The Joy of Motherhood.

https://youtu.be/fE8Z2QZs0xc

The above link is from my little dastard, he left me a beautiful message and posted this on my Facebook page.  Just when you think you’ve never done anything right…they surprise you with love and effort.

I do now believe the pod has left, and my little imp is back.  The child I know and love with all of my heart. As a mother your heart breaks again and again with any hurt they feel, or inflict.  But to see them grow up and succeed in life, swells your heart with pride. I’m one proud mother.

I wonder, if we knew all the heartache that came with parenting would we do it?  I know I would, but then again, I’ve always been a glutton for punishment. So, maybe I’m not the person to answer this question.

I know this is a serious and short blog post, however… sometimes duty calls.

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Feminism 101: The Fundamentals of Our Survival in a Text Message Culture

Sitting in a cafe drinking a cup of dark roast with, yes…hold your breath, a notebook and a retractable pencil, I delve into the depths of Feminism in today’s culture.  Immediately I am distracted by what I thought had gone by the wayside, the spoken of, but rarely seen, phenomena of two young women sitting together at tables peppered throughout the coffee shop.  With their double non-fat soy lattes, manicured hands, and boutique couture.  Bringing to mind an episode of “Sex in the City”.  Yet, quite hopeful for this cynical 40 year old woman.  Outwardly, a picture of my youth minus the manicures, $5.00 coffees, and haute couture, when groups of us, the unwashed 3rd Wave.  Hyper-involved, hopelessly dressed, and poor. Gathered at grungy smoke filled coffee houses, owned by failed musicians turned baristas, before being devoured by bohemouths like “Starbucks”…much like our movement.

There we sat, laid, splayed, or jumped about discussing politics or arguing over the best way to organize our protest to protest a Pro-Life protest at the local clinics.  The men arguing that they should be the perimeter and following behind us when we walk women in, “for our protection”…raising howling laughter, and awareness in the other patrons who would seem to edge closer and closer to our kinetic energy.

However, today we have “them”, the “Millennials”, hopelessly uninformed or hopelessly disinterested.  Sanitized, seated quietly across from each other at Starbucks mindlessly clicking, tapping, tweeting, beeping, and giggling.  Not a word actually spoken between these young women.  As their lattes became cold and curdled, they were enraptured in their phones, tablets, notebooks.  Sitting across from one another texting on their iPhones, Galaxys, etc. to anonymous parties, young men undoubtedly from the blushing, giggling, and squealing on the other end of their endlessly clicking, tapping, tweeting, and beeping apparati.  Mindless technological automatons. Because that’s how they “talk” now.  Forever in cyberspace, with no clue that disgusting, hateful and careless rants are real and really out there forever.  Nothing is real anymore, just words on a 3 inch screen of a PDA, tablet, or notebook.

Thus the fundamental “element” of our culture of today, NO ONE TALKS!  No one writes, on one reads paper books, that is unless they contain over-sexed vampires, and most importantly no one relates.  It appears that women sit across from each other as props, (God forbid you go someplace alone) not as a catalyst for political change with the free and frank exchanges of views spoken with other like minded women, hell, even other unlike minded women.  Communication of this age, this culture, has been reduced to “wt r u doing later 🙂 “, @ Stbuks w KT <3, Hook up @ 6 😉 … and on and on.

I have a twenty three year old son who hasn’t spoken to me on the phone since he got one.  You can call him thirteen times in a row and no answer, text him and you get an instantaneous reply in some kind of mutant short hand that takes Cherokee code breakers to decipher.  This, brought me to my immanent opinion of the reason for the state of being with feminism and the younger generation.  These young women, teenagers, and girls all with cell phones and computers have no essential relation to not only the world around them, but to the other women around them.  There is nothing essential in this Text Message Culture.  The elemental I refer to is, the experience of natural human relation, the free flowing deeply primal, physical, and emotional bonding with other people.  Missing this essential and vital piece of emotive social growth is creating a society of young people without the desire to make a change, endeavor to relate, and a obvious detachment to humanity.

