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.
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Oct 23, 2010
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?
Oct 2, 2010
I Want a Christmas Present This Year
Yep. You read that right. I want a Christmas present this year. A good one. Not some "take the kids to Target and have them pick out useless (albiet heartwarming) crap that is a complete waste of money" present. A real one. A present that takes thought, planning, care, concern, and maybe a little $$.
Before I start sounding like a spoiled brat, let me share a little backstory.
Even though money is tight, our kids never go without. In fact, they have most of the same accessories and accouterments as all of their friends. Not to mention they are well-fed, housed, clothed, and educated.
Even though money is tight, I can always manage to find a way to make special things happen for everyone else. New guitar for Father's Day? Check. Choir trip to Chicago? Check. Rounds of golf, trips to the salon, concert tickets, and gift shopping cards for birthdays? Check. Private school? Check. Yankees tickets and Cardinals tickets for Father's Day? Check. Surprise honeymoon to Las Vegas? Check.
In the long run, special things don't cost as much as you think they will, and the memories you're making during those special times far outweigh the expense. I want a Christmas present this year, and I want my family to put a lot of thought into it. I have never asked for this before. I have no problem living small. My car is 10 years old, my wedding ring is extremely modest, my wardrobe consists of jeans and t-shirts, and we subsist on a steady diet of chicken. But somehow, some way, a part of me feels a little slighted.
Maybe I wish that everyone put as much thought into something for me as I do for them. I enjoy surprising the people I love. I count my blessings on a daily basis. I am shown much love in a variety of ways, some small and some big. But once in awhile a girl just wants jewelry, expensive shoes, or a trip to Italy.
Does this sound the rant of a whiny, spoiled bitch or the request of someone who just wants to be recognized? Why am I feeling so sad as I write this?
Before I start sounding like a spoiled brat, let me share a little backstory.
Even though money is tight, our kids never go without. In fact, they have most of the same accessories and accouterments as all of their friends. Not to mention they are well-fed, housed, clothed, and educated.
Even though money is tight, I can always manage to find a way to make special things happen for everyone else. New guitar for Father's Day? Check. Choir trip to Chicago? Check. Rounds of golf, trips to the salon, concert tickets, and gift shopping cards for birthdays? Check. Private school? Check. Yankees tickets and Cardinals tickets for Father's Day? Check. Surprise honeymoon to Las Vegas? Check.
In the long run, special things don't cost as much as you think they will, and the memories you're making during those special times far outweigh the expense. I want a Christmas present this year, and I want my family to put a lot of thought into it. I have never asked for this before. I have no problem living small. My car is 10 years old, my wedding ring is extremely modest, my wardrobe consists of jeans and t-shirts, and we subsist on a steady diet of chicken. But somehow, some way, a part of me feels a little slighted.
Maybe I wish that everyone put as much thought into something for me as I do for them. I enjoy surprising the people I love. I count my blessings on a daily basis. I am shown much love in a variety of ways, some small and some big. But once in awhile a girl just wants jewelry, expensive shoes, or a trip to Italy.
Does this sound the rant of a whiny, spoiled bitch or the request of someone who just wants to be recognized? Why am I feeling so sad as I write this?
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.
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 27, 2009
Stupid Wedding Shit
Yeah, so I'm sitting here googling "stupid wedding shit" while my bf plays guitar. We went out tonight, at my insistence, and sang some horrid karaoke. That's ok, cuz we ROCK at horrid karaoke. So anyway, we put back a few drinks in celebration of our team's victory, and then I got bored and bugged bf about going out. We changed shoes (cuz yeah, we are THAT classy) and we went up the street to our local karaoke shithole bar. Except we kind of like the shithole, and they have great karaoke.
So there were were, singing, and we finally decided to retire the song we ALWAYS sing together. Lest you think it's showtunes, I assure you, it's not. We just retired it. It's over. One can only do so many renditions of "If I had $1,000,000" until it gets tired. So it's retired. We'll be working on a new song soon. Stay tuned...
