doing, and you just don't do it. That's lazy. You'd rather do something else. Or do nothing at all.
The MC blogger said something to the effect that she is grossed out by fat people. You know what? Me too. That doesn't mean that I hate fat people. Fat people are still people. However, I work in close proximity to obese patients, and I can attest to this: when you are obese, you smell. Some much more than others, but there is an inescapable odor that is produced when skin cells are shed into a confined space with little/no oxygen. Basically, you're shedding skin cells into your fat rolls, and the natural skin bacteria are going to town, causing a stink. It's not the same as BO from your armpits. It's gross. It's that "cheese" goo. You know what I'm talking about. It reeks!
So, to answer the title question of this blog, NO, being fat is not OK. It's unhealthy. Fat is not our natural state of being. It's not OK to make fat a political issue. It's not OK to be all sensitive about your weight. It's not a birthmark or congenital abnormality that you were born with. No one feels sorry for you. It's not OK to consider "fat" a protected class of people like racial or ethnic minorities. You are fat because of your choices. Sorry, but that's a fact. No one made you fat. There's no one to blame but you. Obesity is the current state of your body, and that's kind of great news. It's not permanent. It's not your identity. If you are fat, only YOU can do something to change it. It's possible. It's not some pipe dream, so don't resign yourself for being obese. Own your current state of being. Truly own how you got yourself into this mess. You can't fix a problem until you acknowledge it, so buck up, grow a spine, get some sound nutrition and exercise guidance, and just go for it! So what if you have a few hiccups along the way? You're taking care of yourself! You're choosing YOU! You're saying, "Fuck you, laziness! I'm gonna win!" It's a long, arduous process, so you have to decide: Am I willing to give up being lazy? Am I willing to make the necessary changes to become healthy?
I'm right there with you.
Showing posts with label commentary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label commentary. Show all posts
Nov 11, 2010
Oct 23, 2010
Well, How About That!
This is a series of letters published by Annie's Mailbox. Although many of these letters generated multiple responses, this blog is only shows one direct thread of letters, and I think they speak for themselves.
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Dear Annie: We adopted our daughter when she was just a few weeks old. She is an adult now with children of her own. She recently found her birth family. I have so many conflicted feelings about this.I never thought we would know the names of the birth parents, but we’ve actually met them. They’re very nice people, but I feel so shut out — like I’m no longer the mom — and it rips up my heart.
The birth mom has a Facebook account and lists my daughter along with her other children. She’s MY daughter, and yet I have to share her with these strangers. Is there a support group for those of us who have adopted children who now have frequent contact with their birth families? I could really use someone to talk to who has shared the same experience.
- Still the Mom
Dear Mom: Your feelings are natural, but you must put aside your jealousies for the sake of your daughter. She is not trying to replace you. She is trying to find a connection to her biological identity and information about her background. You are still her mother. It takes away nothing from your relationship to share her with the woman who made it possible for you to adopt her. While we could find no specific support group that deals solely with your problem, most adoption agencies and organizations have support groups for adoptive parents, and we’re sure this subject has come up. We suggest contacting your state adoption agency or RESOLVE (resolve.org)
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Dear Annie: I read the responses to "Still the Mom," but I guess I'm in the minority. I wish I had never met my biological mother.
She was quite pretty but terribly vain, and believed a woman was defined by how many men she could attract. She was a gossip and a troublemaker with a sordid past, which took years for me to detach from my own identity. Despite it all, I tried to have a friendship with her, but she wasn't interested. I was rejected all over again.
Worse, I was 18 when I found her, and my adopted mother blew a gasket. She thought I didn't love her and made my life miserable.
- Not Always Greener
Dear Greener: Doing a search for a birth parent is always a risk because not every situation works out as anticipated.
What is truly sad, however, is your adopted mother's inability to be supportive when you needed her. We hope things are better now.
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Dear Annie: I read the letter from “Not Always Greener,” who found her birth mother but the relationship did not turn out well.
When I was young, I became pregnant by my then-boyfriend. He was not interested in marriage. I was wildly irresponsible, but smart enough to realize I could not provide a decent home for a child.
Giving her up for adoption was the most difficult thing I have ever done. For years after, I would regularly cry myself to sleep. Almost 25 years later, I still get sad as her birthday approaches.
I have since built a life that includes a loving husband and two children.
If that “baby” showed up at my door, I don’t know how welcoming I’d be. I worked hard to accept the fact that she is no longer mine. I hope she is healthy and happy. I would love to sit down, just the two of us, and talk about why I put her up for adoption and go over her family medical history. But we don’t need a relationship.
It may sound cruel and uncaring, but I have a life I want to protect, and that is my choice. Please don’t judge those mothers who gave away their children. Most of us did so believing it was the best thing for the baby.
- Still Cry About It
Dear Still: We appreciate your candor. Thank you for offering the other side.
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Dear Annie: This is a response to "Still Cry About It," who wasn't sure how she'd react if the baby she gave up for adoption showed up on her doorstep after 25 years.
I'd like to thank her. My husband and I adopted an infant more than 25 years ago. She is the light of our lives. From the start, we told her she was adopted. (Although when she was little, she repeated to others that she was "a doctor.") She does not wish to meet her birth mother, but we have given her all the necessary information to do so.
I want to tell my daughter and all adopted children that what their birth mothers did took courage. It's not the easy road, and it probably wasn't the path her friends were encouraging her to take. She did it because she was mature enough and strong enough to do what she thought was best for her child.
We would never want our daughter to judge her birth mother harshly. That woman not only allowed me to become a mother, but made me want to be the best mother because I owed it to her and the sacrifice she made. It took all of us for my daughter to become the person she is, and I am eternally grateful to the woman who gave birth to her.
- With a Grateful Heart
Dear Grateful: Every birth parent will bless you for your kind words.
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Dear Annie: "With a Grateful Heart" is exactly right: Placing a child for adoption takes courage. I am thankful for my loving and devoted parents, siblings, and large extended family. My dad was my coach, my mother baked cookies, and my sibs and I rode bikes and built forts. I attended excellent schools and earned college scholarships. I am educated, well-employed, and married to a wonderful man with whom I have four children. I am adopted and am living the American dream.
I have met my birth parents and half-siblings. They are amazing people, but they encountered hardships and tragedies I never had to deal with. My birthmother gave me an immeasurable gift by putting my needs before her own. My husband and I have already agreed that if one of our children should accidentally become pregnant, we will guide her to choose adoption.
- The Luckiest
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I'll give you one guess who "The Luckiest" is.
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Dear Annie: We adopted our daughter when she was just a few weeks old. She is an adult now with children of her own. She recently found her birth family. I have so many conflicted feelings about this.I never thought we would know the names of the birth parents, but we’ve actually met them. They’re very nice people, but I feel so shut out — like I’m no longer the mom — and it rips up my heart.
The birth mom has a Facebook account and lists my daughter along with her other children. She’s MY daughter, and yet I have to share her with these strangers. Is there a support group for those of us who have adopted children who now have frequent contact with their birth families? I could really use someone to talk to who has shared the same experience.
- Still the Mom
Dear Mom: Your feelings are natural, but you must put aside your jealousies for the sake of your daughter. She is not trying to replace you. She is trying to find a connection to her biological identity and information about her background. You are still her mother. It takes away nothing from your relationship to share her with the woman who made it possible for you to adopt her. While we could find no specific support group that deals solely with your problem, most adoption agencies and organizations have support groups for adoptive parents, and we’re sure this subject has come up. We suggest contacting your state adoption agency or RESOLVE (resolve.org)
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Dear Annie: I read the responses to "Still the Mom," but I guess I'm in the minority. I wish I had never met my biological mother.
She was quite pretty but terribly vain, and believed a woman was defined by how many men she could attract. She was a gossip and a troublemaker with a sordid past, which took years for me to detach from my own identity. Despite it all, I tried to have a friendship with her, but she wasn't interested. I was rejected all over again.