That being said, this technological progress has also managed to course into the vein of society as a whole.  All age groups are being infected with this “technology torpor”.  To my shock and dismay, I have found my mother has been “communicating” with friends via email for at least three years now.  She told me that ninety percent of the women she fought side by side with in the early years have succumbed to the apathetic allure of email over emoting.  I was flabbergasted, my mother has always been my hero.  My mother was, is, and always will be a feminist activist.  As a second wave feminist, my mother was involved in the lawsuits that became the “Pregnancy Discrimination Act” of 1978, I happened to be involved(I claim feminism via in utero).  A call to arms in forming the Michigan Teachers Union, in which my grandfather, a Chief Union Steward for the UAW, supported and cajoled the UAW to become involved in it’s development.  People calling our home with death threats against my mother.  I remember being small and walking or should I say riding(stroller) picket lines with signs.  My mother fought, and still does, and it all started with groups of women talking and relating to their feelings of being left behind, demoralized by objectification in the workplace, and so much more.  So imagine my surprise when my mother compliantly went into the good night without so much as a picket or a poster, but what choice did she have when all of her friends were lost in cyberspace.

If this is happening to our predecessors, imagine how lost the majority of us are.  I was raised by politically active, educated, well traveled parents. I was surrounded by their friends growing up, musicians, artists, and free thinking “sisters”.  With a regularly full home of these women and their equally liberal husbands, I had the privilege of knowing where we really stand.  So, I fought owning a computer and cell phone until 2007, I felt I had enough exposure of both through work.  I was happy with a television connected to a VCR and a DVD player and a receiver accessorized with a dual cassette player, and record player.  Growing up, it was reading, playing games, playing music, listening, to music, creating, writing, doing, and daydreaming… and daydreaming big!!  Most of the people I know think I’m stuck in the land before time, I prefer to think of it as the land of real time.  Not fast forward, instant gratification, take life for granted time.  Which brings us to the Fundamentals…

Women were once the most revered and powerful entities on the planet. We were worshiped as Venus’, the goddess of fertility.  Our ability to create life and our ability to come together as a communal tribal counsel and “run” villages, create marketable goods to be bartered with other tribes, to keep everything stocked and orderly.  We were not only goddesses, but counsel and community.  We, as women also revered one another as sacred sisters.  We raised each others children, taught each other weaving, pottery, and other skills and passed them down to each subsequent generations.  The advent of organized religion were threatened by the power women had over “government” and the reverence that was had for our abilities to not just create life, but to see the grey in a world that men saw only as black and white.  Hunt, fuck, fight and then off into the good night for months at a time.

Something had to be done to render us powerless and harmless to men in government.  They could not wage wars when we didn’t meet the minds of men.  Thus organized religion put us in our place.  We were to cover our faces, look down when we walked…10 paces behind the men we weren’t allowed to talk to in the first place.  The end of our counsels and community.  We began the downward spiral into “dirty” and “evil” creatures.  Cast off to exile during menstruation because what had been the essence of creation became the “vile sin” we were to suffer for our role as temptress leading man into temptation.  When women dared to gather together, fore in our core we were from the beginning meant to commune, and would inevitably succumb to our elemental desire to experience the kindred spirit only another woman can offer, we were covens.  Witches, that were unholy and casting spells upon people creating illness and strife.  To end with torture and death by hanging or burning or both.  Or branded as whores and made to live the life of the scarlet harlot.  During those primitive times, the violence was a show for all to see.

Today it’s hidden in the media and legislation, dumbed down by government language, sanitized for mass consumption and fed to us like baby food through our computers, phones, and television sets.  The only reason WE as women can even own iPhones of our own, computers, and apartments to live in complacency, is our predecessors. The 1st wave feminists and a big war started the ongoing fight for our true and solid places as heads of government and community leaders and the idea that one day the ignorance and fear that branded us as “less than” will wash away with the free and frank exchange of ideas in government and coffee shops.  They identified the basic issues of the day, unified and used action to use the media to open a dialog instead of allowing it to separate them.  They were clear on their intent, and didn’t have 100 irons in the fire, and because of that things were accomplished.  “Deeds not words”.  They wrote, read, met and committed themselves by using their time and there minds.  The 1st wave feminists not only called themselves sisters, but they treated each other as sisters.  Family, loyalty, love, honor, and respect.

