Blood Is Thicker Than Water

It's one thing to fuck with me.  I can take shit that's been thrown at me.  Granted I might get really down, depressed, and feel plagued by demons of doubt, but I always bounce out of it.

But when it comes to my family, you don't fuck with them. We might have our problems with each other, we might speak ill of one another, but when it comes to someone attacking from the outside, you'd best be sure to run the other way. 

There is a world of shit that's coming down soon.

My Sacrifice

I have been trying to talk myself out of a panic attack since last night. So far, I've kept the crazy feelings down, but they are fighting to get to the surface.  I hate putting this down in binary code, because to me, I sound like a pathetic broken record.  I hate that I just can't "get over it" (as I've been told to do) some of the residual anger that festers in my soul.  I hate that after 6.5 years I still long to be back up in VA, not the state that I was raised in, but the state where I 'grew up.'
 
I know I am sick and run down from taking care of The Kiddo. I probably have walking pneumonia if not my chronic sinusitis acting up.  I***know***that in a day or two I should be doing better.  I'll have been seen by a doctor and hopefully given something I help me kick this illness to the curb.  I just ***feel***like crying.

I am excited about going to VA in 87 days (but who is counting) yet terrified of the feelings I am going to have to deal with. I miss living up there so much. I had to give it up when I had my son. It has been such a sacrifice.

One one hand, my family is here, we are surrounded by a great group of people from our Church, and the Kiddo is getting a great education. He's lacking for nothing.  I do not regret choosing the life of my son over my desires.  I love him so much and know that his life is responsible on so many levels for me getting my life together.

But I am so alone down here. There isn't anyone I know down here that I can talk to, that has SOME of the same interests as I do. I stick out like a sore thumb. I'm not going to apologize and hide who I am like I've done before, but I'm just so tired of doing it alone.  In this area, if you aren't a good ole' country gal or a pretentious country club groupie/doctor chaser, than that's it.  This town, cute and quaint as it may be, isn't big in diversity. 

One of my cousins said I should move to Asheville because there are so many artists. I'd probably feel right at home, though what I gather from Portlandia, I'd be happy there too.

I'm so tired of being lonely.

I'm still angry that my son's father cowed under the pressure we faced.  That his parents paid for me go away, but wouldn't help me when I was sick.  We weren't together when I conceived.  I had realized that our relationship as a couple was a toxic combo.  But we had been friends for years before we had ever become involved.  I'm so pissed that he couldn't stand on his own two feet and ran to his parents like a baby.  I'm so angry that I had to give up living in a place for me that felt like home. 

I'm so tired of carrying this anger and hurt around.  I hate that I hate living where I am.  I hate that I'm not happy here. I hate knowing that I would hate myself  if I took The Kiddo away from the only life he's know just to satisfy my selfish desires.

The Dregs of 2011--Or--What Was I Thinking Part 2

When I was writing last night, into the early hours of this past morning, I got kicked into the drafts folder after the computer hiccuped.  I discovered I have a hell of a lot of posts that need to be trashed because even looking at them a second time, I have no friggin idea what my original  intent was.  Want to take a guess as to what I thinking?

• LA Ink Barbie--I hate Barbie and I don't know any thin, tatted up blonds.
• A Physically Banged Theory--Okay, What???
• When I Hear Hoofbeats, I Always Think Elephants and Zebras-- Was I trying to illustrate how I jump to the worse conclusions? 
• Monique--Who the hell is that?  The actress?  Why would I write about her.

So, this post is pretty shitty.  I've tried to write as I watch Hoarders, which is just wrong to begin with.  Hoarding has got to be one of the most pathetic mental illnesses I've ever seen.  When I was a teen, I cleaned the house of a deceased woman who was a hoarder.  I found canned food from the 70's, sweet potato tubers on bookshelves, and three copies times 70 of the same Harlequin novels.  Poor old woman.

I did manage however snag a really neat (read: tacky) red knit scarf that was later used as a murder weapon in a play. 

Well, I'm done for the night.  My resolution to write EVERY DAMN DAY has been fulfilled for the second day in a row. For The Win, Y'all. 

Friday Fluff N Stuff

Let me preface this post: I have been drinking hot toddies tonight like they are going out of style.  Part medicinal (I am nursing a wicked cough), part I feel like I can loosen the hell up.  My Kiddo, my pride and joy, is staying with my parents for the next few days (relax! I'm not ditching him for Christmas).  

