Sometimes It’s Worth It

This morning I got up even earlier than usual, got bundled up, and went outside to watch the stars fall. It was so worth it.


In the past most of my meteor shower watching experience have been less than stellar, I’d sit out there for hours and maybe see just one or two. This morning I saw more than I could count, and each one filled me with a kind of childlike glee that I haven’t experience for a while.


The simple things in my life have gotten covered up in the complicated things, the things we try to do to make things simple, the things that lead us to forget why we are doing them in the first place. Even when you try to do things one-step-at-a-time, with pure intentions, the right way, you can lose track of the original intention. That’s just the way it is, life is complicated.


Sometimes it’s good to be reminded that some things are simple. My planet moves through space, it encounters a cloud of dust, the tail end leftovers of a comet, and just for being here, just for showing up, you get to see something amazing. Not complicated, amazing, they are different.


The problem is, if you show up for anything beyond a meteor shower, things get complicated. Everybody thinks they can do whatever it is better, they think they can improve upon the experience.  This is a prime example of the capacity of the human mind in relation to the universe. It just doesn’t measure up.


I’ll get on with my complicated day now, trying to keep in mind, once in a while, they are still simple things, amazing things, that aren’t complicated at all.

My New Underwood-Olivetti

I bought a typewriter this weekend, an Underwood-Olivetti from the 1960’s. It is in working order, no sticky keys, good hard letter strikes, and it even has a good ribbon. It even looks perfect, and it’s going to stay that way.

I can’t type on the damn thing. All those months of high school typing class are wasted. Hitting the keys on the IBM Selectric as the teacher droned out, “FFF, FAD, FFFAD.” Are, and have been for nothing. I spend a good deal of my time sitting in front of a keyboard and I cannot type.

I’m the Wizard of Word, I can format like nobody’s business, heck I even know what the Review functions do. If you send me a document, I’ll probably reformat it before I read it. I’m picky that way.

Almost nothing I’ve written, or read, has been printed for years, it’s all on hard drives, and thumb drives, and somewhere up in the clouds. I can send you anything you want, anyway you want it, attachments? shared docs? .rtf? PDF?  No problem. Just don’t ask me to snail mail it to you. I wouldn’t know where to start.

I used to know how to write a business letter, all the girls did, we took business classes that really weren’t about business at all. We were taught how to type, use an adding machine, and to take shorthand. This was to prepare us for the world of work. Those poor business teachers could never imagine just how quickly all of that would be obsolete.

In my case, it was my very first real job. At 19, I was a sales rep for one of the Bells, (remember phone companies?), I started out with a secretary that worked with several reps, she did all the typing. Then a monitor the size of a VW Beetle was put on my desk, and everything changed. I still had a secretary, but she didn’t type anymore, she entered. We had both been lied to.

I left that job before my secretary did, but everybody knew she didn’t have long. Technology progressed from there, along with my screen time. My environments changed, I went from big glass buildings, to small cubbies carved out to make room for the “computer stuff”, to nothing. Now, my business is contained in a device roughly the same size as the nifty leather bound notebook I used on my first job. I sit at my kitchen counter.

If my business classes were designed to keep me in a subservient role in business, and I have no doubt they were, then eliminating those skills has put me all the way back to the kitchen.

Funny how that worked out.

Anybody want to buy a typewriter?



The End Times

Yesterday I heard a woman say she didn’t know what she was going to do. She knew that we were at the end times, just like in the Bible. Then in the same breath, she said something about moving to Canada. And this is why I know Canada will be safe from the wrath of God.

Somehow a bunch of overly polite, socialized medicine utilizing, hockey playing, Canadians, many of which who speak French on a daily basis, will somehow escape the destruction of our planet by a wrathful God. I’m not sure why. I suppose I should have asked for the details.

The thing is, this woman isn’t crazy. I don’t know her well, but I do know she’s a working mother of 3, she’s married, she drives an SUV. She’s what passes for middle class in this rural slum. She went to the same schools I did, she’s around my age, we’ve had a lot of common experiences. She not stupid, nor is she educated, but there seem to be enough lights on up there to give her the ability to see through fear mongering hooey. Why do her and I see the world as such a different place? Why am I certain no matter what happens, economic recovery or apocalypse, nothing will change either of our views?