Worse, I was 18 when I found her, and my adopted mother blew a gasket. She thought I didn't love her and made my life miserable.
- Not Always Greener
Dear Greener: Doing a search for a birth parent is always a risk because not every situation works out as anticipated.
What is truly sad, however, is your adopted mother's inability to be supportive when you needed her. We hope things are better now.
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Dear Annie: I read the letter from “Not Always Greener,” who found her birth mother but the relationship did not turn out well.
When I was young, I became pregnant by my then-boyfriend. He was not interested in marriage. I was wildly irresponsible, but smart enough to realize I could not provide a decent home for a child.
Giving her up for adoption was the most difficult thing I have ever done. For years after, I would regularly cry myself to sleep. Almost 25 years later, I still get sad as her birthday approaches.
I have since built a life that includes a loving husband and two children.
If that “baby” showed up at my door, I don’t know how welcoming I’d be. I worked hard to accept the fact that she is no longer mine. I hope she is healthy and happy. I would love to sit down, just the two of us, and talk about why I put her up for adoption and go over her family medical history. But we don’t need a relationship.
It may sound cruel and uncaring, but I have a life I want to protect, and that is my choice. Please don’t judge those mothers who gave away their children. Most of us did so believing it was the best thing for the baby.
- Still Cry About It
Dear Still: We appreciate your candor. Thank you for offering the other side.
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Dear Annie: This is a response to "Still Cry About It," who wasn't sure how she'd react if the baby she gave up for adoption showed up on her doorstep after 25 years.
I'd like to thank her. My husband and I adopted an infant more than 25 years ago. She is the light of our lives. From the start, we told her she was adopted. (Although when she was little, she repeated to others that she was "a doctor.") She does not wish to meet her birth mother, but we have given her all the necessary information to do so.
I want to tell my daughter and all adopted children that what their birth mothers did took courage. It's not the easy road, and it probably wasn't the path her friends were encouraging her to take. She did it because she was mature enough and strong enough to do what she thought was best for her child.
We would never want our daughter to judge her birth mother harshly. That woman not only allowed me to become a mother, but made me want to be the best mother because I owed it to her and the sacrifice she made. It took all of us for my daughter to become the person she is, and I am eternally grateful to the woman who gave birth to her.
- With a Grateful Heart
Dear Grateful: Every birth parent will bless you for your kind words.
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Dear Annie: "With a Grateful Heart" is exactly right: Placing a child for adoption takes courage. I am thankful for my loving and devoted parents, siblings, and large extended family. My dad was my coach, my mother baked cookies, and my sibs and I rode bikes and built forts. I attended excellent schools and earned college scholarships. I am educated, well-employed, and married to a wonderful man with whom I have four children. I am adopted and am living the American dream.
I have met my birth parents and half-siblings. They are amazing people, but they encountered hardships and tragedies I never had to deal with. My birthmother gave me an immeasurable gift by putting my needs before her own. My husband and I have already agreed that if one of our children should accidentally become pregnant, we will guide her to choose adoption.
- The Luckiest
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I'll give you one guess who "The Luckiest" is.
Oct 4, 2010
Unspecial: Part II
If you haven't already done so, read Part I. Just scroll down a little. It's only two posts. I'll wait.
(waiting)
Ok, done? Great.
So we are "them"... the nameless, faceless people whose tragedies we read about over our morning cups of coffee. Them. The others. Someone else.
They were us once. Regular folks tsking over the unfortunate events of "them" until one day when they were blindsided and unceremoniously inducted into the fraternity of "them."
The inspiration for Part I was someone I knew. Kids losing their mother. A husband losing his wife. A family losing their North Star. I wonder what would happen to my family if I died. Would it be as sickeningly tragic as I imagine, or would they cope and move on without me? The wise woman in me knows that I would want them to heal, to move on, to live. But the mother bear in me knows no one else could do it better than I could. The deepest part of my heart knows that they need me, and my not being there would write indelibly on the slate of their being.
What's worse, losing your mother, or losing your child?
Sick kid, ICU, no more treatments. Curling up in their hospital bed, arms wrapped around them, careful not to disturb the myriad lines running under the sheets, listening to the death march of beeps and clicks from the machinery keeping your beloved alive, whispering promises and making bargains with God to let your precious cargo become whole again.
And then what? The ventilator becomes a morbid metronome, pacing each breath until you've crossed the event horizon, the point of no return, and you're sucked in and torn apart by the supermassive black hole. Science says it's theoretical, but you know it's real. You're in it. Time stops. And then everything you know to be true in life ceases to be.
I worked with a woman who lost her teenage daughter. Three years after her death, the woman still spoke of her child in the present tense. No one had the nerve or the heart to mention it. We didn't dare suggest that we knew what she went through. Because we didn't. We could not fathom her pain.
I wonder at her courage, her resolve, the sheer will required to get up in the morning and take a shower knowing your child is dead.
Where do you find hope after something like that?
(waiting)
Ok, done? Great.
So we are "them"... the nameless, faceless people whose tragedies we read about over our morning cups of coffee. Them. The others. Someone else.
They were us once. Regular folks tsking over the unfortunate events of "them" until one day when they were blindsided and unceremoniously inducted into the fraternity of "them."
The inspiration for Part I was someone I knew. Kids losing their mother. A husband losing his wife. A family losing their North Star. I wonder what would happen to my family if I died. Would it be as sickeningly tragic as I imagine, or would they cope and move on without me? The wise woman in me knows that I would want them to heal, to move on, to live. But the mother bear in me knows no one else could do it better than I could. The deepest part of my heart knows that they need me, and my not being there would write indelibly on the slate of their being.
What's worse, losing your mother, or losing your child?
Sick kid, ICU, no more treatments. Curling up in their hospital bed, arms wrapped around them, careful not to disturb the myriad lines running under the sheets, listening to the death march of beeps and clicks from the machinery keeping your beloved alive, whispering promises and making bargains with God to let your precious cargo become whole again.
And then what? The ventilator becomes a morbid metronome, pacing each breath until you've crossed the event horizon, the point of no return, and you're sucked in and torn apart by the supermassive black hole. Science says it's theoretical, but you know it's real. You're in it. Time stops. And then everything you know to be true in life ceases to be.
I worked with a woman who lost her teenage daughter. Three years after her death, the woman still spoke of her child in the present tense. No one had the nerve or the heart to mention it. We didn't dare suggest that we knew what she went through. Because we didn't. We could not fathom her pain.
I wonder at her courage, her resolve, the sheer will required to get up in the morning and take a shower knowing your child is dead.
Where do you find hope after something like that?
Sep 18, 2010
Unspecial: Part I
The mother of my daughter's friend and schoolmate died on Labor Day weekend. She was 39. I didn't know her well, but here's a rundown of her last few months of life:
June 2010 - Pregnant with their 4th child. Preterm labor while on a family vacation. Baby in NICU, and mom's deteriorating. Doctors discover that she has endocarditis (look it up) and will need open heart surgery. Mom and baby flown back home and installed in same hospital.
July 2010 - Baby recovering. Mom getting worse. It is discovered that mom has colon cancer that's metastasized to her liver. Mom's open heart surgery is canceled, and she begins chemo. Family's 3 other children living with their aunt while dad stays with mom and baby.
August 2010 - Family's home is burglarized. Thieves steal car, computers, jewelry, basically anything not nailed down. Baby recovering nicely. Mom not responding to chemo. After 6 rounds of chemo and genetic testing, it is determined that mom's cancer is some weird genetic mutated variety that is untreatable.
September 2010 - Mom succumbs to liver failure secondary to metastasized colon cancer. She is survived by husband and 4 children, ages 2 months to 6 yrs. Children undergo genetic testing to determine if they carry the same cancer gene as their mother.
So there that is.
There's been a tremendous outpouring of support from the community, and everyone has rallied around this family. There was a spaghetti feed that raised over $70,000, not including the donation fund set up at a local bank. One of mom's former coworkers (now retired) has moved in with the family to care for the children. Apparently mom stepped up to help this woman after she had a stroke years ago, and now she is returning the favor. Angels are everywhere.