 

BK (before Kiddo) I was (what I consider) a functioning, depressive alcoholic.  Drinking was a way for me to self medicate for the fact that I was in my rape victim mode for 6 years, whereas now I am the survivor/not-a-victim/balls-to-the-walls/kicking-ass-stigma-buster.  Now when I choose to have an adult beverage, I do so in severe moderation (I'm usually toasted by 3/4 of a beer) and I don't feel like I have to hide. 

 

Anyhoo, I stumbled across this hilarious Holiday Post from Seeking Elevation (what up, YO!) and decided to link up.

 

Inappropriate responses to follow. . .

 

PS. Don't tell Becky and Ben that I'm using ellipses.  They hate that shit.  Plus I am double spacing!

 

Friday Fluff

It's time for the Fluff of Friday.  It's the Holiday Edition, yo.  And I think the way I'm meant to answer these is as a would you rather this or that kind of thing.  Here goes:

Get kissed under the mistletoe or in the snow?
Make out under the mistletoe (What?  It's been 3 friggin years since anyone kissed me!)

Santa or Rudolph?
Rudolph.  Santa was a dick to him in the 1964 TV show.

Stocking or presents?
 Presents.

Egg nog or hot cider?
  Like I said above.  Hot toddy.

Angel or star?
  Cheap, from Wal-Mart star that would look fitting on a pimp's Christmas tree.

Decorating the tree or putting lights on the outside?
  It's kinda hard to decorate the tent I'm living in.

Warm cozy fires or sleigh rides?
I burned down my college dorm room, so I am all about THE FIRE. 

Family time or friend time?
Ummm...Plead the 5th.

Expensive presents or presents that come from the heart?
From the fucking heart.  Last asshole I was with decided that I wasn't excited enough when he bought me a friggin $800 bracelet.  I'm sorry, jack fuck, I was too fucking shocked to think that anyone could afford to spend that amount of money. Sorry I didn't jump up and down like the bimbos on the commercials.

Snow ball fight or snowman?
Snow-wrestling.  Much easier to make out.

Coal or present?
I can burn coal I suppose. . .

Open presents quick or slow?
Slow.  No one likes a quick draw McGraw.

Caroling or christmas stories?
  Stories, as evidenced of my son reading "How the Grinch Stole Christmas."

Snowy days or ice days?
Today it was fucking 80 degrees outside.  I'm lucky if I drops below 75 on Christmas day.

Red or Green?
Fire Engine Red.  Like the color of my pretend future wedding gown.

The Difference Between Wants and Needs

Several years ago I when I was still a wreck,* I believed that I NEEDED a man to complete my life.  I was a new mom, very single, very sad, very scared.  I felt rejected on so many levels.  The thing that hurt that most, that I have not gotten over yet, that I know is still hanging like a big, fucking albatross around my neck is the fact that the newsletter writer for my alma mater told me that my 'situation' wasn't something that others needed to know about.**  I hated myself so much.  Like Hester Pryne, I had proof positive of my sins, while the father hid in the shadows.  I felt that if I HAD a man to give some type of legitimacy to my child, than I would be a socially acceptable person again.

Fast forward to present day.  My son is turning 6 on Wednesday.  He's excelling in school where he thinks he's the big man on campus, is loved by his family, and couldn't be more adorably cute if I asked him to be. I have pictures to back that up:

 

I've come to understand over the past 2 years with a lot of help from a wonderful therapist, a handful of loving friends, and an amazing Band  to back me up, that I don't NEED a man to make my life complete.  I don't feel like a scarlet whore any longer.

I've come to a point where I WANT a man in my life.  I want to share my life with someone else.  I want someone to sleep next to me at night.  That person who can meet my eyes and know that the person I am talking to is a complete idiot.  I want someone who will love and respect me the way I know I deserve to be treated.

I'm lonely tonight.  I hate having these feelings that I can't do anything with.  I'm through needing someone.  I'm ready to want someone.



*I don't claim to have all my shit together, but I am a far more happier, SANER, grounded person now. My life isn't the shambles it once was.

**I finally sent an email to that asshole tonight.  He's finally going to get a piece of my mind.

Search Words of the Week

Seriously Google?  Who the hell searches for "seeking Viking male?"  I mean, I know I wrote those words in a post several months back, but really?