I wonder too if she would think of our common experiences if she knew how I see the world. I fear she wouldn’t. Preparing for Armageddon must take a lot of dedication, a lot of focus. I suppose one only has time to think about the important stuff, not leaving a lot of room to consider other points of view. It has to be a hard thing to keep up, this living in a constant state of trauma. I fear she would only see me as a poor soul left behind, or an enemy set on stopping her on her way to the Canadian Zion.

It would be easy for me to dismiss this as nothing but a load of redneck ignorance and bible thumping stupidity, but I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to accept that many see my country as such a different place than I do. It hurts my heart to think a presidential administration would drive people to think it’s all over. I was pretty worn down by the second Bush administration, but had enough faith in my country, and common experience and knowledge, to know that it wouldn’t last forever. I wish they understood this. Even when the Obama era ends without the complete destruction of the Earth, less Canada, I know they’ll think the world just hasn’t ended yet.

Getting All Adopted

I’ve been an aware and active adult adoptee for a long time. I realized long ago how much adoption has effected my life, I did the anger, the search, the finding, the support of others, the activism, and even a little healing. But sometimes I still get all adopted.

But Addie, you say, you will always be adopted, you know that. Yeah, I do, but there is being adopted, and getting all adopted. And all the adoptees out there, no matter what kind of peace you have or haven’t made with your situation, know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s all the nasty stuff about being adopted coming up from what seems like nowhere. The insecurity, the clinginess combined with the urge to run away, the need for constant reassurance, pretty much all the crappy feelings being adopted can whip on you.

Birthdays, alcohol, pictures of kittens progressing relationships, stubbing your toe,stress, grief, being questioned about adoption by a civilian, and waking up in a bad mood, are all major triggers for adoptedness coming out. And trust me, most of us are aware it’s happening, we just can’t stop it. It’s like a random act of PMS.

I don’t think getting all adopted once in a while means much. When it happens, it usually doesn’t mean we’ve gone off the deep end, never to come back. It just means for one reason or another we’re really feeling being adopted right at that moment. It settles down, we feel better, we can see it for what it really is again. For me, anyway, it’s just part of it.

The good news is, I didn’t get too adopted on my birthday. My adoptee friends know exactly what I’m talking about.


All I Want for My Birthday is My Original Birth Certificate and World Peace and a Puppy

Activist Peeps and photo courtesy of the fabulous and recently reunited Jeff Hancock.

Today is my birthday. You know what I want? World peace and a puppy. A cute little puppy that doesn’t chew on things, never piddles on the floor, and never grows up.

Neither one of these things is going to work out, I’m sad and disappointed.

You know what might make me feel better?

My freaking birth certificate.

If I (and all other adoptees), could get their original birth certificate today, it would be the best birthday ever.  I’d be singing from the rooftops and whistling Zip-ee-dee-do-dah out of my ass.

I don’t imagine the Original Birth Certificate thing is going to work out today either.

But since it is my birthday, you can do one thing for me.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, go to the Adoptee Rights Coalition webpage and find out what this is all about.

If you know all about what I’m talking about, go to the Adoptee Rights Coalition webpage and get caught up on the latest news, find out how to get involved, make a donation.

If you really know what I’m talking about, write to one of your lawmakers today. Tell them to support Original Birth Certificate access for all adoptees.

Hey, I’m sitting all alone, without a puppy, and it’s my birthday. Help me out.





It seems that most of my life has been about waiting lately. Waiting for this or that to get done, waiting for something to sell, waiting for an email,waiting for a phone call. I’m tired of waiting.

It’s not like I’ve been doing nothing at all, I’ve done a lot. I’m just ready for everything to settle. I’ve gone from being about as hopeless as humanly possible to looking forward to the future. It just doesn’t seem to come fast enough, but then it never has.

I’m an impatient person by nature. Maybe I should see this as a return to my old self, but my sincere desire to get in someone’s face and scream, “C’mon, already!”, has never been my best trait.  I suppose I have to take the good with the bad.

Being ready to move on, and being able to move on, are two different things. You have to get yourself ready to move on, put things in place, but the ability to do so is almost always dependent on others.

Yesterday I did something that I thought would set off a pretty good shit storm.  It didn’t happen. I should have expected this, the very reason I took action was due to their inaction. The pace this outfit runs at would impress a slacker tree sloth living in his parents basement. They function within some kind of Bizzaro World where every action has an equal and opposite non-action. I have no idea how they stay in business.

So I guess I’ll just sit here and wait a while longer. I’m not happy about it.