I could go on about how those children will never know their mother. Or about their widower father raising 4 small children. Or about the blinding speed of their downhill slide from family vacation to funeral. But everyone's already written that. It's the obvious story. It's heartbreaking.
What's utterly ordinary is that this kind of gut-wrenching drama (and much, much worse) plays itself out all over the world, day in and day out, everywhere, all the time, and it just is. There's nothing remarkable about this woman or this family that makes them any different from you, your neighbor, your coworker, or me. Nothing. And that is the truly horrifying part. It could have been me. It could have been my husband. Or my mom. Or my kid. I am not special. There's no protective shield around me that reflects and redirects the bad juju to someone else. To "them." When bad things happen, it always happens to "them." I realize now that I am them. I just haven't taken my turn yet.
Almost four years ago (can it be 4 yrs already?) my friend Penny got cancer and died. Her son was 11. I have a photo of the two of them on the day she died. She was divorced and worked at a bank. Her son lives with his dad now.
Three years ago my buddy's girlfriend was killed in a murder-suicide at the department store where she worked. My buddy already had the ring and was going to propose on Christmas. We had gotten together with them a week before she was killed.
Last year a good friend of my husband's died. I knew her casually. She had just become engaged and bought a house. She was found dead at home (undiagnosed health condition). She was a political activist and had a bright future ahead of her.
Three good people, to be sure, but I only tell their stories to illustrate a point.
It can be anyone, anywhere, anytime. They were all ordinary, regular people like you and me.
Them. We are them.
Part II to follow...
June 2010 - Pregnant with their 4th child. Preterm labor while on a family vacation. Baby in NICU, and mom's deteriorating. Doctors discover that she has endocarditis (look it up) and will need open heart surgery. Mom and baby flown back home and installed in same hospital.
July 2010 - Baby recovering. Mom getting worse. It is discovered that mom has colon cancer that's metastasized to her liver. Mom's open heart surgery is canceled, and she begins chemo. Family's 3 other children living with their aunt while dad stays with mom and baby.
August 2010 - Family's home is burglarized. Thieves steal car, computers, jewelry, basically anything not nailed down. Baby recovering nicely. Mom not responding to chemo. After 6 rounds of chemo and genetic testing, it is determined that mom's cancer is some weird genetic mutated variety that is untreatable.
September 2010 - Mom succumbs to liver failure secondary to metastasized colon cancer. She is survived by husband and 4 children, ages 2 months to 6 yrs. Children undergo genetic testing to determine if they carry the same cancer gene as their mother.
So there that is.
There's been a tremendous outpouring of support from the community, and everyone has rallied around this family. There was a spaghetti feed that raised over $70,000, not including the donation fund set up at a local bank. One of mom's former coworkers (now retired) has moved in with the family to care for the children. Apparently mom stepped up to help this woman after she had a stroke years ago, and now she is returning the favor. Angels are everywhere.
I could go on about how those children will never know their mother. Or about their widower father raising 4 small children. Or about the blinding speed of their downhill slide from family vacation to funeral. But everyone's already written that. It's the obvious story. It's heartbreaking.
What's utterly ordinary is that this kind of gut-wrenching drama (and much, much worse) plays itself out all over the world, day in and day out, everywhere, all the time, and it just is. There's nothing remarkable about this woman or this family that makes them any different from you, your neighbor, your coworker, or me. Nothing. And that is the truly horrifying part. It could have been me. It could have been my husband. Or my mom. Or my kid. I am not special. There's no protective shield around me that reflects and redirects the bad juju to someone else. To "them." When bad things happen, it always happens to "them." I realize now that I am them. I just haven't taken my turn yet.
Almost four years ago (can it be 4 yrs already?) my friend Penny got cancer and died. Her son was 11. I have a photo of the two of them on the day she died. She was divorced and worked at a bank. Her son lives with his dad now.
Three years ago my buddy's girlfriend was killed in a murder-suicide at the department store where she worked. My buddy already had the ring and was going to propose on Christmas. We had gotten together with them a week before she was killed.
Last year a good friend of my husband's died. I knew her casually. She had just become engaged and bought a house. She was found dead at home (undiagnosed health condition). She was a political activist and had a bright future ahead of her.
Three good people, to be sure, but I only tell their stories to illustrate a point.
It can be anyone, anywhere, anytime. They were all ordinary, regular people like you and me.
Them. We are them.
Part II to follow...
May 5, 2010
Open letter to my friend's daughter
Dearest Baby,
On this fabulous occasion of your baby shower, I wanted to write a letter from one adoptee to another…
Being adopted is something that you can’t understand unless you are. Most of the time you are pretty normal, and life is business as usual. Once in awhile you feel different, but not in the way that people might think. I never felt different because I didn’t grow in my mom’s stomach. I never felt different because I didn’t look like my dad. I fought with my brother like a regular kid. I loved my grandma just like a normal kid. But once in awhile I felt different.
Some people don’t get it; they think being adopted is weird. Adults try to tell you things to make you feel special, but they always miss the mark. You’ll hear the clichés like “You grew in your mom’s heart instead of her tummy” and other sappy things. Nice sentiments to be sure, but people who write that crap aren’t adopted. Adoptees are in an exclusive club. You can’t join unless you are, and you can’t explain it to people because they just don’t understand. We’re extra-special, we’re more than normal. Our parents wanted us. REALLY wanted us. We have the unique experience of non-biological unconditional love, and it’s sublime.
The flip side of that is knowing that you have a dual history. There are always the questions you can’t ask, the questions that will break your parents’ hearts even though they’re expecting them. “Where did I come from?” “Who’s my real mother?” Real mother is the term you use as a kid before you have the language to say “biological mother,” before you have the awareness or understanding that calling your birth mother your real mother breaks your mom’s heart. Don’t ever feel guilty for having these questions. They are normal. They are part of your history, and you are entitled to that. Hopefully your parents will understand.
I was (and am) definitely different from my family. I am wild, impatient, impulsive, curious, and very unlike my parents. I don’t have my mom’s insight or my dad’s fortitude. My folks and I couldn’t be more different in temperament and personality. It was a challenge for my parents to raise such a foreign creature. I continually confounded them, and I think I scared them a little. They have always shown me the greatest love, but sometimes they didn’t understand me. Who is this person that they called daughter? It took me many years and lots of hindsight, but now I know that I landed exactly where I belonged.
It took parents like mine to raise a child like me into a happy, healthy adult. I have met my birth family, and I adore them, but if I had grown up with them, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. My parents were a steadfast rock in my whirlwind life, and without that North star, I would be lost. They taught me values, goals, love, life, and God. They loved me enough to turn me loose and allowed me to make my mistakes. They took me back and let me lick my wounds without saying, “I told you so.” They were and are amazing, and I wouldn’t want to know life without them.
So I’d like to welcome you to lifetime membership in a pretty cool organization. You’re exactly where YOU belong, and knowing your parents as I do, I don’t know who is luckier, you or them.
On this fabulous occasion of your baby shower, I wanted to write a letter from one adoptee to another…
Being adopted is something that you can’t understand unless you are. Most of the time you are pretty normal, and life is business as usual. Once in awhile you feel different, but not in the way that people might think. I never felt different because I didn’t grow in my mom’s stomach. I never felt different because I didn’t look like my dad. I fought with my brother like a regular kid. I loved my grandma just like a normal kid. But once in awhile I felt different.
Some people don’t get it; they think being adopted is weird. Adults try to tell you things to make you feel special, but they always miss the mark. You’ll hear the clichés like “You grew in your mom’s heart instead of her tummy” and other sappy things. Nice sentiments to be sure, but people who write that crap aren’t adopted. Adoptees are in an exclusive club. You can’t join unless you are, and you can’t explain it to people because they just don’t understand. We’re extra-special, we’re more than normal. Our parents wanted us. REALLY wanted us. We have the unique experience of non-biological unconditional love, and it’s sublime.