I'm off to grind my ax.  And while I wish I could say it was a metaphor for something dirty, it's not.  I get totally squigged out about the idea a self ax grinding.

Chewing Gum Can Be Hazardous To My (Mental) Health

Came across a snarky, inappropriate blog that I have crush on right now, A Beer for the Shower.
Check it out if you like laughing at the antics of under-published, under-employed writers, such as myself.  But as much as I am falling more in like with the beer swilling boys, I am really, really grossed out.

WHY?

I'll tell you why.  Bathrooms have bathroom germs!

Here's the thing, I've watched the science shows, I know about the water mist dispersal rate with each flushing of the toilet, and that I am probably using a tooth brush that has been covered in a light mist of urine and poo.  I just tell myself that the cleaning ingredients in my toothpaste eradicates all icky germs that might be dancing on the spiny bristles.

Food and drink however, have no protective barrier.  There is nothing that could convince me to eat or drink in the bathroom.  My frister (friend/sister) drinks her coffee while she puts on her makeup.  EW!

I'm so paranoid about floating bathroom germs coming into contact with my food I won't even chew gum in the bathroom unless I hide the gum under my tongue with my lips tightly clamped shut.  Yes, I do know how neurotic and insane that sounds, but it's my quirk that I'll gladly hang out to, even though I've worked out most of my neuroses via therapist the past three years.  

Food and/or drinks do NOT belong in the bathroom!

Bathrooms Do Not Equal Foodrooms

Nothing's Wrong, Unless You Count Ice Cream Cake as an Emergency

2:30 Saturday afternoon.

~Down in the dumps after receiving some disappointing news but decided I was going to rally myself and not get the waterworks on. 

 ~Loaded the Kiddo into the car, intending to purchase necessary groceries for the week, possibly picking up something fun/yummy/not entirely healthy for dinner.  Ice cream cake for dinner sounded really appealing.

$50 at the pump last night didn't fill the tank.  Anyone care to trade for a horse?

~Decided to make a stop at the post office to retrieve mail that had been stacking up for several days.  Pretty sure I'd have three different charities asking for money (I use to donate before I went broke), a bank statement reminding me of how little I have, a reminder that my car payment is going to suck another $312 away from me (didn't realize that I could have re-financed two years ago; not so much now that I'm kinda/sorta unemployed because some people don't believe writing is a job), and a catalog showcasing darling clothes obviously made of hand-spun gold.  Because who in their right mind would pay $53 for an undershirt?

~Hand the mailbox keys to the Kiddo and realize that I have dialed 9-1-1 on speakerphone when I hear the nasally operator, "911, what's your emergency?"
Shrieking "OH CRAP!" I frantically paw at buttons to turn off the phone.
"Crap is a BAD WORD!" the voice from the back scolds.  "You get a bad mark!"  Elated that his Momma will have more bad marks on the bad word/bad temper chart than he does, the Kiddo scampers out of the car.

~30 seconds later, the treacherous phone rings.  "Ma'am, this is the police.  We received a call from this phone indicating an emergency.  Are you alright?"
"Yes.  I am so sorry!  I didn't mean to call you!"
"Ma'am operating procedures state that we must make contact with you.  What is your location?"

At this point, my brain shuts off and I develop a Tourette-like babble.  "I'm not at my phone.  I mean, I'm not home, not phone.  I'm talking to you on my phone.  I'm over at the Post Office because I wanted to get my mail."

"Alright Ma'am.  We need you to stay there.  What type of car are you driving?"
"I'm in a small SUV by the Post Office, not my house!"
"Ma'am, what color is your car?"  At this point Officer McFriendly was probably expecting to find me all drunky-drunky.
"Blue!  It's a blue Honda. . ."
~The Kiddo returns, mail in hand, sighing as he re-buckles his car seat.  "Momma, we have a Hyundai."
"It's a Hyundai," I yell into the phone, only to realize that Office McFriendly has hung up and is parked alongside me.

Now here's the thing.  I haven't been on a date in over four years.  I would hope at some point in the (nearer rather than later) future to go on a date/find Mr. Right/get married/live happily ever after until one of us forgets to put the cap on the toothpaste.  And seeing as I work from home(!!!) I don't get my mingle on that often.  Meeting Officer McFriendly as awkward as it is seeing as I've stammered like an idiot might just be the start of a beautiful thing.

