I’m Not Strong

I’m not strong, I do probably look that way, but it’s an unintentional front. I am gutted, sad, screaming inside. I want my David back. I want to punch the fucking Universe in the face. I cannot fathom that my poor sweet husband had to go through that, he deserved better.

David wasn’t done. He still had so many things he wanted to do. I cry not just for the things we would do together, but the things he would achieve, the things he would make, the stuff he would make work. I cry for the beautiful days he won’t see and the good meals he won’t eat.

Losing him seems to be much too much about me and not nearly enough about him sometimes.

Make no mistake this is about David.

My sweet, smart, curious, and ambitious David.


I Know A Secret

Well, I don’t know the secret, but this dumb bitch seems to…

Actually she doesn’t. She’s now claiming that the whole thing was bullshit, a fable in her words. I have to agree that it was shit.

Carry on.

Leathery Bag Outs Trans-racial Adoptee

Irony. Loads of irony here. In order to prove a point, texassadlerfan has outed a trans-racial adoptee.

Questions are already being asked all over adoption related message boards as to who this mysterious adoptee could be. Since it’s not clear that this person even knows that they were adopted, and certain (if texasadlerfan is to be believed) is of African American heritage, I suppose that we’re no the only ones wondering.

“The young driver does not know any parents, other than those who raised him so lovingly, and he has no idea of the situation of his birth. His family thought it best to allow him to function in a selective, exclusive, more open world that may not be so accepting of him if his social delineations were known…”

But according to texasadlerfan, it’s not a big deal….

Of course it doesn’t matter, and there really is no need to make an issue of the truth, I suppose. One might wonder, sometimes, as do the adoptive parents of the NASCAR driver, what people would really think if they knew the handsome young quarterback and father of the child who became their own so many years ago, was Black.

I beg to differ, the truth is a big deal. Whoever this driver is has been lied to all of his life. And the truth is going to come out now, in a very public way. That’s not good. The circumstances of one’s birth should only be for public consumption if the person concerned wants it that way. These things should not be brought into general release by a busybody wannabe sports reporter.

Texasadlerfan, with her little preachy, gossipy post has brought up both late discovery and trans-racial adoption issues. These are two of the most painful and complicated issues that an adoptee can deal with. Just imagine not knowing that you were adopted or anything of your own heritage, and that these facts were used with such disregard, in such a frivolous way by this woman.

Make no mistake, these kind of issues can cause feelings of anger and betrayal in adoptees and tear families apart, as all that relationships were based on are lies. Yes, this driver’s parents are to blame for not being honest with their son, but this woman had absolutely no place speaking of this publicly. Adoptees who have learned about their orgins later in life express great frustration at the fact that everyone else knew the circumstances of their birth and no one told them. They feel betrayed by everyone.

The truth is important.

I can only hope that when this person discovers the truth they find the help they will need to make sense of it. It is not an easy thing.

Shame on you texasaderfan, you have no idea what you’ve done.

Hey! Steven Curtis Chapman, They Aren’t Orphans

Please read here before commenting on the tragic death of Steven Curtis Chapman’s Daughter


And please note that this post was written months before the death of Steven Curtis Chapman’s daughter and has absolutely nothing to do with her. This post only concerns Mr. Chapman’s career decisions.

Check out this asswipe for Jesus..

Change For Orphans

I guess every child available for adoption is now an orphan according to this moron. Yep, every child available has no biological family, Jesus killed them all so Chapman could be a good guy.

Chapman had such a good experience with adoption that Jesus is killing off entire families so his fans can too experience the miracle of adoption. What a savior this guy is.

Seriously we all know that the vast majority of theses kids are not orphans in the traditional sense of the word, but it sure as hell makes folks feel good about themselves to think about them this way. They can conjure up images in their stupid little sheepy heads of Dicksenian waifs begging in the streets until Jesus (and a big injection of cash from Chapman) moves them to be saviors. All this without any pesky obviously Godless natural family to worry about. Meanwhile Chapman gets all kinds of good press. Hey it’s a win-win for everybody. Especially the grateful little orphans who not only get the chance to be raised by these self-centered, savior complex ridden, bad music listening, dips for Jesus, but might get the chance to promote super-savior Chapman’s career by appearing on stage.

What a fucking low-life this guy is, using available children, conveniently labeled orphan, to sell his latest album. What’s the matter Steven, did Jesus not get you the distribution deal that you needed to move product?

To the Best of My Knowledge…

my Mother is alive.

I say this because I can find no evidence to the contrary.  I could be wrong, but if I am, my evil b-sis has pulled off a conspiracy that I just don’t think she is capable of.

Evil, scared, and desperate, doesn’t usually equal smart.  Especially if you aren’t too bright in the first place.  I can only come to the conclusion that she lied to me.

The fact that she didn’t take into consideration that a person that could find her, after almost forty years, certainly could find out if one old lady died in the last couple of weeks, both disappoints and angers me.  Doesn’t she think that I’m smarter than that?

Guess not.  Oh well.