The flip side of that is knowing that you have a dual history. There are always the questions you can’t ask, the questions that will break your parents’ hearts even though they’re expecting them. “Where did I come from?” “Who’s my real mother?” Real mother is the term you use as a kid before you have the language to say “biological mother,” before you have the awareness or understanding that calling your birth mother your real mother breaks your mom’s heart. Don’t ever feel guilty for having these questions. They are normal. They are part of your history, and you are entitled to that. Hopefully your parents will understand.
I was (and am) definitely different from my family. I am wild, impatient, impulsive, curious, and very unlike my parents. I don’t have my mom’s insight or my dad’s fortitude. My folks and I couldn’t be more different in temperament and personality. It was a challenge for my parents to raise such a foreign creature. I continually confounded them, and I think I scared them a little. They have always shown me the greatest love, but sometimes they didn’t understand me. Who is this person that they called daughter? It took me many years and lots of hindsight, but now I know that I landed exactly where I belonged.
It took parents like mine to raise a child like me into a happy, healthy adult. I have met my birth family, and I adore them, but if I had grown up with them, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. My parents were a steadfast rock in my whirlwind life, and without that North star, I would be lost. They taught me values, goals, love, life, and God. They loved me enough to turn me loose and allowed me to make my mistakes. They took me back and let me lick my wounds without saying, “I told you so.” They were and are amazing, and I wouldn’t want to know life without them.
So I’d like to welcome you to lifetime membership in a pretty cool organization. You’re exactly where YOU belong, and knowing your parents as I do, I don’t know who is luckier, you or them.
Feb 10, 2010
I'm right here
When things go wrong for others, I am not one of those friends who can be sympathetic in a socially acceptable way. I get accused of being cold, detached, uncaring, but people who say that really don't know me. Unless you are among the handful of folks I call "My People," I won't ask you about your problems. It's none of my business. I certainly won't post "I'm praying for you" on your Facebook wall. I get pretty uncomfortable with public displays of sympathy, both mine and others. I find it intrinsically demeaning.
It's invasive. It's like accidentally walking in on someone using the restroom. Too much information for either person to comfortably acknowledge. It's seeing their foibles, the cracks in their armor, seeing them raw, and pretending that I can slap on some bondo and a fresh coat of paint to make things better. People who do this might have their hearts in the right place, but they simply don't give the situation the gravity it deserves. Seeing or hearing it makes my skin crawl. It's an insult to my sensitivities as a human being.
I believe in the gift of casseroles and free babysitting when times are tough. I do my best to really listen. I am standing right there, ready, waiting, just in case. I won't tell you what to do. I am old enough to know that people seldom want advice, and even when they do, they don't follow it. I am not naive enough to think I can help you or save you or make you feel better. This is your fight, your burden, your loss. You have to bear it, not me. In the meantime, I will sit and watch television with you. I'll bring you delicious treats and pretty things and warm sweatpants. I'll get you stoned and take you out to the country to watch the stars. But I won't tell you how sorry I am.
There's no way I could be sorrier than you. For me to say I'm sorry just cheapens the word. I don't know how you feel, and I don't pretend to. Just know that as you work through your grief, your pain, your sorrow, I'm right here if you need me.
It's invasive. It's like accidentally walking in on someone using the restroom. Too much information for either person to comfortably acknowledge. It's seeing their foibles, the cracks in their armor, seeing them raw, and pretending that I can slap on some bondo and a fresh coat of paint to make things better. People who do this might have their hearts in the right place, but they simply don't give the situation the gravity it deserves. Seeing or hearing it makes my skin crawl. It's an insult to my sensitivities as a human being.
I believe in the gift of casseroles and free babysitting when times are tough. I do my best to really listen. I am standing right there, ready, waiting, just in case. I won't tell you what to do. I am old enough to know that people seldom want advice, and even when they do, they don't follow it. I am not naive enough to think I can help you or save you or make you feel better. This is your fight, your burden, your loss. You have to bear it, not me. In the meantime, I will sit and watch television with you. I'll bring you delicious treats and pretty things and warm sweatpants. I'll get you stoned and take you out to the country to watch the stars. But I won't tell you how sorry I am.
There's no way I could be sorrier than you. For me to say I'm sorry just cheapens the word. I don't know how you feel, and I don't pretend to. Just know that as you work through your grief, your pain, your sorrow, I'm right here if you need me.
Jan 23, 2010
Brain Dump
I miss blogging. I hate facebook because my mom's on mine, and also, most of my friends are conservative bordering on nazis. I need to vent, to brain dump, to get this out of my head so I can get to sleep. Thanks for listening.
I was thinking about the state of things the other day, and a blogger friend of mine said something that gave me pause. I don't recall his exact words, so forgive me for the paraphrasing: "God never put food on my table. God didn't fix my broken furnace. You keep praying and voting Republican, and I'll keep questioning authority." I might not be so much into the questioning part, but I think he has a very valid point. I challenge the neocons who think Obama is the devil to live paycheck to paycheck for awhile, hoping each day that your old beater of a car gets you to work and back. Hoping that you make it on time to daycare to pick your kids up before they start charging you overtime fees. Hoping that there are no birthday parties this month because you just can't spare the $10 for a gift. Hoping that you don't spill your soup on your blouse at lunch because you can't afford to have it drycleaned until after payday. Hoping that your kids don't have basketball games this week because you don't know if you have enough gas to drive them to the opposing team's gym. Hoping that pain you've been having isn't serious because you can't afford a doctor visit. Hoping your kid doesn't break his glasses because you can't afford new ones. Yeah, so you get the point. God doesn't put food on my table. God doesn't fix my broken furnace.
I am so sick of everyone spouting off about how they are terrified of health care reform and basically anything the Democrats come up with. I think TERRIFIED is the right word. The Republicans are freaking the fuck out. All I have to say to that is, "Welcome to the club. I've been shitting my drawers for the past 8 years over almost everything the Bush administration did. Environment? Trash it. Welfare and social programs? Forget them. Taxes? Let's throw the masses a bone ("stimulus check") and placate them. Corporations? Bow to them. Gay marriage and abortion? Let's use them to distract people. Real, middle class, working families? Fuck 'em.
So yes, I've been waiting patiently for 8 long years to get some relief. Welcome to my world, Conservatives.
I don't think anything gets accomplished when you're too far right or too far left, but there's a saying in politics that rings true: when you walk down the middle of the road, you usually get run over. It's a shame, really. People vacate all reason and let their emotions rule them. Sad indeed. It's the people who think critically, the lawmakers who reach across the aisle, the independents of this world who usually have the most workable approach to solving problems, yet no one listens to them, or worse, they are labeled "flip floppers."
I live in a very red state. Dyed in the wool RED. I hear from lifelong friends about how petrified they are of this whole "Obama thing" and how they really BELIEVE the conservative pundits. They really do think that we are all going to hell in a handbasket, and soon. If you ever watch South Park, they did a fantastic satire of the Obama presidential victory. The neocons were all holed up in a bunker with weapons, fearing doomsday. I highly recommend checking out that episode.
I guess I would call myself a conservative Democrat. It's not as dichotomous as you'd think. It works for me. I guess I don't fit the mold, but I am at peace with my beliefs. I don't mind paying taxes because I like the fact that when I call 911, the police/fire/ambulance personnel actually come to my house and help me. I have been on food stamps and medicaid, and I don't know what I would have done without it during that period of time. I like having safe, plentiful drinking water, sewer service, electricity, and gas utilities. I try to do little things to help the environment, but I'm no tree hugger. I'll only buy organic produce when it's on sale, and I still like to drive my car. Sometimes I get mad that minorities have a perceived advantage in hiring practices, but then I realize that no one will ever profile me as a terrorist or call me a racial slur just because I look different. I give to charity, and more importantly, I involve my children in fundraising and helping others. I don't go to church, but my kids attend Catholic school, and I actively encourage their studies of the bible. You can't think critically if you don't have all the information. I think abortion should be absolutely safe, legal, and available, but moreover, I think it's our responsibility to provide comprehensive sex education to kids and teens so they never need an abortion. It makes me sad that we don't use 1/10th of the technology available to us to produce vehicles and other industrial machinery that run on renewable/green energy. We are trouncing our wildlife and natural environment in the name of mineral mining and unhealthy farming practices. I believe in a strong military, and I think it's weak that we bow down to other countries and the UN. Period.