Except I'm wearing a stained shirt.  And my hair is clipped up in a manner only described as water-logged rats nest.  And my bottom lip is swollen because I bit a nickle sized crater into my mouth while I was ravenously chowing down on cold seafood salad. 

I tell myself that batting my eyes and a wonderful smile will go a long way to make up for the stammering and train-wreck that I must look like.
"Hi, I'm so sorry."
"That's okay Ma'am.  Just wanted to make sure that you were well."
"I'm fine.  Well, okay I guess.  Actually, I'm having a crappy day."
"CRAP IS A BAD WORD!  YOU GET ANOTHER BAD MARK!"

My life.  It rocks indeed.

Can You Make a Citizen's Arrest if the Citizen is an Asshole?

Seriously, how does Terry Jones get to walk around?  Two weeks ago he burned the Koran.  Results?  Angry Muslim stormed a UN compound and reportedly killed 20 people, beheading 2 of them.

Now, Reverend Crazy and his fucked up followers are going to put the Prophet Mohammed on trail.

I can only imagine the shit that's gonna hit the fan when this gets more press.  Honestly, does he think that burning the Koran and prosecuting Mohammed is the best way to engage angry jihadist?

I'm thinking that since Rev. Jones is so eager to stand safely a million miles away from any actual fighting, we should get together and send him on a one way trip to the front lines.  While he's there if he survives the beatings that he rightly deserves from the men and women on the front lines who he is putting in greater danger, he should be handed over to the Muslims who will punish him accordingly.


Honestly, I'm so angry. 


This alleged "man of God," disgusts me.  To throw so much gasoline on a raging fire and then refuse to accept any role in the after-effects is so cowardly. 

How is this man allowed to still walk around?  Are his actions really protected by the freedom of speech? 

It's Like Walking the Wire Without a Net

That's what I'm feeling right now.  Not exactly scared of falling because I am concentrating on walking.  But I know that if I look down, I will fall to my death.

I really want to make this work.  I know I can do it.  I realize that I don't have much too say tonight, as I've been up until 2AM the past few days talking to a friend who is going through a very difficult time.   There's this really funny post that I have all done in my head, and 1/4 done on 'paper,' but I keep losing my train of thought.

I walked around in the sun for 2 hrs today chasing after an injured Congo gray parrot.  One of the neighbors called out to me, as I traipsed through yards suggested that I should keep the bird and resell it.  Making $500 on a bird whose medical bill are sure to be at least $400 doesn't make a great profit.  Beside, the Kiddo is already afraid of butterflies, do I really need him to be frightened of birds that look like the have survived a garroting?

And now my computer won't comply with me.  I wanted to upload a picture of the stupid bird, but it's not working.  This is one for the crappy record books. 

The Finer Art of Sales

To the young women who barged into my house today,

In the future, should you continue to solicit door to door in hopes of winning a college scholarship (which I highly question its authenticity even though you mentioned Oprah's name) allow me to give you a few pointers that might boost your sales or at least prevent you from losing your foot in a slamming door.

First, dress up for grits and gravy sake!  I understand going door-to-door means that you might want to be a bit more casual.  I'm fine with the jeans.  What I find appalling is that I know you store your Marlboro Reds in your ample bosom because your shirt was low cut and stretched out of shape.  I remember trying to pimp my Cutco knives (oh, the horror!)  to pay for another semester of college and I never went on a call with out looking like I was going on a job interview because you know what?  No one wants to buy goods from a salesperson that looks like a Jerry Springer cast member. 

Secondly, slow down when you speak.  You claimed to be from Kentucky, but the only time I've heard someone speak that fast was watching Gilmore Girls.  Personally, I can't stand the dialogue on speed approach when it comes to conversations (unless it's along the lines of "Run!TheKillerIsHeadingThisWay!HolyShit!Run!).  Southerners tend to be a bit more laid back and our drawl occasionally causes one syllable words to elongate to three syllables.  (Ask a Southern boy to say shit and you'll hear "Sheeyet," no fooling.)

Third, don't ask demand, "Do you have something to drink other than water, 'cuz I don't drink that stuff."  And if I offer you OJ just to get you to shut up because I am trying to be polite, don't ask "Is it disgusting?"

Fourth, DO NOT continually high-five the person you are attempting to sell you products to.  I don't care if I went to college (High 5!), read The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (High 5!), studied history (Fist Bump!), do yoga (High 5!), my kid is watching a science movie you watched in high school (High 5!) or am raising my son alone (High 5!).  I can guarantee you the next High 5! you attempt will probably aimed at your face.  I was only too kind because my child was watching me and the train wreck you were driving. 