We cabbed it home, and now we're sitting in the living room while bf jams on his sweet Taylor that I got him for his birthday. It is a gorgeous guitar. Love it, and love that man. He totally deserves a great guitar. But now we're both hammered, and when I tried to tune my guitar, he was just obliviously playing his random made-up shit. That's totally cool and stuff... I mean, that's what one DOES when one is hammered. You just get lost in your music bliss and annoy the shit out of everyone else within earshot. It's ok. I've done it before. It's all part of the circle of life and crap like that. Karma is a bitch mistress.
So I'm sitting here googling "stupid wedding shit" to see if there's anything I forgot to obsess over for our upcoming wedding. Yeah, you heard me right... the princess has found a new prince, and he's making an honest woman out of me. Go figure. I am so caught up in the minutiae that I brought home 3 different kinds of wedding card boxes for him to review. Three. Luckily we both liked the same one, so the other two are going back to the store tomorrow, but that is the low-level detail bullshit that I've been obsessing over. Yup. I guess I need something to do. Tonight I worked on my I/E statements for my business, but that got old fast. I need to shuffle through the shoebox of receipts and put some order to the chaos.
Bright spot: a couple of dudes at the bar tonight thought I was 26 and 30 (respectively), so hey, that's a bonus! I guess I'm not falling apart at the seams like I thought. I guess all that Olay is paying off. I worship at the house of sunscreen and good moisturizer, in case you didn't know. I don't want to look like a saddlebag with eyes when I'm 50. Just sayin'...
So yeah, I'm about at headache level maximum with this guitar blasting in my ears. He's RIGHT NEXT TO ME pounding the shit out of the poor strings. I'm gonna try to entice him into the bedroom. Wish me luck, and if anyone out there is an audiologist, please shoot me an email with your prices. At this rate, I'm gonna need a hearing aid before I need eyeglasses. Ciao baby!
So there were were, singing, and we finally decided to retire the song we ALWAYS sing together. Lest you think it's showtunes, I assure you, it's not. We just retired it. It's over. One can only do so many renditions of "If I had $1,000,000" until it gets tired. So it's retired. We'll be working on a new song soon. Stay tuned...
We cabbed it home, and now we're sitting in the living room while bf jams on his sweet Taylor that I got him for his birthday. It is a gorgeous guitar. Love it, and love that man. He totally deserves a great guitar. But now we're both hammered, and when I tried to tune my guitar, he was just obliviously playing his random made-up shit. That's totally cool and stuff... I mean, that's what one DOES when one is hammered. You just get lost in your music bliss and annoy the shit out of everyone else within earshot. It's ok. I've done it before. It's all part of the circle of life and crap like that. Karma is a bitch mistress.
So I'm sitting here googling "stupid wedding shit" to see if there's anything I forgot to obsess over for our upcoming wedding. Yeah, you heard me right... the princess has found a new prince, and he's making an honest woman out of me. Go figure. I am so caught up in the minutiae that I brought home 3 different kinds of wedding card boxes for him to review. Three. Luckily we both liked the same one, so the other two are going back to the store tomorrow, but that is the low-level detail bullshit that I've been obsessing over. Yup. I guess I need something to do. Tonight I worked on my I/E statements for my business, but that got old fast. I need to shuffle through the shoebox of receipts and put some order to the chaos.
Bright spot: a couple of dudes at the bar tonight thought I was 26 and 30 (respectively), so hey, that's a bonus! I guess I'm not falling apart at the seams like I thought. I guess all that Olay is paying off. I worship at the house of sunscreen and good moisturizer, in case you didn't know. I don't want to look like a saddlebag with eyes when I'm 50. Just sayin'...
So yeah, I'm about at headache level maximum with this guitar blasting in my ears. He's RIGHT NEXT TO ME pounding the shit out of the poor strings. I'm gonna try to entice him into the bedroom. Wish me luck, and if anyone out there is an audiologist, please shoot me an email with your prices. At this rate, I'm gonna need a hearing aid before I need eyeglasses. Ciao baby!
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.
Jan 10, 2009
Where's my bailout?