I guess I could go on and on. It doesn't have to be black and white, conservative or liberal. And by the way, liberal isn't a dirty word. I wish people would do a shot, let go of their fears, and realize that we're all pretty much the same. Just because your neighbor Joe and his partner Bob are getting married, the world most assuredly isn't coming to an end. Don't hide behind your fake beliefs in God and your fear to justify ruining the lives of others. If everyone out there used their energy to work toward solving our problems instead of pointing fingers and telling the other side how wrong they are, we could move mountains.
I was thinking about the state of things the other day, and a blogger friend of mine said something that gave me pause. I don't recall his exact words, so forgive me for the paraphrasing: "God never put food on my table. God didn't fix my broken furnace. You keep praying and voting Republican, and I'll keep questioning authority." I might not be so much into the questioning part, but I think he has a very valid point. I challenge the neocons who think Obama is the devil to live paycheck to paycheck for awhile, hoping each day that your old beater of a car gets you to work and back. Hoping that you make it on time to daycare to pick your kids up before they start charging you overtime fees. Hoping that there are no birthday parties this month because you just can't spare the $10 for a gift. Hoping that you don't spill your soup on your blouse at lunch because you can't afford to have it drycleaned until after payday. Hoping that your kids don't have basketball games this week because you don't know if you have enough gas to drive them to the opposing team's gym. Hoping that pain you've been having isn't serious because you can't afford a doctor visit. Hoping your kid doesn't break his glasses because you can't afford new ones. Yeah, so you get the point. God doesn't put food on my table. God doesn't fix my broken furnace.
I am so sick of everyone spouting off about how they are terrified of health care reform and basically anything the Democrats come up with. I think TERRIFIED is the right word. The Republicans are freaking the fuck out. All I have to say to that is, "Welcome to the club. I've been shitting my drawers for the past 8 years over almost everything the Bush administration did. Environment? Trash it. Welfare and social programs? Forget them. Taxes? Let's throw the masses a bone ("stimulus check") and placate them. Corporations? Bow to them. Gay marriage and abortion? Let's use them to distract people. Real, middle class, working families? Fuck 'em.
So yes, I've been waiting patiently for 8 long years to get some relief. Welcome to my world, Conservatives.
I don't think anything gets accomplished when you're too far right or too far left, but there's a saying in politics that rings true: when you walk down the middle of the road, you usually get run over. It's a shame, really. People vacate all reason and let their emotions rule them. Sad indeed. It's the people who think critically, the lawmakers who reach across the aisle, the independents of this world who usually have the most workable approach to solving problems, yet no one listens to them, or worse, they are labeled "flip floppers."
I live in a very red state. Dyed in the wool RED. I hear from lifelong friends about how petrified they are of this whole "Obama thing" and how they really BELIEVE the conservative pundits. They really do think that we are all going to hell in a handbasket, and soon. If you ever watch South Park, they did a fantastic satire of the Obama presidential victory. The neocons were all holed up in a bunker with weapons, fearing doomsday. I highly recommend checking out that episode.
I guess I would call myself a conservative Democrat. It's not as dichotomous as you'd think. It works for me. I guess I don't fit the mold, but I am at peace with my beliefs. I don't mind paying taxes because I like the fact that when I call 911, the police/fire/ambulance personnel actually come to my house and help me. I have been on food stamps and medicaid, and I don't know what I would have done without it during that period of time. I like having safe, plentiful drinking water, sewer service, electricity, and gas utilities. I try to do little things to help the environment, but I'm no tree hugger. I'll only buy organic produce when it's on sale, and I still like to drive my car. Sometimes I get mad that minorities have a perceived advantage in hiring practices, but then I realize that no one will ever profile me as a terrorist or call me a racial slur just because I look different. I give to charity, and more importantly, I involve my children in fundraising and helping others. I don't go to church, but my kids attend Catholic school, and I actively encourage their studies of the bible. You can't think critically if you don't have all the information. I think abortion should be absolutely safe, legal, and available, but moreover, I think it's our responsibility to provide comprehensive sex education to kids and teens so they never need an abortion. It makes me sad that we don't use 1/10th of the technology available to us to produce vehicles and other industrial machinery that run on renewable/green energy. We are trouncing our wildlife and natural environment in the name of mineral mining and unhealthy farming practices. I believe in a strong military, and I think it's weak that we bow down to other countries and the UN. Period.
I guess I could go on and on. It doesn't have to be black and white, conservative or liberal. And by the way, liberal isn't a dirty word. I wish people would do a shot, let go of their fears, and realize that we're all pretty much the same. Just because your neighbor Joe and his partner Bob are getting married, the world most assuredly isn't coming to an end. Don't hide behind your fake beliefs in God and your fear to justify ruining the lives of others. If everyone out there used their energy to work toward solving our problems instead of pointing fingers and telling the other side how wrong they are, we could move mountains.
Oct 6, 2009
Moving On...
How shall I go in peace and without sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the spirit shall I leave this city.
Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret? Too many fragments of the spirit I have scattered in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache. It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands. Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and thirst.
Yet I cannot tarry longer.
The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark. For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould. Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I?
A voice annot carry the tongue and the lips that gave it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.
And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.
--Kahlil Gibran, "The Prophet"
Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret? Too many fragments of the spirit I have scattered in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache. It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands. Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and thirst.
Yet I cannot tarry longer.
The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark. For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould. Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I?
A voice annot carry the tongue and the lips that gave it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.
And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.
--Kahlil Gibran, "The Prophet"
Sep 29, 2009
Understanding Sober
Anyone out there ever watched someone get sober? I don't mean "right now, clean the chemicals outta your system" physically sober. I am referring to the "whole body-mind-spirit priority makeover" when people basically reinvent themselves. Or find themselves for the first time. I think I am in it right now.
I quit smoking a couple six weeks ago, and yeah, I've cheated a few times when we go out, but basically, lifestyle-wise, I am really a nonsmoker now. So there that is. Pat me on the back. Except I don't think I've done the hard work yet. Kicking the physical habit of smoking was accomplished with the help of Chantix and the realization that I'm getting too old for this shit. So I quit. Bf and I quit. Done. No longer smokers.
Now we have to figure out wtf is going on. **snort** Yeah, go ahead and laugh because it sounds like trite bullshit, but I am serious as a heart attack. WTF is going on? The last time my brain functioned without nicotine was 1990. It's like starting over and learning how to be a grownup again, sans addiction. And THAT is where I draw a parallel with watching someone get sober. They act fucked up. Yay for them, they're not drinking, so at least they're not gonna die today, but they DO act fucked up. They don't know WHY they are acting that way. They read the Big Book with religious fervor, and they cling to their sponsors and their meetings with their last shreds of sanity. I think I get it now.
It's not that you want to drink, use, smoke, or (insert your addiction here) again. You're so over that. Your body and brain just don't know what the fuck to do without the substance. Your whole lifestyle, personality, and meaning is bent and shaped by your addiction. Sure, addicts know they need to steer clear of old friends and old haunts in order to maintain their sobriety, but that's not what I mean. Everything... every act, every thought, every word, every motivation... my entire adult life has been ruled by cigarettes. Subtly, yes, but ruled nonetheless. Now that I no longer serve that master, I am at a loss. I can't find focus or direction. What now?