You what the real kicker has been in all of this bloody saga?  It’s brought me closer to my a-mom, yes, my a-mom.  I told her the whole disgusting tale last weekend, she was as pissed about it as I am.

Quote a-mom. “you’d think that honesty would be the best way for everyone involved”.


Curiouser and Curiouser

Hold up on the wake, folks.

When you die your your identity ceases to exist, in more than the obvious ways.   The fact of your death becomes a matter of public notice.  Your social security number is no longer a not really so closely held secret to be hidden from all but those who would extend you credit.  Your name no longer belongs to anyone, it’s published in the newspaper, no matter if anyone cares enough about you to have a service, or even pay to have an obituary written.  In short, you are immediately outed as a non-person.

No matter if your remains end up in a great marble tomb in one of the better cemeteries, or in an unmarked hole surrounded by the bones of hobos, your name ends up on a list that anyone can see.  There really is no way to hide this.  It’s all very democratic.

If you don’t make the list, you are not dead.

I’m not on the list.  Neither is my mother.

It’s a great day to be alive.

The Big Sleep

Much has been made of faking one’s own death in fiction and film. It seems to be a subject that fascinates. Something about being able to start over with a completely clean slate, being able to leave past transgressions behind.

As an adoptee I’ve never found the concept that appealing. Maybe because something very much like this was done to me. I was innocent, I didn’t have anything I wanted to leave behind. My death was faked, in a way, in order to allow others to leave things behind.

On some level I can see where this could be satisfying. With one action, the problem just disappears. I can even see how this could become addictive.

The thing is, like everything that seems to solve all problems, you have to be very careful with it. If you use it too much, it will come back to bite you. The use of this clings to you, like the smell of bourbon, like the acrid woodsy smell of weed. Somebody is eventually going to know your using.

They say an addict can always spot an addict. I think that those who have had death, even in this guise, forced upon them can also always spot an addict. A little bit of that smell always clings to them too. It’s familiar.

How many times can someone expect to be able to get away with something like this, killing people for convenience? Once, twice, even three times?

I think that just once. With every use this power becomes weaker, the high less satisfying, the risk for exposure greater.

Yep, it will turn around on you, but fast.

Since We All Need A Holiday..

Mention has been made on this blog that we, as adoptees, need a holiday, or at the very least a High Holy Day. I think that I might have come up with something.

From what I can see declaring holidays is a pretty easy thing to do, you just say it’s a holiday, send a card, and your done. Just look at Mother’s Day, founded by anti-civil war activist Julia Ward Howe. She basically bugged the President until he issued a proclamation. Some say it was merely an attempt by Lincoln to revive the lagging knick-knack and bathrobe industries, but never the less, it’s still a holiday. One only has to look at the popularity of Festivus to realize any joker can come up with a holiday these days.
Since this holiday will be to celebrate our gift from God status, I thought it would be nice to name it after a Saint. I considered using Jesus, as many have pointed out his adoptee-lite status, but he already has too many holidays in his honor, if you ask me. Now, I’m not catholic, so I pretty much had to rely on Google search to find a good candidate to be our patron saint.

I started with the obvious, I typed in “adopted saint”, not too fruitful. I just didn’t turn up any holy people that had the right pizazz for an adoptee’s holiday. I did notice that many maternity homes were named St. Elizabeth’s, so I did a quick read in the Catholic dictionary on her. Too boring, and pious for our purposes.

I then typed in “Pray to saint adoption”. I came up with this gem:

St. Gerard.

16 October
Son of a tailor who died when the boy was 12, leaving the family in poverty. Gerard tried to join the Capuchins, but his health prevented it He was accepted as a Redemptorist lay brother serving his congregation as sacristan, gardener, porter, infirmarian, and tailor. Wonder worker.When falsely accused by a pregnant woman of being the father of her child, he retreated to silence; she later recanted and cleared him, and thus began his association as patron of all aspects of pregnancy. Reputed to bilocate and read consciences. His last will consisted of the following small note on the door of his cell: “Here the will of God is done, as God wills, and as long as God wills.”

23 April 1725 at Muro, Italy
16 October 1755 at Caposele, Italy of tuberculosis
29 January 1893 by Pope Leo XIII
11 December 1904 by Pope Saint Pius X
childbirth; children; expectant mothers; falsely accused people; good confessions; lay brothers; motherhood; mothers; Muro, Italy; pregnant women; pro-life movement; unborn children

Seems that this possible birth-father could be our guy.

Gerard was reputed to bilocate, which is defined as being in one place physically and another spiritually, would seem to work for our purposes. And come on, that possible birthfather thing is just too good.

So, let’s call it St. Gerard’s Day. I haven’t quite worked out the details, but I know It’s going to be all about us. Some possible activities and traditions that I ‘d like too see become associated with St Gerard’s Day are:

Drinking of the sacred Mojito’s while dancing to Sam The Sham and the Pharaoh’s hit song Wooly Bully around the St Gerard’s tree. This tree would be a money tree that adoptive parents decorate for us in remembrance of our adoption fees.

