According to Addie

A Little More Tahn Kin And Less Than Kind

2008-05-27T10:02:00.000-04:00

I loved Ophelia: Forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum.
Hamlet, 5. 1

I’ve always had a soft spot for tragic women. In my younger years, I fancied that I might become one, but it was not to be.

I remember growing up in my small town, I would see the ladies with their big Loretta Lynn hair, and baby blue Lincoln Continentals and think they must be like Princesses. I would remark on their beauty and style only to have my Mother say something to the effect of how “they weren’t our kind of people”. I didn’t understand, they always seemed nice enough to me.

Mother knew something I didn’t. When I asked about my first Mom, I was told that she was probably a teenager that was too young to raise me. Quite believable and I accepted it without question. It was not so, and Mother knew it.

My first Mother was 36 years old when I was born. She was raising four other chldren and had been married three times at that point. I was not the child of the man she was then married to, nor the child of the man she would marry right after my birth. There was a man listed as my Father, but first Mom knew something I didn’t.

Two women who couldn’t be more different, they both lied to me, for different reasons. one thought I’d just accept the story without ever questioning. The other, somehow suspecting that I would have a questioning nature, offered a half truth.

It is conjecture, of course, to say I can account for the motivations of either of these two women. I don’t feel that I know the hearts of either, but this is how I see it.

My a-Mother lied to me for all the reasons that a-Mothers always lie. Her own fears , self-delusion, and dread of what I might turn out to be. There is little wonder that my mention of the more free living ladies about our town made her nervous, surely she thought my first Mom must be one of them. Nothing in the world would frighten her more than thinking I might become a Virginia Slim smoking, big haired, tight sweater wearing, Lincoln driver. It was against everything she stood for.

My first Mom lied for all the reasons that first Moms lie. She didn’t want to be found, she thought I might hate her, and she feared what I might turn out to be. I’m sure she expected that I would be a Talbots wearing, country club joining, Republican, mini-van driver. I’m not sure this would frighten her, but I do know she knew these type of women did consider her “not their kind of people”.

They both underestimated me. It never occured to either that I would turn out somewhere in between, no matter what they told me. It just seems that a lot of un-necessary bullshit could have been avoided if either had any faith in me, or themselves.

Jesus Take the Wheel

2008-05-27T10:01:00.002-04:00

I don’t care if it rains or freezes,

as long as I have my plastic Jesus

In other parts of the interents there has been some discussion on where the money that perspective adoptive parents pay agencies goes. Monies spent on advertising was a particular point of discussion, the sums spent by Bethany more specifically. Bethany is a part of Catholic Charities and I assumed their access to resources was vast, I did some research and was correct. The sheer amount of dollars involved mad me wonder where all the revenue came from, it was more than that from the admittedly large sums paid by perspective adoptive parents could ever account for. I did some more digging and this is what I found.

Bethany does get monies from the Catholic Church that had made up for much of their revenue until recently. It seems with the death of John Paul 11, and his charisma along with him, donations are down. Pope Benedict XVI with his German sensibility about money has come up with a novel solution to revenue problems, not just for Bethany, but all Catholic Charities, Vale Added Production Based Fund-raising.

Bethany being at the cutting edge of social services and having a good ear on the street has come up with a novel solution of their own that showcases Benedict’s vision for the future of raising revenue for good works. Plastic dashboard Jesus farming.

Bethany’s program encompasses all facets of their charitable foundation. From the orphans in Guatemala who literally plant the seeds of faith in the plowed up fields that once were their playgrounds to the recipients of good works who seek to pay back those that helped them with their stands at flea markets. Bethany employees at the many US offices even get into the act, setting up and selling from cardboard display stands that they designed themselves.

The Home Grown Plastic Jesus program seeks to offer the highest quality protection from vehicular mishaps to the faithful. Agronomist from top universities were called upon to develop a hardy fast growing hybrid Saviour statuette, that compromised nothing in holy protection. Different strains were developed and tested, the little Sons of God had to be tolerant of conditions and soils in some of the poorest countries on Earth. Not only did this mark a great advance in effigy agriculture, but a hands up to the communities that would grow them. “It was all worth it when I saw the look on the kids faces at the orphanage when the Jesus’ began to sprout.” said one researcher who had worked on the project.

Marketing efforts are now underway in Western Europe and the United States. One Akron, Ohio gas station owner is quoted as saying, “I can’t keep the little fellows in my store, everybody wants one.” The Home Grown Jesus will be available in many gift catalogs next year.

It seems that the future of faith based fund raising has come into the 21st century.

Possible Outcomes

2008-05-27T10:01:00.001-04:00

What are a rednecks last words?

Hey, watch this!

Speaking as someone with some redneck cred, that is a funny joke.

Do you know why?

Because it’s true.

Weighing possible outcomes is a weakness of my native people. They just don’t take everything into consideration.

