It’s National Adoption Awareness Month!

Or what the fuck ever they call it.

I call it a load of crap.   All month long I’m going to be assaulted with stories  how wonderful adoption is.  I won’t be able to watch the news without be subjected to some not-so-hot-shot reporter bringing me a human interest story about some sainted adoptive parents who offered a whole new life to some little waif.  Great.  Go after the hard story there scoop.  Here’s a hint, puppies are cuter, do a story about puppies next time.

I’m so looking forward to it.

It gets even better when one of my co-workers or any member of the general rabble that comes into the store, sees one of these tear jerker stories.  They are going to want to tell me all about it.  I can’t fucking wait.  I haven’t had this much fun since the 90’s when everybody who had three drinks in them thought it was their duty to tell me the latest blond joke.

They recall the feel good news story in great detail, expecting me to hang on every word.  They will invariably end up with a “Isn’t that just wonderful?” and give a sigh.   they will be very confused when I just look at them for a moment and walk away.  I just don’t have the strength this year.

So in order to just get all out of the way, for the whole bloody month, if you are one of the dolts that wants to relate their beautiful vicarious just-saw-a-thing-on-the-news extremely intimate adoption experience to me:

Screw off

Eat Me

Are you really that simple minded?

Get a clue.

Go away.

Fuck you.

Find another victim.

Get a life.

Think before you speak.

Lick me.

and finally,

imagine being made into an orphan and being expected to be grateful for it.

National Adoption Awareness Month has been sucessful in making me very aware thatI am adopted.   I’ll give whoever the evil organization that came up with this travesty that.

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.

My Little Town

I just read an excellent blog post from a wonderful writer. Joy spoke of the neighbor- hood she grew up in.

In her neighborhood everything was the same, but the people were different. In the neighborhood I grew up in, the houses were different, but the people were the same. We all had absolutely no ethnic heritage. The places our ancestors came from wasn’t even worth a mention. Everyone just identified as Americans, not German-Americans, Irish-American, Italian-Americans, just Americans. The thought that we were anything else would have been disloyal in some way.

My own adoptive Mother and every other Mother I knew cooked the same food, mainly meat and potatoes. Spaghetti sauce made from ketchup and ground beef was considered exotic fare and was only to be served infrequently, and God forbid that garlic be added, nice people simply did not use garlic. The saving grace of the dish was that it was served on limp overcooked American Beauty spaghetti, that made it alright, once in a while.

We had no “old country” traditions, we celebrated every holiday just like everyone else did. It was all Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Jack-o-lanterns, with no mention of where these traditions might have came from. When in the fouth grade a new teacher made the mistake of telling us about her Jewish traditions, she was fired. We couldn’t have nice red blooded non-ethnic children singing the Dreidel Song. It just wasn’t done.

In addition to there being a complete lack of Jewish people, there were no Catholics, Lutherans, Anglicans, or Presbyterians, only Methodists, Baptists, and those that attended the Chuch Of Christ. Other religions than the three, or professing a lack of faith was completely unheard of. I’m not sure that I knew Muslims, Buddhists, Pagans or Unitarians even existed until I read about them in my Childcraft Encyclopedia.

The biggest celebration was the county fair. One year there was a black man who ran the Tilt-a-Whirl at the carnival, more people came to look at him than watch the demolition derby.

I think I believed that the cowboys had killed all the Native Americans, other than that last one crying in the commercial on TV.

I had no way of knowing what a strange world that I was being raised in. I had no reference point. I thought everywhere was like my town.

I’m glad that it isn’t.

Home Decorating and Adoption

I saw a television show today about adoption. On the surface it was supposed to be one of those home decorating shows that run on HGTV and DIY 24 hours a day. The premise of the show had two very hipply dressed hosts visiting a home in need of spiffing up. They achieve this by selling the families old possessions in a yard sale, then use the money to buy new hipper decorating things. It is implied that with this done the family will experience complete happiness, at least until they aren’t hip anymore.