Fifth, don't curse like a sailor straight from the docks.  Yes, I have can have a foul vocabulary, but I have the common sense to speak like that in front of my friends who know me well enough and NOT in front of my child.   One possible reason my neighbors are "jackasses" is because every time you opened your sewer mouth, they decided not to give you the time of day.  Plus trying to convince someone to purchase a magazine because they'll get one thousand dollars (!!!!!) of coupons, because "who fucking doesn't like coupons?" is not a high selling point. 

Good luck in the future!  I can only imagine what the halls of higher learning has in store for you.

Sincerely and High 5!
The Diatribest

I'm Not Down on Love, But I Abhore Valentine's Day

I make no bones about being unlucky in love making piss poor choices in men.  I've had my heart stomped on a good three times, but yet I still believe in love.  Despite listening to more than enough angry, depressing, had-my-life-shattered-by-you songs (yes, thank you Breaking Benjamin for being the soundtrack to my last relationship.  I can't hear the opening chords of any of your depressing-ass songs without becoming physically repulsed) I am still optimistic.

I'll admit it took me a good 2 years of Disturbed, Eminem, Framing Hanley, Ludacris,and Linkin Park (except their latest album which all I can say is ewww.  The edge is gone since they've all sobered/dried up.  But that's a good thing for them, just not their music) to get over my hurt.  Recently my mellowed music selections include plenty of Mozart, Beethoven, Jack Johnson's Brushfire Fairytales, Louis Armstrong, Weezer and these two bands:

When I hear either of these songs, I'm encouraged to believe that there is someone out there who is looking for someone like me.  I tell myself that I am a good person, full of life, love, and energy, but the right one to share that with hasn't come along yet, but he will some day.  While it might be 20 years from now, somewhere a complimentary awaits me.  I'll still hold on to hope.

So when I say emphatically that I. HATE. VALENTINE'S. DAY. it's not because I am a warped, twisted hag.  What I hate is that right after Christmas, Hallmark and De Beers become street level drug love pushers.  One day has been singled out of the entire years to make a grand romantic gesture to prove that you really love the person you are with.  And heaven help you if you don't come through.  Some people view Valentine's Day as the make-or-break test of their relationship.     

I say to hell with it.  If you are with someone who can't or doesn't chose to express their love for you in any manner outside of the holidays, than maybe you're with the wrong person.  I'd rather receive a hand full of midday-heat wilting wildflowers in the middle of July or a pine cone in early November, than overpriced roses on Valentine's Day.  I want to know everyday that I am loved, not just on February 14th.

But I'll still eat the chocolate.      

PS--This is post 3 in my 21 days bet, so I'm still winning.  I've been at this for more than 30 minutes like the bet originally was set at but that's my fault.  When you get on YouTube, it sucks you in like a black star.

PSsquared--I'm suggesting if you'd like a better understand my true feelings for Valentine's Day, go to YouTube and search for Non-Holiday Special: Foamy the Squirrel.  I warn however, that if your sense of humor/propriety maybe far different than mine, you don't want to go there.  Foamy is a foul-mouthed critic.  The V-Day rant begins at 1:12 of 2:30.   

WikiLinks: Gossip Girl Meets The Tattler

Dear Julian Assange,

You.  Are.  An.  Asshole. 

I am not against exposing corruption, but please change your forum.  Using the Internet as your bathroom wall has got to stop.  In my opinion you are less of a whistle blowing vigilante crime fighter than you are a flat out bitchy gossip.  Your latest round of news, if that's what you call it, exposes political figures personal opinions outside of the bargining chambers.

Seriously?  Grow up!  I feel like I am listening to a bathroom break at a highschool:

"OMG!  Did you see Becky's shirt?"
"I know!  Total slut."
"Trying to get back at Brandon for dumping her at prom."
"Whatever.  By the way, did you know that Prince Andrew 'cockliy' at a 2008 brunch with British and Canadian businessmen in the country's capital, Bishkek, leading a debate that 'verged on the rude."
"Really, who gives a shit?  Why did you even bring it up?  It was prob his time of the month."