I feel like that newly-sober annoying freak without the "rock bottom" story. I am uncomfortable in my own skin, in my own life. I am angry and sad and empty and spazzed and freaked the fuck out all the time. My fuse isthislong. I will take your head off for no reason, and I won't even notice it's missing until hours later. I want to cry all the time, sometimes. I want to yell at someone because it really is satisfying right now. I am waiting, sitting here, hoping and waiting for things to improve. Where's the fucking magical revelation? Why aren't the clouds parting and angel choirs singing? Where's my reward? I quit smoking, you assholes. Yeah YOU. The people who've been tsk-tsking at me my whole life, been telling my how disappointed you were in me, telling me how it was ruining my health (like that was a news flash). I did what you, society, my doctor, my kids, and everyone else of the planet has been telling me to do: I quit. So where's my reward? I'm tired of feeling like shit. I'm tired to feeling like emotional scrambled eggs. I am tired of being useless and mean to my family. I am tired of not being able to control myself.
How about that irony? Now that I had enough will power to quit smoking, I feel like I can't control myself. More like, I have no control over my life. I feel overwhelmed a lot. Maybe, just maybe, I was a better person when I smoked? Ever think of that? Maybe it's worth trading 15 years of my life for sanity? Quality versus quantity? Don't worry, there's no rationalization there. I'm not starting up again. I'm just sayin'... what if my brain chemistry and personality were better, more friendly, more organized, more fun, and clearer when I smoked? I liked myself before. I miss that. I am tired of not liking me.
I quit smoking a couple six weeks ago, and yeah, I've cheated a few times when we go out, but basically, lifestyle-wise, I am really a nonsmoker now. So there that is. Pat me on the back. Except I don't think I've done the hard work yet. Kicking the physical habit of smoking was accomplished with the help of Chantix and the realization that I'm getting too old for this shit. So I quit. Bf and I quit. Done. No longer smokers.
Now we have to figure out wtf is going on. **snort** Yeah, go ahead and laugh because it sounds like trite bullshit, but I am serious as a heart attack. WTF is going on? The last time my brain functioned without nicotine was 1990. It's like starting over and learning how to be a grownup again, sans addiction. And THAT is where I draw a parallel with watching someone get sober. They act fucked up. Yay for them, they're not drinking, so at least they're not gonna die today, but they DO act fucked up. They don't know WHY they are acting that way. They read the Big Book with religious fervor, and they cling to their sponsors and their meetings with their last shreds of sanity. I think I get it now.
It's not that you want to drink, use, smoke, or (insert your addiction here) again. You're so over that. Your body and brain just don't know what the fuck to do without the substance. Your whole lifestyle, personality, and meaning is bent and shaped by your addiction. Sure, addicts know they need to steer clear of old friends and old haunts in order to maintain their sobriety, but that's not what I mean. Everything... every act, every thought, every word, every motivation... my entire adult life has been ruled by cigarettes. Subtly, yes, but ruled nonetheless. Now that I no longer serve that master, I am at a loss. I can't find focus or direction. What now?
I feel like that newly-sober annoying freak without the "rock bottom" story. I am uncomfortable in my own skin, in my own life. I am angry and sad and empty and spazzed and freaked the fuck out all the time. My fuse isthislong. I will take your head off for no reason, and I won't even notice it's missing until hours later. I want to cry all the time, sometimes. I want to yell at someone because it really is satisfying right now. I am waiting, sitting here, hoping and waiting for things to improve. Where's the fucking magical revelation? Why aren't the clouds parting and angel choirs singing? Where's my reward? I quit smoking, you assholes. Yeah YOU. The people who've been tsk-tsking at me my whole life, been telling my how disappointed you were in me, telling me how it was ruining my health (like that was a news flash). I did what you, society, my doctor, my kids, and everyone else of the planet has been telling me to do: I quit. So where's my reward? I'm tired of feeling like shit. I'm tired to feeling like emotional scrambled eggs. I am tired of being useless and mean to my family. I am tired of not being able to control myself.
How about that irony? Now that I had enough will power to quit smoking, I feel like I can't control myself. More like, I have no control over my life. I feel overwhelmed a lot. Maybe, just maybe, I was a better person when I smoked? Ever think of that? Maybe it's worth trading 15 years of my life for sanity? Quality versus quantity? Don't worry, there's no rationalization there. I'm not starting up again. I'm just sayin'... what if my brain chemistry and personality were better, more friendly, more organized, more fun, and clearer when I smoked? I liked myself before. I miss that. I am tired of not liking me.
Sep 21, 2009
No quiero a leer en español
Yeah... so I was surfing around Blogger getting reacquainted with some of my old haunts. Is it just me, or is every other blog in Spanish? Cripes. They should sort the blogs by language so readers don't have to waste their time. Y sí, hablo español. Sin embargo, yo no quiero a leer acerca de telenovelas y problemas de emigración. Me gustan tortas de carne asada. Envíe por favor una receta de cocina.
Sep 20, 2009
Damn, I suck!
I don't really like who I've become since I quit smoking. Really. This isn't some addict's rationalization for starting up again. I have no plans to resume smoking. I just don't like my attitude or behavior since I quit. I am a bitch. I am mean to the people I love. I've been quit for over a month now, so this isn't "getting off the juice" crabbiness. It's not PMS. I am just a bitch, and I am kind of disappointed in myself. I am seeing old relationship behaviors emerge in me, and I don't like it. I have been nagging and yelling. ICK! Who wants to be with someone who nags and yells? Who wants to be with someone who makes your life less pleasant? Not me. I don't even want to be with myself. I'm not saying "I'm a bitch" like it's some badge of honor. I'm embarrassed. I didn't realize how angry and mean and unhappy I was until I quit smoking. This can't be the real me, can it?
Maybe it's like the people who are more fun when they're drinking? My baseline personality sucks, but damn, give me a cigarette and I'm the coolest chick on the plant. Go figure.
Maybe it's like the people who are more fun when they're drinking? My baseline personality sucks, but damn, give me a cigarette and I'm the coolest chick on the plant. Go figure.
Sep 19, 2009
She's baaaaaaaaack
Yeah, so I took my attorney's advice and deleted all of my online accounts. Except I didn't. I let this one lie dormant for awhile. Everything else is gone. I have been feeling the need to write again. I still loathe my ex, but a lot has died down since I last blogged.
By a stroke of good luck, I discovered that my ex got a job. A quick phone call to the child support enforcement people, and some nice, fat garnishment checks started coming my way. ***siiiiighh*** that's the sound of me breathing out.
Moved to a new place. It has more bedrooms but waaay less storage space, so we're trying to adjust. The yard is great, and the kitchen is sublime. Cheers to new beginnings.
Got a part time job. It's doesn't pay the bills, but it helps.
Started my own business. It doesn't pay the bills, but it, too, helps.
Got engaged. Trying to scurry and pull this wedding off in December. Yeah, that's 3 months from now. I'd have my head examined, but I don't think insurance would approve. By the way, once I get married I won't qualify for medicaid anymore. Fiance doesn't have insurance. We'll both be outta luck chuck.
So here's my rant:
I am so sick of people. Yeah, people in general. My kid is being a turd at school, and I'm tired of dealing with it. Tired of dealing with him and the principal and all that crap. WTF? I'm sick of the dumb bitch I work with who's the biggest loudmouth negative person on Earth. I have to pretend we're friends. I'm sick of my bipolar, freakazoid, micromanaging, can't-ever-say-I'm-wrong boss. No explanation needed there, eh? I'm sick of the fucktards who post "deep and meaningful" Facebook status messages about the economy, health care reform, taxes, or anything remotely related to Ayn Rand. If you were really that smart, then you'd be in office. Shut up. I am sick of dirty clothes and messes and having a house that's 70% trashed all the time. I am sick of kids who don't do what I say the first time. I'm sick of kids and their entitlement mentalities. I'm sick of feeling like ass because I quit smoking and the Chantix makes me tired and nauseated. I am sick of jonesing to smoke and not being able to. I am sick of the stupid bar skanks and jackballs who frequent our little neighborhood dive. Really, who do you think you're fooling? I am sick of stupid clients who couldn't find their ass with both hands and a map. But most of all, I am sick of the wretched, heartless bastards who decided to cut off my financial aid permanently. Ever hear of an exception to the rule? Douchebags.