Today, “we”, society have an enormous deficit in respect for our sisters, loyalty, love, and honor… it’s time we reunite.  Legislation is not in our favor, it’s time for “Deeds not words”.  Men, join the fight for your strong woman, help her reclaim her power.

Insanity, thy name is Insanity…

People wonder how I get through the day; between my disability, my family going into the hospital one at a time every week for some kind of emergency surgery or another, my son choosing the road less intelligent… etc.  Well, let me tell you.  I am insane.  My Super Mom exterior consists of “dart” proof material, nasty word deflection, bad energy ray zapper, and Lamotrigine tablet dispenser.

Then, there are always the animals… here we have Zion.  No, he doesn’t look unhappy.  Why?  Because he’s a dog, he doesn’t care if you put hats or bunny ears on him as long as you are paying attention to him, no worries… He knows, after 11 years, mommy is coo-coo and it’s best to play along.  Otherwise, mommy has a tendency to stomp around the house mumbling crazy nonsense to herself, at times in high voltage.  Dressing up the dog, soothes the savage beast.  I have not yet found a way to get the cat to allow me to put even a tiara on her.  Below shows how Ezzie manages to escape Zion’s fate.  For a bowling ball with legs, she is quite agile and wily and I am not.  So, for now, she remains safe from “dress up Barbie” day.  The other two are rescue cats and really very grateful, so they are next on the list.  If I come out alive from attempt number one, I will be sure to share the results with you.

Next, we have coffee.  Coffee, my friends is the nectar of the Gods, the fruit of heaven it’s self.  Coffee has saved the lives of many a poor soul, within my family and without.  Given enough quiet time with my warm cups of love, (being my one true indulgence… it is good coffee) I can take just about any bomb dropped after my morning of nirvana.  However, one must not take for granted that just because it’s around 9:30am, that I have completed or even had my morning mug meditation time.  There have been times in which I have awaken and found, to my shock and dismay, I don’t have any coffee left!  But, I thought there was another bag in there… (earth starts to shake, I start turning green)…must make it… to… Earth Fare… Believe me when I say, the nice folks at Earth Fare do a hell of a lot of smiling when I come in at opening, pajamas on, hair mussed, slightly green, and grunting.

Lastly, we have art.  Oh savior of the insane, or maybe the last vestige of expression accessible to people like myself(or any other “emotionally challenged” artists throughout history.  Not comparing myself to van Gogh in talent by any means, just that creative people are usually mad as hatters).  When you cannot seem to make a coherent sentence to save your life, you can always take something as simple as a box of crayons and the world makes sense again.  Without art, even though I am not physically able to do what I once could, I believe I would be enjoying the peaceful bliss that accompanies an “Ice Pick” Lobotomy.  Staring out the window drooling, with a perpetual grin and probably pondering something profound, like the purpose of having to use the toilet, especially when my pants were so much more convenient.

So, there you have it my friends… “Coping for The Crazy 101”.  Please stay tuned for my next lecture series on; “Suppressing Homicidal Ideation Through the Creation of Voodoo Dolls”.  Hehehe… and, “Thanks for stoppin’ by San Diego”.

My Butt Hath Been Kick-ithed Again…

When you are young, everyday is fresh and full of possibilities.  You look upon your life as a sunflower field that you can run and swirl in… dance and fall down, in ecstatic frenzy.  Wild abandon.  Caught in the beauty that goes on as far as your eye can see, fingertips touching the ethereal, soft, exquisite flesh of flowers all around you.  Drawn in by the smells, the touch, the beauty of it all.  You don’t worry, you don’t anger, you don’t see the fall coming…stripping the lovely and brazen orange, yellow faces from the delicate necks, leaving them naked, exposed, ugly.  No, you never see the fall.