 To me, you are nothing but a shit-pot stirrer.  Like a gossip, you hide in the shadows, too afraid to speak up.  I think you are a "L, 7, Weenie!"  If you really stand behind what you say, then show your face.  Stop moving around, moving from house to house like the rat you are.  If you have something useful to say, grow a pair, and man up.  

Pictured: A D-Bag  Not Pictured: Rat Tail

How to Throw a Blogger Under the Internet Bus: Editor's Edition

The more I think about Maura Kelly and her tactless, tasteless post, the more angry I become, but not at Ms. Kelly.  Rather the person who are the subject of my ire is the editor who suggested that Ms. Kelly, a self-proclaimed recovering anorexic, write a piece on weight.  Ms. Kelly presents her slanted viewpoint, which said editor approves and publishes for millions of people to read.  On top of that, when all hell breaks loose from every corner of the globe, the EIC Joanna Coles goes on record to state "Maura Kelly is a very provocative blogger.”  “She was an anorexic herself and this is a subject she feels very strongly about.”
(Note to Joanna Coles: When you think that dating advice and looking for first time love is provocative, I've got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you.) 

So, let me see if I got this right.  The editor suggested (and the EIC approved) an assignment on overweight people showing affection to an admitted anorexic, one who states in her blog profile that "though she's in her thirties, she's never been in love before - and has started to wonder if she ever will be."  Asking a weight-phobic, inexperienced 'lover' to write about 'fatties' is about as intelligent as asking a member of AA to cover the local wine fest.  Would you tell the one-legged kid to hop through a mine field as a sweeper?  No, because it's stupid, unfair, and sets up the perfect recipe for disaster. 

The way I see it, there are three ways of looking at this editorial job, and none are flattering in any light.  Either Maura Kelly's editor (and Joanna Coles) are:

• unintelligent/not the sharpest knives in the drawer,
• ignorant, like-minded bigots or
• opportunist media whores    

 Let's break this down using some old-fashioned logic, shall we?

First off, I think to say that the editors are unintelligent would be a fallacy.  Joanna Coles is the editor in chief at Marie Clare and she didn't get there overnight.  My guess is that it took years of back-breaking labor, many late nights at the office, and at times, a stunted social life.  As for the editor directly over Maura Kelly, I can assume that she has operated under the same format as Ms. Coles in order to gain the position she is in now.  So clearly, neither editor is lacking in grey matter. 

Second, to say that the editors are like-minded 'fattie' haters would be difficult to pinpoint.  As neither editor has been cited for making inflammatory remarks and we are unaware of their private thoughts, it is not fair to brand either editor as a bigot.  However, if we were to go on the premise that actions speak louder than words, by approving Maura Kelly's piece for publication, they were de facto mirroring her sentiments.  This blogger, willing to err on the side of caution and not throw stones out of spite, will not brand the editors as hate-mongers.

Third, where I draw my conclusion, is that Joanna Coles and the un-named editor are opportunistic media whores.  Since Maura's post hit the web, there has been over several thousand hits to the website.   An admitted anorexic freelance writer is given a suggested topic.  She in turn brings her fears, predispositions, and insecurities into the picture.  Her article is then approved by not only her immediate editor, but by proxy the EIC, and her name is now mud on the bathroom wall of the Internet. That's okay, because bad publicity is better than no publicity at all, right?  Ad revenue must be up by 150%. 

While both editors have well established careers and will not suffer much from this fallout, it appears that Maura Kelly's budding career may come to a crashing halt.  I pity her for the daily struggles she must make with each bite of food she puts in her mouth, but do I excuse her terrible remarks?  No, not in the least.  She is responsible for her own prejudices.  But the editors who allowed that piece to be published, I hold them entirely responsible.  Just as a parent is there to lookout for the good of their child and correct that child's ill behaviors, the editor is there to look over the author's work to make sure there are no spelling errors, sentence structure and content are sound, and thoughts flow evenly.  (Note to editor, don't rely on spell check.  It's heroin, not heroine.  I know I make my mistakes when I blog, but I don't have a paid editor to catch my misspells.)

When these women editors passed on a piece of work that was rife with hate and condescending advice, they not only did a great injustice to all the people targeted by that work, they possibly put the nail in the coffin of a writer's career.  