As you can see, I'm dumping all the negativity that I've been carrying around. Good therapy, and it's cheaper than a shrink. My favorite team lost today, and all I want to do is shout "FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!!" and break shit and throw things. I really could beat someone up right now. I won't though because I'm too damn good of a citizen. I'd bitch-slap the coach if he walked by right now, though.
So anyway, there that is. I just needed to blow my stack, and I can't do it on Facebook. Too many people that I have to make nice with. I can't do it in real life because it would erode and eventually tank my relationship. I love my fella, and I don't want to use him as a dumping ground. I can't do it on girlfriends because then I have to listen to their sodden bullshit, and really, I could care less about their problems right now.
You are my selfish release. Today this blog is my verbal toilet. I don't intend to proffer wit, provoke thought, or enlighten the masses. Today is just about me. ONLY ME. Fuck you.
I'll be back from time to time. Please don't comment unless you have something really great, funny, or interesting to add. No critiques please. Gayass comments will be deleted without a second thought. I have to be politically correct in real life; thank goodness this blog isn't real life.
By a stroke of good luck, I discovered that my ex got a job. A quick phone call to the child support enforcement people, and some nice, fat garnishment checks started coming my way. ***siiiiighh*** that's the sound of me breathing out.
Moved to a new place. It has more bedrooms but waaay less storage space, so we're trying to adjust. The yard is great, and the kitchen is sublime. Cheers to new beginnings.
Got a part time job. It's doesn't pay the bills, but it helps.
Started my own business. It doesn't pay the bills, but it, too, helps.
Got engaged. Trying to scurry and pull this wedding off in December. Yeah, that's 3 months from now. I'd have my head examined, but I don't think insurance would approve. By the way, once I get married I won't qualify for medicaid anymore. Fiance doesn't have insurance. We'll both be outta luck chuck.
So here's my rant:
I am so sick of people. Yeah, people in general. My kid is being a turd at school, and I'm tired of dealing with it. Tired of dealing with him and the principal and all that crap. WTF? I'm sick of the dumb bitch I work with who's the biggest loudmouth negative person on Earth. I have to pretend we're friends. I'm sick of my bipolar, freakazoid, micromanaging, can't-ever-say-I'm-wrong boss. No explanation needed there, eh? I'm sick of the fucktards who post "deep and meaningful" Facebook status messages about the economy, health care reform, taxes, or anything remotely related to Ayn Rand. If you were really that smart, then you'd be in office. Shut up. I am sick of dirty clothes and messes and having a house that's 70% trashed all the time. I am sick of kids who don't do what I say the first time. I'm sick of kids and their entitlement mentalities. I'm sick of feeling like ass because I quit smoking and the Chantix makes me tired and nauseated. I am sick of jonesing to smoke and not being able to. I am sick of the stupid bar skanks and jackballs who frequent our little neighborhood dive. Really, who do you think you're fooling? I am sick of stupid clients who couldn't find their ass with both hands and a map. But most of all, I am sick of the wretched, heartless bastards who decided to cut off my financial aid permanently. Ever hear of an exception to the rule? Douchebags.
As you can see, I'm dumping all the negativity that I've been carrying around. Good therapy, and it's cheaper than a shrink. My favorite team lost today, and all I want to do is shout "FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!!" and break shit and throw things. I really could beat someone up right now. I won't though because I'm too damn good of a citizen. I'd bitch-slap the coach if he walked by right now, though.
So anyway, there that is. I just needed to blow my stack, and I can't do it on Facebook. Too many people that I have to make nice with. I can't do it in real life because it would erode and eventually tank my relationship. I love my fella, and I don't want to use him as a dumping ground. I can't do it on girlfriends because then I have to listen to their sodden bullshit, and really, I could care less about their problems right now.
You are my selfish release. Today this blog is my verbal toilet. I don't intend to proffer wit, provoke thought, or enlighten the masses. Today is just about me. ONLY ME. Fuck you.
I'll be back from time to time. Please don't comment unless you have something really great, funny, or interesting to add. No critiques please. Gayass comments will be deleted without a second thought. I have to be politically correct in real life; thank goodness this blog isn't real life.
Dec 23, 2008
Solitary confinement
I occasionally participate in a blog group called GBE: Group Blogging Experience. This week's prompt is ALONE. Here's my take on it:
Being in a relationship has pros and cons, and so does being alone. After my divorce and cross-country move, I was thrilled to set up my new house as I saw fit. Terracotta colored walls, dark wood, antique embellishments... I finally had a 'girl' house. The pièce de résistance was my new bed: a cherry sleigh bed and super-comfy mattress. I was a woman unto myself.
That is, until I went to bed. How was it that I felt uncomfortable in my new, luxurious bed? I was more than physically comfortable under a thick down comforter, resting my head on fluffy pillows, and yet I felt uneasy. It took a week of sleepless nights to realize my problem: I had shared a bed with someone for one-third of my life. Even though my ex had traveled extensively for work, when we were married, I had 'my side' of the bed, and he had his. I didn't sell the marital bed until I sold the house and moved, and after that, I slept in my childhood bed at my parents' house for a month until I could get moved into a place of my own. This was the first time in my adult life that I had a big bed and no one with whom to share it.
I tried sleeping in the middle, sprawled out. It seemed a waste not to use the entire bed space. With no one stealing the covers or snoring, I should have been in bedtime bliss. But I wasn't. I would wake up every morning on my old 'side'. I could not get used to sleeping in the middle of the bed. I still can't. Sleeping alone in a large bed feels odd, like the universe is a bit off. To me, it almost feels ridiculous having all that space to myself. Superfluous. I guess it's imprinted on my brain or something.
I am still confined to a single side of the bed; however, I have a wonderful man who obliges my weirdness and willingly takes the other side. Funny thing is... now I can sleep on either side. We switch sometimes, depending on who hits the sack first. When I traveled to California in November, it was the first time bf and I had spent a night away from each other in over a year, and I had to revisit the big-bed issue at the hotel. I guess old habits die hard.
For me, sleeping alone in a large bed isn't enjoyable; it's solitary confinement.
Being in a relationship has pros and cons, and so does being alone. After my divorce and cross-country move, I was thrilled to set up my new house as I saw fit. Terracotta colored walls, dark wood, antique embellishments... I finally had a 'girl' house. The pièce de résistance was my new bed: a cherry sleigh bed and super-comfy mattress. I was a woman unto myself.
That is, until I went to bed. How was it that I felt uncomfortable in my new, luxurious bed? I was more than physically comfortable under a thick down comforter, resting my head on fluffy pillows, and yet I felt uneasy. It took a week of sleepless nights to realize my problem: I had shared a bed with someone for one-third of my life. Even though my ex had traveled extensively for work, when we were married, I had 'my side' of the bed, and he had his. I didn't sell the marital bed until I sold the house and moved, and after that, I slept in my childhood bed at my parents' house for a month until I could get moved into a place of my own. This was the first time in my adult life that I had a big bed and no one with whom to share it.
I tried sleeping in the middle, sprawled out. It seemed a waste not to use the entire bed space. With no one stealing the covers or snoring, I should have been in bedtime bliss. But I wasn't. I would wake up every morning on my old 'side'. I could not get used to sleeping in the middle of the bed. I still can't. Sleeping alone in a large bed feels odd, like the universe is a bit off. To me, it almost feels ridiculous having all that space to myself. Superfluous. I guess it's imprinted on my brain or something.
I am still confined to a single side of the bed; however, I have a wonderful man who obliges my weirdness and willingly takes the other side. Funny thing is... now I can sleep on either side. We switch sometimes, depending on who hits the sack first. When I traveled to California in November, it was the first time bf and I had spent a night away from each other in over a year, and I had to revisit the big-bed issue at the hotel. I guess old habits die hard.