In this episode they came to rescue a family of three living in an average tract house somewhere in southern California, like they always do. Dad was a slender balding systems analyst and Mom was a big and perky party planner. The daughter was a beautiful impish eight year old obvious international adoptee. Though it was never mentioned, I assume she was of Indian decent.

Most of the families house was a mish mash of things that seemed to have all belonged to the parents since before their marriage. There had been no thought given to decorating, except for the little girls room. It had been painted a bright blue, with bunk beds covered in tulle, and finished out in a Barbie and Horse theme. I imagine it was the Mother’s idea of a perfect little girl’s room.

In this show, each family member is responsible for deciding if their own things will be put in the garage sale, and the hosts speak to them individually about things that they feel need to be sold. They spoke with the little girl first.

The host assumed that she would want to keep her Barbies, she didn’t. She said that she never played with them and didn’t care if they were sold. He then asked her if she wanted her new room done in a horse theme, since there were so many on the high shelves all around the room. She said no, she didn’t really like those either, and since they were on such a high shelf she never got them down. She didn’t like her bunk beds either.

They then brought in the Mother and told her that the girl didn’t want the toy horses anymore. The Mother refused to let the toy horses be sold, she had always wanted them so badly as a child. All the while the girl sat there, with that reserved erect posture, so different than the adoptive Mother, saying nothing, looking only at the TV host who had taken up her cause. It looked to me like she actually had some hope in getting rid of the unwanted toys at first, but then I saw a look of resignation, she knew she would be keeping the horses. I knew that look so well.

I felt so bad for that little girl. I knew that wasn’t the first or last battle she would lose. I knew exactly how she felt.

I didn’t watch the rest of the show, I already knew how it would come out.

Better, Stronger, Faster

With international adoption beginning to tighten up and the relative rarity of domestic newborns available, lots of talk has turned to how the desperately childless will obtain children. Most of this talk centers around creating children from donor eggs, donor sperm, or both. PAPs having the luxury of being able to pick out the characteristics that they desire in their potential child. Sperm from Harvard, egg from Radcliffe.

Other than the obvious arguments that occur to me in using these kind of procedures, something else occurs to me. If we have a significant number of children conceived of in these way, what are the social implications for the children? Could things take an unexpected and frightening turn?

I imagine what most would think that these children’s reactions might be very close to those of run-of-the-mill adoptees, I wonder. As an adoptee, I was always told the standard story, that I was given up by a woman that couldn’t care for me. Other adoptees and I, to a large degree, got the message that we might tend to be somewhat genetically inferior. A good deal of our struggle has always centered around that, and I think, accounts for some of the most essential way that we view ourselves, and to a great extent the way other view us.

What if we were told something different?

What if our parents had been able to choose our traits to a certain degree? What if they were proud that they had been able to afford what they considered the best genetics for us? What if they had chosen traits that were superior to their own? What if they told us, and everyone else?

How would we react to our beginnings then?

Imagine if from your earliest memories you had been told that your genes were going to make you superior to others. That you would be smart, beautiful, and athletic. That you, and those like you, were essentially better than other children. That you knew others like yourself and that the rest of the world knew that you had been earmarked for superiority. That your were “special” in a real way.

Could that sense of entitlement become part of you? If so, wouldn’t it stand to reason that you would feel that all the things that came with your legacy should automatically be yours? Would it make perfect sense to form alliances among your own kind? Sort of a Skull And Bones Cub Scout Pack?

At some point, wouldn’t you understand that if you were made out of superior genetic stuff than your parents, that they would have very little to offer to you beyond basic needs? How quickly could inferior parents come to seen as a burden?

This is all my musing, but with the climate of consumerism so prevalent in today’s society, I don’t believe it’s impossible to imagine a generation of horrible, entitled, nasty children, created by those displaying the same traits, to a lesser degree.

MSM Look Out-I’m Coming For Ya!

