Hard Realities

It has been commented that I may not be able to distinguish fantasy from reality.  This may be true, I think we all live in our own worlds, everything we see is interrupted through our own perspective.   This has nothing to do with being able to recognize satire.  In light of recent comments it also has nothing to do with reading comprehension.  If you’ll look to the top of the page, this one’s tagged satire.  That means I know that I’m writing about something that isn’t serious or real.

For example, I ran across this site just this morning..


There is some pure gold right there, Arlen Specter questioning anyone’s sanity is brilliant.

And I won’t even mention the Ricky Martin post, I want you to enjoy it for your self, She Bangs indeed.

Also be sure to check out the comments section, this is where the bloggers are in their element, I don’t know how they come up with this stuff.  The daily show has nothing on these folks.

The writers of this blog have brought together the nuttier side of this election for all to enjoy.  When taken as a whole, one can see just how silly the blogosphere can really be.  Though purely satirical, it can be used as an excellent resource to point out just how desperate some of the unofficial Clinton campaign workers have become.

Check it out, and don’t blame me if you end up spitting your latte all over your computer screen.

Second Chances

I wouldn’t say the theme of this blog is dissatisfaction, but I have to admit it does come into play in many of my posts. It’s occurred to me that this is a bit selfish. Adoption isn’t just about me. There are more people involved, adoptive parents just don’t get enough chances with dissatisfaction here. I apologize, and it’s time for me to change my ways.

I’ve done a lot of writing about the act of adoption itself concerning adoptive parents, but paid less attention to their feelings after the fact. I should take their feelings into consideration. I realize that raising adoptees is no day in the park. Adoptive parents are entitled to their own frustrations, and yes, dissatisfaction. With that acknowledged, I do feel that I need to press on in the spirit of answers and resolution, as is only fair.

A website was brought to my attention that may offer hope to both adoptees and their adoptive parents in finding the satisfaction that we both deserve. It offer a novel approach, one that some may say is radical, the solution it offers may disturb some, but I think it could be viable in some cases. Please explore it with an open mind.

I wish solutions like this had been available when I was a child. The world was a smaller place then and the social climate wasn’t ready for such bold solutions. I have no doubt that if this ere an option it’s something that my own adoptive parents would be willing to explore. Everyone deserves a second chance, even adoptive parents.

I think you’ll find the site both informative and easy to use. I can’t imagine this won’t be the next big thing.


Beep. Beep. Beep.

Is stupidity contagious? Does it happen to be going around like the flu?

I cannot believe the instances of just plain stupidity that I have seen today alone, and I’m not just talking about the internet here. In fact, I think that the internet displays a lower level of sheer dumbness than my everyday life.

I don’t think that the average person can find their way home consistently, though they seem to be able to find me every time. How does that work? Am I wearing some type of homing device that only the lacking in intelligence can pick up? Why are they so drawn to me?

Was I implanted with a device during those missing weeks when I was a newborn? That’s the only possible explanation that I can figure out. Did someone at some black budgeted government agency decide to take the experiment of adoption one step further? I was born in 1965, this was the era of cats being implanted with listening devices in order to spy on the Ruskies. Would it really be so odd that they might decide to implant adoptees in order to trace them through their lives?

The thing is, I fear this is working out about as well as other covert programs of the era. The Ruskie spying cats were seduced, wandered off, and were hit by cars. It was simply a silly bad idea that didn’t work. I wonder if I was set up to either spy on Regular Upstanding American Citizens like my adoptive parents? Did they want to know what Mr. and Mrs. America were discussing in the privacy of their own home? Did some bright young man in the CIA think that bugging the baby was a great way to do this? Were the details not quite worked out? Was I implanted with something that just sends a signal but doesn’t record, does this signal somehow attract the stupid?

I’m imagining a steady tone. Beep. Beep. Beep. Like some moron drawing Sputnik.

Is it possible?

OK, some idiot is going to think I’m serious. They aren’t going to be smart enough to read this whole thing before they hit the comment button. Could this be the draw of the implant?

A Call To Action

Again and again it has been pointed out that adoptees have nothing to say about access to adoption records or how we will be treated by our own government. Everyone else’s rights involved in adoption trump ours, the first parents, the adoptive parents, the agencies, the courts. We are effectively reduced to the status of children.

Equal treatment under the law is a cornerstone of our republic. So if we are treated as children in the matter of our adoptions, shouldn’t we be treated as children in every other aspect?

I’m thinking there could be some advantages.

First there are the child labor laws. We shouldn’t be allowed to work more than 15 hours a week, if at all. That would certainly free up some time in my life. It would put a bit of a pinch on my income, but considering that as a child I would also be eligible for all kinds of other programs, it might not be a problem.

I assume we would all be eligible for our state’s child health care program. So losing the benefits at our jobs won’t be much of a big deal. This will make up for it. We also should be able to receive AFDC and food stamps, since we are still dependent children. This will give us some dough for clothing, food, and all of the other little essentials. Our rent should probably be paid too.

We can forget about paying our own bills and taking care of all the little inconveniences of life too. I think we are going to have to have court appointed conservators to do that for us. Our APs shouldn’t be saddled with this, after all they did, in most cases, fulfill there obligation to raise us to what would in any other case be adulthood. In some cases, since a lot of adoptees aren’t exactly young anymore, our APs just aren’t around to do this. So they are just going to have to find someone to take care of these things for us, we are children, after all.