The problem is, have you ever actually been in a sunflower field.  I have.  It’s like being in a corn field.  You run in… you get lost.  You don’t think about it at first, all you can think is, “Ahhh… look at these gorgeous sunflowers!” and then after you’ve gotten your ya-ya’s out, you turn to go back.  But, back where?  Where the hell am I?  I’m lost in this maze of huge flowers and I can’t see my way out!!!  You no longer see the beauty that surrounds you, the joy of innocence is lost, as lost as you are.  The textures, the smells, the exhilaration, no longer exists in your consciousness.  It has been replaced by fear, frustration, and anger.  How could I be so stupid?  What was I thinking?

I am currently lost in the maze.  I keep turning corners only to find I am faced with where I was, not where I am headed. The worst part is, I have done this before.  I have run into the field many, many times before.  It seems I am like the goldfish… the castle is a surprise every time.

Love is life… life is love.  Love and life are the sunflower fields.  I don’t know about anyone else, but I always forget the breadcrumb trail.  I don’t think about finding my way, I just run in… fresh faced and ignorant.  This time will be different. It never is.  Love of family, whether it be blood or bond, seems to blind you to the reality of past experience.  Hope springs eternal, and the appeal of the flowers overpowering.  The lure of my selective memories to powerful to ignore, I plunge in… then blunder, fumble, stumble, and fall(not joyfully)on my face.  When I get up, face full of mud, I can’t figure out what happened.  It’s as if I have love(family)amnesia.  I am utterly dumbfounded each time I get lost.

So… here I am, standing in the middle of the field.  My face full of mud, lost, confused, hurt, angry, and sad.  My butt hath been kick-ithed again.

Mommy’s Little Darling…

Ah… my “little” dastard.  What can I say about my beautiful pod?  What can’t I say about my pod.  I believe I will start with tread carefully when they are sweet beautiful babies.  YOU ARE IN DANGEROUS GROUND!  You want a bad little child… pray for it.  I know this to be factual, all of my friends that had sweet babies, now have pods.  All of my friends with screaming, throwing themselves on the floor, tantrum children have “young adults” now.  The pod left before they became big enough to swear.

They say the end of the world is coming today, and I can’t help but wonder… am I going to get a bedazzled golden crown?  I think I deserve one, I mean I’ve managed not to kill the pod for going on 7 years now.  I should get a nice golden sceptre, a mansion, and a nanny.  Because, let’s face it the pod will always need tending to.  I’ve prayed for this since the age of 13(his not mine).  However, it never happens.  They say it like every couple of years, and still here we are.

Now, I’m sure you are thinking to yourselves, how could she talk about her child like that?  Well, because I’ve lived with him for his entire little life.  He went from angel to devil in the period of 19 years.  Although, I joke all the time and the truth of the matter is no matter how homicidal my pod makes me feel at times… would I trade him?  Never!!!  Not only has he given me character, strength, endurance, patience, and grey hair, but he is learning all of those things too.  I was a terrorist when I was a teenager, or so my mother says.  I don’t believe it(Hehe).  So, all jokes aside, my pod is my baby.  He will always be mommy’s little dastard.  There will never come a day when I wouldn’t lay down and die for him and I’m sure there will never come a month that I won’t want to kill him at least once.  I wouldn’t trade that for a million bucks.

But readers beware… underneath the beautiful smiles of your 10 month old to your 10-year-old, there is a pod waiting to emerge.  So, brace yourselves, it will be a bumpy ride… actually it will be more like rafting off of Niagara Falls.  Happy trails to you, from me and mommy’s little darling;-)

Criminally Insane or Incredibly Mundane… you decide.

I have some kind of inordinate desire to exist in a black and white universe in which my life is either insane… or mundane.  I cannot seem to manage to find some middle ground, or should I say cannot seem to find comfort in the middle ground.  I suppose that when you come from a family of “certified” loonies and have a 19-year-old son(which is redundant), Hehe… the middle ground is a completely foreign concept.