Schrödinger's Cat---My Feelings on Absent Men

I've been lax about writing these past several days because I have been very busy working alongside my dearest friend packing up her house, preparing endless snacks for the plethora of children running around the house, cleaning those dirty dishes produced by the plethora, and staying up late to talk, laugh, and watch super handsome David Boreanaz on Bones.  (Also, staying up until 1:30 AM five days running kinda screws up my ability to write coherently; I'm not complaining for I am too busy laughing).  But for right now, my friend is out on a date with her husband, all the kids are asleep, and I have silence to re-read my pondering.  And today's pondering has led me to ask: why is it more socially acceptable for a man to abandon his family?

When a woman abandons her children for a life free from child rearing responsibility we tend to think that her actions are reprehensible and question if she is of sound mind.  For example, Margaret Sanger (a topic of my college dissertation; I won't bother to footnote right now.  If wish to question this assertion, message me and I'll be happy to furnish proof) abandoned her children to further the birth control movement.  What sort of woman could be away from her four year old daughter as she lay dying from pneumonia?  It seems that a woman would have to be crazy to turn her back on the fruit of her womb.

Yet the flip side of the coin reveals we are quicker to dismiss the man's shortcomings.  "He couldn't handle the pressures/He wasn't ready for the challenges/He wasn't able to grow-up/He wasn't prepared."  Why is it that when a man abandons his children we do not question his mental acuity.  Why does not the world react with the same sort of disgust?
 
This hot topic issue came up today for I found myself in the neighborhood of my son's biological father; I was flash-flooded with memories from five years back. The last time I saw him I was 20 wks pregnant and he had promised to attend the 'guess your baby's gender' sonogram. Using your powers of deduction you can conclude he never showed up.

That was a horribly painful time in my life, but I have made peace with the loss of that relationship and moved on.  My Kid is the greatest joy of my folly and I can't imagine life without him.  I understand intellectually and rationally speaking that the path the Kid and I are on together is a far better journey than what may have been if his biological stayed around.  In retrospect I can see how the biological father and I were not suited for a relationship, even though we had been wonderful friends.  So why am I still angry after these years have passed?

I don't believe that I am angry at being left to raise a child on my own; I had the decision to abort, adopt out or become a single mother.  I knew that raising a child alone would/is a massive responsibility.  I think that I am more angered by the fact that one look at my ring-less left hand and the child on my hip, one can conclude that I am a single mother.  But no one will ever look at him and wonder if he has a child.

Like Schrödinger's Cat I am both alive and dead, happy and sad, angry and peaceful.  Next time I'm out driving around up here, I'll make sure to avoid those old roads.  And when I get back to FL, the Kid and I will cut new paths in the Florida sand.

Like a Remote, I Need a Pause, Rewind, and Volume Control

In childhood my siblings tagged me with the moniker "Doc," which has stuck til this day.  Not like 'You're so smart, like a doctor,' or Bugs Bunny-esque 'What's up Doc?'  No, I got the nickname Doc for one of the Seven Dwarfs; you know the one that sounded like he had Tourette's syndrome when he got excited?

Hmmm...is it open foot, insert mouth?  Or is it open mouth, insert foot?

Sometime, okay, a lot of times, my brain fires too fast for the cerebral links to hook up properly and before I realize it, my mouth has gotten involved, so I wind up saying something entirely backwards.  But I'm not the only one to do these types of things.

Take Brain Regan  for example.  (Note: this guy is totally family friendly and totally funny).




So you'll (hopefully) laugh and excuse/understand what I'm about to admit.

Not too long ago, I was at a very crowded, un-named mega store looking for everyday low prices on all the everyday items that I need or think I need depending if I've read the ad flyer.  (Look, a microwaveable egg poacher!  I don't eat poached eggs, but what if I have a guest someday who would request a poached egg! Then I could use my egg poacher!  And it's only $2.50!) (NOTE: I do not own an egg poacher, but I know someone who did.)

Anyways. . . I was just about to turn down the cutesy Hallmark card aisle when I noticed a man in a wheelchair trying to do the same.  I pulled back on my cart and motioned him to pass.  He smiled and said "Thank you."

And what did I say?  "YOUR PROBLEM!"

Yes, somewhere in that misfiring brain of mine I couldn't decide if I wanted to say, "You're welcome" or "It was no problem," so I came out with that darling gem.  (IT'S YOUR PROBLEM THAT YOU CAN'T WALK!  YOU'RE CRIPPLED AND I'M NOT!  SO IT'S YOUR PROBLEM!  NOT MINE!)

There was no recovering from that; mortified, I walked away.