So everyone is getting a bailout these days. The banking industry, the auto industry, even the porn industry is asking for a handout. Where's mine? Scratch that, where's my job? I've been looking for a job for, oh, going on 2 months now, and I have only had small nibbles. Seriously. This job market is in the crapper, and that's doubly bad for me. Not only am I failing to find gainful employment, but the prince is using the economy as a glorious excuse to mooch off his new wife and delay getting a job of his own. He got fired in August for being a jackass (read: fraud), and he's suing me to lower the child support. He already got the alimony nixed, and now he's chipping away at the child support. Fucknut. He doesn't want to feed his kids because he thinks I don't deserve his money. Nice, huh?
Anyway, because I can no longer afford school, it's back to work for me. I've been looking and looking, and frankly, I am getting nervous. Nothing is happening. No one is calling. No one is emailing. Money is running out. My boyfriend got laid off in December, and he can't find anything either. Not sure what we're going to do. I even tried to sell my eggs, but they want women who are 25ish, so I'm out. That would be an easy $5k.
If anyone has bright ideas, I'm all ears. I'm quickly coming to the end of my rope. Right now, though, this princess is headed to bed. We got 4" of snow tonight, so I'll be up early shoveling. Ciao!
Anyway, because I can no longer afford school, it's back to work for me. I've been looking and looking, and frankly, I am getting nervous. Nothing is happening. No one is calling. No one is emailing. Money is running out. My boyfriend got laid off in December, and he can't find anything either. Not sure what we're going to do. I even tried to sell my eggs, but they want women who are 25ish, so I'm out. That would be an easy $5k.
If anyone has bright ideas, I'm all ears. I'm quickly coming to the end of my rope. Right now, though, this princess is headed to bed. We got 4" of snow tonight, so I'll be up early shoveling. Ciao!
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
Naked Thursday
You know those days when you're both home, sans kids, it's cold outside, and warm under the covers? Yep, today is one of those days. We're currently taking a break and chowing on leftover pizza, but soon we'll be back to enjoying the sole purpose of Naked Thursday. We used to celebrate Naked Sunday, but now that my mom babysits my kids during the week, she's seldom up for a Saturday overnight.
Now I'm going to retire to the bedroom to discuss supply-side economics with bf. Ciao.
Now I'm going to retire to the bedroom to discuss supply-side economics with bf. Ciao.
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 8, 2008
The Beginning
Once upon a time, back when the Internet was young, there lived a beautiful princess who loved to blog. She wrote about her thoughts, ideas, opinions, and happenings, and everyone enjoyed reading her tidbits. Sometimes her acerbic wit and sharp tongue angered the townsfolk, but mostly the citizens found humor in her writings, and all was good.
Then one day, the ex-prince became angry with the princess, and he decided to take her to court (again). The princess's life became subject to inspection and invasion, and the princess's attorney advised her to stop writing her blogs. Saddened by the damage that her blogs had done to her legal case, the princess vowed never again to write in a public forum. She shelved all her thoughts, her musings, and her wry observations, and she was sad. The townsfolk, noting her absence, begged the ex-prince to drop his suit, but he refused.
After awhile, the princess decided she was through being pushed around by the ex-prince and his crazy new wife. In order to retain her privacy and protect her children, the princess decided to write in secret. She disguised herself and became known as The Masked Scribbler. I am that princess, and this is my story.
Then one day, the ex-prince became angry with the princess, and he decided to take her to court (again). The princess's life became subject to inspection and invasion, and the princess's attorney advised her to stop writing her blogs. Saddened by the damage that her blogs had done to her legal case, the princess vowed never again to write in a public forum. She shelved all her thoughts, her musings, and her wry observations, and she was sad. The townsfolk, noting her absence, begged the ex-prince to drop his suit, but he refused.
After awhile, the princess decided she was through being pushed around by the ex-prince and his crazy new wife. In order to retain her privacy and protect her children, the princess decided to write in secret. She disguised herself and became known as The Masked Scribbler. I am that princess, and this is my story.
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