The airing of grievances (yeah, I stole that one from Festivus, sue me) to all those that have hurt us over the last year, this, of course would be extended to our lifetimes during the initial celebration. The targets of our grievance would be made to stand in a kiddie pool, wearing a mumu, while the airer of grievances, and other adoptees, shot at them with Super Soakers full of Hawaiian Punch Fruit Juicy Red.

That is all I have come up with for now. I’m open to suggestions as to dates, and celebratory traditions.

Happy Ass Adoptive Parents (you knew it was coming)

I am so sick of hearing a bunch of happy ass adoptive parents talking about how they can heal anything with their magic love.  Hey, fuck you, alright.  All the goddamn hugs in the world aren’t going to make a shit bit difference sometimes.

You are not the second coming of June pissing Cleaver.  You will not make adoption okay within a half an hour with you magic chocolate chip cookies.  Got it?  It’s pretty fucking complicated.  Because your one year old diaper rat is smiling now, that don’t mean they are going to be in about 12 years.

You are on the first shift of the paving crew to hell if you believe you really know one goddamn more thing than any parent that came before you.   You don’t know dick.  Okay?  Nobody does, you are in the dark just like everybody else. Just keep up your happy-ass conversation with each other, keep assuring each other you know your child better than anybody else.  Because guess what?  You don’t.  This may come as a big fucking surprise, your kid may have the first clue as to what they are feeling.  Yeah, imagine that, if you’re capable.

You might as well be serving the pages out of your fucking parenting books with a side of ranch dressing for all the good you got out of them.   What did your skip the “scary” parts because that could never happen with you at the parenting helm?  Huh?  Guess what fucko?  Those scary parts are all about people like you.  Turn on every light in the house, grab your fucking teddy bear and get to studying.  You can get on the internet and bitch about how negative some experts are in the morning if it makes you feel better.  I have a feeling you’ll find the support that you so need.

But for fuck’s sake, do not get on there and discount my memories, or anyone else’s that claim to wish to learn from.  I do so wish there was a special are you dimfucks could be sent to until you are ready for mainstreaming.  I think it would do you worlds of good to review a few key concepts before you have a try at the big kid’s class again.

Non-adoption related rant.

Exactly how stupid can people be?

I am constantly fucking amazed at the level of just plain dumbness one person can posses.  I run a grocery store, we ran out of grapes yesterday.  I told my checkers that we were out of grapes yesterday.  I told one of my checkers we were out of grapes AGAIN not an hour ago.  She just called on the PA system and asked me to bring a bag of grapes to the front.

I had to walk all the way to the front to tell this moron that we were still out of grapes.

Does she think I’m running a vineyard in the backroom of the store?

Does she think that I have a red phone under a cake dish on my desk connected to the California Grape Growers Association for these kinds of emergencies?

Does she think I have a spotlight back here that shines the Grape Signal to the California Grape Growers Association?

Is she under the belief that I’m just like Batman, but with grapes?

Does she think that I’m living a double life as both a grocer and some type of grape procuring super hero?

I wonder who my sidekick is suppose to be?  The potato chip delivery guy?

Is she convinced that I have a tricked out 1965 Bonneville hidden  the  store called the Grapemobile?  Is it green, red, or black?  Possibly a combination of these colors?  Is it seedless?

Oh, fuck me.

Liar, Liar

Somebody lied to me.  This time it wasn’t for my own good.  They didn’t lie to me directly, they did it in the most underhanded way, they convinced some one else that they were telling me the truth.  That is the greatest deception of all.

The person that told me these things believed what she told me.  Why shouldn’t she? The person who told her these things should have been working in her best interest, she was even paid to do so.  It was a classic con.  The liar had something this woman wanted more than anything, she took her into her confidence.  She said that she was revealing more than she really should, she didn’t tell most people this much.  The things she told her were plausible, the fact that they weren’t pleasant made them that much more believable.

It was a great story, it had a beginning, middle, and end.   Each character was painted fully enough that the listener could, if not understand, at least accept, their motivations.  Every plot point fit well within the time and atmosphere of the story.  There was conflict and a resolution of sorts.   It was a good lie.

The thing is, good lies only work once.  Any confidence man will tell you once you’ve bled your mark, it’s time to get out of town.  Sure, you can run the same con again, you just have to be sure that your marks will never met.  Our liar didn’t take into account how small a town we all live in now.

I’m not sure what disgusts me more, the fact that this woman told such a cruel lie, or the fact she didn’t care enough to make up a new lie for each of her marks.   The very thought that she could let people come to her needing the truth more than anything, tell them she had it, and then decide which lie to use makes me ill.

How many stories did she have? 2? 3? 8?  Were there stories for men, women?  Did how they looked looked or the tone of their voice influence which story they would get?  Did she save special stories for ones she favored or especially disliked?

I’d like to ask the liar.

I’ve sought truth on the behalf of others.  I’ve been successful, and I’ve failed, but I’ve never lied.  I couldn’t betray a trust like that.

I just don’t understand.