I have saved the best for last, I’m pretty sure they are going to have to continue to educate us too. Since the majority of us have at least completed the k-12 thing, and many of us have at least a BS or BA, I’m thinking we are going to have to be allowed to obtain advanced degrees, and additional undergraduate degrees. I’m sure I’m not the only one that looks forward to a life of learning.

I understand that all of this is not going to be cost effective. The amount of money this is going to take is staggering. But what choice do they have, we are still children.

I also understand that treating us as adults and allowing us access to our original birth certificates would be very cost effective in comparison. But knowing how our government works, I can see them implementing the plan I have outlined above without much problem.

Hey, it makes as much sense as anything else to do with adoption.

I urge you to write your legislators immediately.

Guess What?

Not only is this National Adoption Awareness Month it’s also…..

National Writing Month

National Diabetes Awareness Month

National Peanut Butter Lover’s Month

National Lung Cancer Awareness Month

National Pomegranate Month

National Health Food Month

National Pancreatic Cancer Awareness Month

National Hospice/Palliative Care Month

National Career Development Month

National Marrow Awareness month

National 4-H Month

National Alzheimer’s Disease Awareness Month

National American Indian and Alaska Native Heritage Month

National Family Caregiving Month

National Homeless Youth Awareness Month

National Youth Involvement month

National Healthy Skin Month

National Epilepsy Awareness Month

National Blog Posting Month.

These are the results of a quick Google search. From what I can tell, writing has a slight edge on adoption in the Google hits, but both are leading all major diseases and conditions by about four to one. Pomegranates and the good old 4-H aren’t showing enough to even stay in the race.

Take it for what it’s worth.

We Have To Do Something About That Straight Hair

There is a picture hanging on my A-moms bedroom wall of me when I am about eight-years-old.  If you could see it you would be convinced that Madeleine Albright was my first-mother, I look just like her.  My hair is a perfect copy of hers during the Clinton administration.  My A-mom loves this picture.  It was taken at now long closed portrait studio just down the street from the beauty shop where I got my first professional perm.

We didn’t have an appointment to have my picture taken that day, but Mom was so thrilled with my new look she convinced the woman who ran the studio to take my picture right there and then.   This was a great victory for my mother in the war that she had waged on straight hair and she was going to have record of it.

The war on my locks started just as soon as I had any hair to speak of as far as I know.  I cannot remember a time my mother was not entrenched in the battle.  She was not a hairdresser, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her in her quest to make my hair “acceptable”.

Most of the memories I have of our first house are of the bathroom sink.  I spent hours there having my hair washed with Breck shampoo, always twice, always followed by an icy rinse.   Then being pulled up, half dizzy, to have my hair combed through with a rat tail comb, from the ends,  ripping and pulling until my scalp ached.

Then into the kitchen chair, sitting there for hours, dripping with Dippity-Doo hair gel while Mom put in scratchy brush rollers, each with a pick into my scalp to hold it in place.  A hair net was then tied around that whole mess and I was expected to sleep in those things.  I couldn’t even lay me head down.  It was absolute torture, like wearing a  porcupine on your  head.

In the morning came the “comb out”.  I remember tears in my eyes when Mom would backcomb my hair,  pull, bang, bang, bang.  Then brush, rip, brush, and enough hairspray to glue my eyes closed.   Mom would look and pat, pat pat, spray, spray, spray, then turn me around in the kitchen chair looking all the time, then spray spray spray.  At last she’d tell me to go into the bathroom and look at my hair.

I didn’t realize that I looked like a four-year-old blond Ladybird Johnson then, but I did know it looked strange.   The other little girls I knew had ponytails and pixie cuts, their hair flowed or fluffed, mine was hard and poufy.  It was also prone to denting.  It made Mom very mad if I dented my hair.  She’d have to get the rat tail comb and hairspray out and fix it.  I didn’t like that very much either.

At some point Mom decided the answer to my hair problems could be fixed with a perm.  A home perm.  As I said earlier, Mom wasn’t a hair dresser, well she wasn’t an instruction reader either.  I sat there for hours while she tried to get my hair rolled up on the tiny pink plastic rods, the little papers falling to the floor, as she made disgusted noises.  She finally decided to use Dippity-Doo to get my hair to stay on the rods.  Not a good idea.  I came out looking like a dandelion gone to seed.  I got a pixie cut.  I was thrilled.  Mom was not.

As my hair grew out, the battles raged on.  Rollers again, followed by a just slightly more successful home perm, think Rosanne Rosannadanna.  Finally Mom had tired of fighting the battle on her own and called in the professionals.  I got the first of what would be many Mom enforced beauty shop perms.

Getting the first perm was kind of fun, the hairdressers all made a fuss over me and I listened to them talk grown up talk.  The woman that gave me the perm was much more gentle than Mom.   When she had finished I did look different than when Mom did my hair.  By this time I knew it wasn’t what I wanted my hair to look like, I wanted long straight hair like Lori Partridge, but it was nice to be the center of attention.

To say that Mom was thrilled doesn’t even begin to describe it.  She just raved over how wonderful I looked.  So it was off to the photo studio immediately and record of that day still hangs on her wall.  It truly is one of Mom’s great triumphs.  My hair looked exactly like she wanted it to for one afternoon.  She was never able to duplicate the style again.  After a few weeks of trying she gave up.  I didn’t exactly have the hairstyle I wanted, but it beat the hell out of the hair helmet.

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.