For me, sleeping alone in a large bed isn't enjoyable; it's solitary confinement.
Dec 18, 2008
Snow days and SUVs
This isn't a lament about the good ol' days, but when I was a kid, it snowed a lot. A LOT. Snow would fall in November, and we wouldn't see the ground again until March. We'd burrow through the drifts created by the snow plow to make igloos. We'd build snow-block forts, mist them down with the hose, and our ice castles would last all winter. Snowmen didn't melt. Kids wore snowsuits or snowpants to school in anticipation of the ever-present outdoor recess. Winter: we endured it, we embraced it, and life continued in spite of it. People threw a few bags of sand in the trunks of their rear wheel drive vehicles and went about their business.
Not so today.
Now it seems that schools close preemptively. A hint of snow or ice in the forecast, and schools are shuttered in anticipation of "the big one." Problem is, the big one seldom comes, and once it does, they district has already exhausted its snow day allowance. This year my son's school runs from Aug 13 to June 3 because the school district builds in superfluous snow days.
People in their SUVs and 4WD trucks seem to collectively vent their failed Nascar dreams and drive like maniacs. Gone are the days of taking it slow, pumping the brakes, and using the manual transmission to rock yourself out of a snowdrift. Yes, front wheel drive, ABS and TCS have done wonders for control and maneuverability, but there is something to be said for caution. Driving a wannabe-tank (I mean Hummer) does not make you invincible.
So now that it's started to sleet, and everyone panicked by the alarmist weather reporters, I'm sure the streets will be crowded with shiny automotive phallic symbols. It's almost 6 pm, so it's about time for school officials to cancel classes tomorrow. There will be no waiting until 4 or 5 am to make the decision; the television weatherman is presumed omniscient.
Drive safe, and enjoy the snow day!
Not so today.
Now it seems that schools close preemptively. A hint of snow or ice in the forecast, and schools are shuttered in anticipation of "the big one." Problem is, the big one seldom comes, and once it does, they district has already exhausted its snow day allowance. This year my son's school runs from Aug 13 to June 3 because the school district builds in superfluous snow days.
People in their SUVs and 4WD trucks seem to collectively vent their failed Nascar dreams and drive like maniacs. Gone are the days of taking it slow, pumping the brakes, and using the manual transmission to rock yourself out of a snowdrift. Yes, front wheel drive, ABS and TCS have done wonders for control and maneuverability, but there is something to be said for caution. Driving a wannabe-tank (I mean Hummer) does not make you invincible.
So now that it's started to sleet, and everyone panicked by the alarmist weather reporters, I'm sure the streets will be crowded with shiny automotive phallic symbols. It's almost 6 pm, so it's about time for school officials to cancel classes tomorrow. There will be no waiting until 4 or 5 am to make the decision; the television weatherman is presumed omniscient.
Drive safe, and enjoy the snow day!
Dec 15, 2008
Another year...
Bf and I celebrated two years together on the 13th. We followed tradition and stopped by the place where we had our first date. There was an atrocious hillbilly band playing, but we had a few drinks and made small talk with the bartender. Lo and behold, she told us that the owner sold the bar, and they were doing away with the live music format. The new owners were turning it into a neighborhood bar. I am very disappointed!
It's is a great venue for live acoustic acts, both local and national, and they have developed a good following over the past few years. To turn it into a neighborhood bar is almost an insult. There are hundreds of dive bars in town; we don't need another. Since I don't have $100k lying around to buy the bar and call the shots, we decided to get a photo of us on our last anniversary there. It's a bummer that we won't be able to honor our tradition throughout the years.
It was nice to have an adults-only evening with my paramour. We had an excellent dinner, a few drinks, and we were home by 11:30 for some no-holds-barred, whole-house, scream-til-you're-hoarse, wild-n-crazy horizontal mambo. **wink** It's hell trying to cum with your face in the pillow, so we took advantage of the kids sleeping over at grandma's.
It's is a great venue for live acoustic acts, both local and national, and they have developed a good following over the past few years. To turn it into a neighborhood bar is almost an insult. There are hundreds of dive bars in town; we don't need another. Since I don't have $100k lying around to buy the bar and call the shots, we decided to get a photo of us on our last anniversary there. It's a bummer that we won't be able to honor our tradition throughout the years.
It was nice to have an adults-only evening with my paramour. We had an excellent dinner, a few drinks, and we were home by 11:30 for some no-holds-barred, whole-house, scream-til-you're-hoarse, wild-n-crazy horizontal mambo. **wink** It's hell trying to cum with your face in the pillow, so we took advantage of the kids sleeping over at grandma's.
Dec 9, 2008
Born again virgin?
I guess I'm popping my blogspot cherry... again. I had a blog back in the day, but I deleted it. Since then, I'd gotten my feet wet blogging again, this time on MySpace. Frankly, it bored me, so I deleted my MySpace account. MySpace is full of freaks and psychos who love to hate ya.
Perhaps I'm one of those people who needs constant stimulation and entertainment to feel alive? That might explain my skydiving adventures, persistent wanderlust, and penchant for Jagermeister. Regardless, here I am. Since I don't have "friends lists" to contend with (good riddance), I've unlaced the gloves and peeled off the tape. I'm tired of withholding in order to placate the crazies.
Maybe that's why I've found my way back to blogspot: to say what I want without starting a flame war. Plus, I've been beyond exhausted. Thanks to my ex-husband's lack of follow-through when it comes to child support, I am flat-on-my-face broke. My brother has been yanking my chain lately, too, which is really starting to piss me off. Lastly, Christmas and three kids' birthdays really take a lot out of this woman. I fall asleep every night on the couch around 9. I haven't had sex since Sunday (today is Tuesday), so I'm tired, horny, broke, and spun out.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not complaining. I managed to hoodwink the most incredible man on the planet into a loving, caring, passionate partnership. My kids rock. I'm in school studying what I love. Everyone's healthy, all the Christmas presents are wrapped, and I am under a glorious down comforter on this cold winter's night. Life is grand. I'm just kinda tired and stressed out lately. You should SEE my calendar. It's ridiculous. If you want to hit me up for a drink and some girl talk, you'll have to make an appointment. My next available evening is three weeks away. No kidding.
So here I am, a reborn blogger. I guess if Lazarus can rise from the dead, so can I. I'll write what I want when the mood strikes. No rhyme or reason. If you have a fun topic, shoot me an email. I'll run with it. But now, I'm out. Ciao.
Perhaps I'm one of those people who needs constant stimulation and entertainment to feel alive? That might explain my skydiving adventures, persistent wanderlust, and penchant for Jagermeister. Regardless, here I am. Since I don't have "friends lists" to contend with (good riddance), I've unlaced the gloves and peeled off the tape. I'm tired of withholding in order to placate the crazies.
Maybe that's why I've found my way back to blogspot: to say what I want without starting a flame war. Plus, I've been beyond exhausted. Thanks to my ex-husband's lack of follow-through when it comes to child support, I am flat-on-my-face broke. My brother has been yanking my chain lately, too, which is really starting to piss me off. Lastly, Christmas and three kids' birthdays really take a lot out of this woman. I fall asleep every night on the couch around 9. I haven't had sex since Sunday (today is Tuesday), so I'm tired, horny, broke, and spun out.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not complaining. I managed to hoodwink the most incredible man on the planet into a loving, caring, passionate partnership. My kids rock. I'm in school studying what I love. Everyone's healthy, all the Christmas presents are wrapped, and I am under a glorious down comforter on this cold winter's night. Life is grand. I'm just kinda tired and stressed out lately. You should SEE my calendar. It's ridiculous. If you want to hit me up for a drink and some girl talk, you'll have to make an appointment. My next available evening is three weeks away. No kidding.
So here I am, a reborn blogger. I guess if Lazarus can rise from the dead, so can I. I'll write what I want when the mood strikes. No rhyme or reason. If you have a fun topic, shoot me an email. I'll run with it. But now, I'm out. Ciao.
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