I was driving home early sunday morning through bakersfield
Listening to gospel music on the colored radio station
And the preacher said, you know you always have the
Lord by your side

And I was so pleased to be informed of this that I ran
Twenty red lights in his honor
Thank you jesus, thank you lord

Well the preacher kept right on saying that all I had to do was send
Ten dollars to the church of the sacred bleeding heart of jesus
Located somewhere in los angeles, california
And next week theyd say my prayer on the radio
And all my dreams would come true
So I did, the next week, I got a prayer with a girl
Well, you know what kind of eyes she got

-Mick and Keef

That’s right folks, Joy and I are going to be on The Adoption Show this Sunday at 8:30 pm Eastern.

Give a listen.

Our Petunia

If you are not already familiar with our Petunia, here’s a link to her blog.

Just copy and paste. Sorry.

I first made the acquaintance of Petunia when she found out that her bio-sister was a heavy metal listening, tattooed, Satan worshiping, bar tending, potential vampire. I, of course, took it upon myself to defend Vampira Jr., and this lead to a spiffy little exchange on my blog.

I don’t hold any animosity toward Petunia, in fact, in light of recent discoveries, I feel a bit sorry for her.

As you know most of us don’t blog under our real names, Petunia is no exception, she has used a very common device and bogs under her birth name. Petunia. Kind of an odd name isn’t it? I began to wonder why someone would give their child that name. It must mean something. I had a feeling I had heard a name similar to that somewhere before, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

Then it came to me…

“The Boookay residence, the lady of the house speaking.”

Yes, our Hyacinth.

Petunia must surely be the lost birth sister of Hyacinth Bucket. It only makes sense, Hyacinth, Rose, Daisy, and of course Violet with a Mercedes and room for a pony, all sisters, but there must be just one more, our Petunia.

Petunia must be the result of one of Daddy’s adventures after the war. He had a brilliant mind, you know, I’m sure he was quite one with the ladies. A young woman could easily be drawn into a tryst with such a man. I have no doubt that Petunia was adopted to keep shame from Daddy’s name, and that of the love struck young girl who had feel for his charms. The family never speaks of it, of course.

Did Petunia ring up Hyacinth on her white slimline telephone? Was she rejected or asked to a candle light supper, or possibly a nautical buffet? Has she met her nephew Sheridan? Would Hyacinth serve her on the Royal Doulton with blue periwinkles?

One thing is for sure Hyacinth and Petunia would share an opinion of Onslo’s vest.

The show is called “Keeping Up Appearances”, folks.

Thank God For Adoptees

I just saw an adoptive Mother tell one of my good online friends that she doesn’t see a need to thank her adoptee, she thanks God for them instead. Seems that her adoptee was a great blessing bestowed on her from God.

Gee kid, no pressure.

Since any of the blow sunshine up your ass type adopto parents will tell you that blessings come in all shapes and sizes, I’m beginning to wonder if, I too, am a gift from God. Since my A-parents were rather lazy Christians and only bothered to thank God for anything on Thanksgiving, or after a particularly close call with another automobile, I’m just not sure. They never confirmed anything.

How does one go about determining if they are a gift from God? Did I come with a card? Did my parents keep it? I suppose it would read something like this:

Dear Addie’s Adoptive Mom and Dad,

Sorry to be out of touch for so long. I’ve been kind of busy with the Presidential assassination and that whole state of Israel thing. The Catholics and Jews are my first teams, but boy they require a lot of attention (ha ha). I’ve put Jesus in charge of some of the Saints, and he’s looking after admissions for me, so I’ve freed up some time for adoptions.

Hope you like this one. They tell me she’s a little firecracker and smart to boot. Sometimes they are a little colicky at first, leaving my bosom tends to bit rough on their digestion.

Got to close now, but please do enjoy your gift.



Since I haven’t found a card, I’m going to have to find another way to find out if I was actually given out by the supreme being. I don’t think I’d be marked, from my reading that is more the modus operandi of one of His former employees. I wondered about maybe having a gift on my own, you know, healing by touch, blood that smells like violets, etc. So far I can find nothing.

I’m beginning to think that maybe I wasn’t a gift from God, and just came from the hospital, like my a-parents told me.