As an example, I broke a molar and had to go to the dentist.  Oh yes it was broken, abscessed, and unsaveable.  So, after a great deal of REALLY large needles full of Lidocaine my face was in full droop, out comes the Medieval torture devices.  Huge metal ice cream scoops, spatulas, and a wide variety of menacing plier looking objects.  The Dentist starts poking at my face and says,”How’s that?”  I say, “Ooh..iffeals ofay”.  Then comes the spatula things to try to pry the tooth up… the rest I will save you from, I will say, I’ve never heard anything that disgusting in my entire life.

Ordeal over, mouth full of gauze, drooling blood at the counter… I actually nodded yes when they asked to schedule me for x-rays, exam, and a cleaning for the following week.  I think I was hovering over myself, to my defense.

What “normal” human being actually puts themselves through all of this keeping in mind that I already have a lot of pain anyways?  I can’t seem to say, “I think I need to wait a little while.”  The prospect of moderation is a foreign if not completely lost concept to me.  Sadly enough, I’m not Pulp Fiction crazy cool,  I’m like a muttering to myself, demonstrative, overtly protective, and extreme in all things pertaining to mom-ing… cleaning… and other mundane craziness.

My father said when I was a child I was either going to run the world or be an axe murderer… unfortunately any of those options involved far to much focus and planning.  I ended up being a run of the mill coo coo.  Masochism in the manner of parenting a teenage boy, putting my hand in the proverbial “wood chipper” with nasty people repeatedly, engaging in the absurd notion that family should probably not use sarcasm as the only form of communication in our interactions…

I wish I had been an axe murderer.

The Ravings of a Lunatic Mom…

So… I was looking back on my younger, thinner years.  Oh the pain and pathos I thought I had then.  What I wouldn’t give to know then what I know now.  To give you a little insight into the thought process of a young, high and mighty, lunatic, I give you a bit of old writing.  I think you will see that I have been insane since conception… you should see my baby picture!  It looked like I was plotting to take over the world as soon as I entered it!!  So, for your reading enjoyment… lunacy(as if I haven’t given you a lot of that already).  Here I go:

It used to be, “I’m trying to find myself”… roll your eyes and drink a beer.  The thrill was in the chase, the looking and seeking.  Comforted in the knowledge that the prospect of actually locating oneself was slim to none.  Wasting days going to class then on to yet another meaningless job… to work for tips, to buy a beer.  Ah, the pursuit of knowledge for $2.75 a glass, sitting next to some pain in the ass with nary an intelligible word to say.  Oh, raise a toast to the good ole’ days… when were they exactly?  Wondering when all your friends became pompous import drinking weenies.  Westphalia can you believe it?  They are taking the “phalias” to Montana.  Get this, to “find themselves”… Oh aren’t your parents proud.  How old are we again?  Old enough that we’ve seen the end of the Grateful Dead and the beginning of Phish… and music disappearing like “phalias” in the horizon.  Those who haven’t “found” themselves still looking for Jerry… in the Land beyond time, or wearing pig tales or wigs(to cover the grey) with glow sticks in hand trying to keep up.  With what?  These XTC popping pacifier TV babies.  Remember when XTC was an 80’s alternative band?  I do.  I don’t belong in rooms full of children burning their minds and rubbing their bodies with NO idea what comes next… CAUSE I KNOW!!!  I know what’s behind door number 1, and I know how not to step in number 2.  I know dreams are not wishes, they are hard-earned attainable goals.  I know that if I “had it”, I haven’t “lost it”, just put it away.  Today I try to “find” a real man or the perfect pair of shoes, or maybe just my keys.  But, I don’t need a “phalias”, Jerry, wigs, or some pseudo regurgitation of Nietzsche. because I am completely void of independent thought because I lost my mind one day and spent the rest of my life trying to “find it” somewhere else.  I’m not lost, no need to be found I’m right here can’t you see me???

And there you have it… the ravings of a lunatic mom.

Kisses and warm fuzzies.