In the third grade, a boy in my class broke his arm jumping off the welfare apartment using a sheet for a parachute. No one was surprised. He was sort of a hero, like Evil Knevil. That cast was a badge of honor. He had taken a chance, it would have been spectacular if he had made it.

Many of our most important cultural tales contain the phases, “We was all about half tanked up” and/or “that’s when I knew I was blowed up”. Almost all are stories of devastation to property, bodily injury, and economic loss. They chronicle quests for bootleg whiskey, the theft of brides, racing cars, robbing banks, and practical jokes, just to name a few. The thing almost all of them have in common, whether they end in failure or success, is that the process of trying to obtain these goals is much more important than the outcome. Sure the story turns on the moment they know that they was blowed up, but that’s not what it’s about, it’s about getting to that point.

The reason that things do not work out most of the time almost always lies in not taking all things into consideration. Maybe they didn’t know about the new police car, that the train didn’t stop in the next town on Tuesday, the watermelon patch was guarded by a big mean dog, or sheets just don’t work like parachutes on a fifteen foot drop. It just never occurred to them, they had a plan, and attempted to execute that plan. They ended up in jail, up a tree all night, or in the hospital, but they had a hell of a good time getting there. If they didn’t come away with anything else, they had bragging rights, and that’s worth something.

Sure with a little research things might have gone more smoothly, but I fear that they would never have been attempted at all. That would be a shame. People like me would have no cultural heritage. We would never have learned that it really doesn’t matter how it all ends as long as you took the chance.

The joy is in the ride.

What does this have to do with adoption, you ask?

Absolutely nothing, but it has everything to do with reunion.

Zen And The Art Of Frying Pan Baseball

2008-05-27T09:59:00.000-04:00

Transcendence, to change, to go beyond intended use, to function on a higher plane of reality, a thing experienced but not spoken of. A ten dollar word, and at least a million dollar philosophy. A concept that has meant many different things at many different times.

In one Hindu tradition transcendence is seen as obtaining a state beyond the material, where one is not bound to the cycles of rebirth. Mistakes are not repeated over and over again. It is in this context that I believe that an ordinary frying pan transcended it’s use yesterday in Utah.

Three teenage girls used the frying pan as means of escape from a maternity home. The use of violence was the only way they could see a way out of their situation. They had been sent to the home by parents who wished to hide them from their friends and community. It was the only way they could see their way out of the situation. The people who ran the home’s motives are unknown to me, but I’m sure they saw the home as the only solution for both the girls and the parents.

They are all blind.

There is clearly an elephant they cannot see.

The elephant is adoption. It seems that many truly cannot see it, and some that can refuse to acknowledge it’s presence.

It’s right there in front of you.

Small Town Girl

2008-05-27T09:58:00.000-04:00

I live in a very small town in the Mid-west. It’s one of those places where everybody knows everybody else’s business. Pretty much everybody here knows I’m adopted. Strangely enough, they all seem to think it was a good match, at least between me and my b-dad.

I read something written by an adoptive parent last week about how she felt that enviroment made the genes of adopted children express themselves differently than they would if the child was raised by b-parents. It made me snicker. Then wonder.

It came to me as so many of these things in life do, completely from left field.

My trashy neighbor, who seems to own the world’s most extensive collection of junky old Toyota pick-ups, must be beginning to construct a building to hold his treasures. From my living room window you can see little orange flags laid out for a foundation. This building is less than welcome by me, but’s that’s a different story. The flags got me thinking about something.

My b-dad owns a grocery store in my little town. He built it in 1967. It was the first supermarket in town. He did well with it, much to the displeasure of a chain store that had a building on the town square. My b-dad got word that the chain w=store was considering building a new store. They were looking at a piece of land just south of our store.

One day when Dad came home for lunch, funny how Dad’s used to come home for lunch-a more simple time, I guess, he loaded up me and Mom in the store truck. In the truck he had a bundle of thoser orange flags and the blueprints from our house. We went out to the peice of land that the chain store was considering buying, Dad had purchased an option on the land that morning. Dad, Mom and I put the flags around the property, an entrance from the highway, parking lot, and a big ass building were marked out.

Then Dad got out the house plans, set them on the hood of the truck. He called us over and pointed at the flags, gesturing like this would be here and that would be there. Mom and I thought he had lost his mind, we had just built that house, and he was talking about a grocery store.

We didn’t know that the chain store manager drove by the lot we were standing on everyday on his way back from his lunch hour. The chain store manager didn’t know that we were looking at house blueprints.

Plans for the new chain store came to an end.

That sounds exactly like something I would do. Nature or nurture? I wonder.

I also wonder if it was wrong of me to move a couple of my neighbors little flags about six inches?

The Audacity Of Grief

2008-05-27T09:57:00.002-04:00

I’m not sure I can afford the audacity of grief. Anger is cheaper.

Grief is big and elaborate, it requires much investment, and tending of that investment. It’s like a 401K with separate accounts. Some must be invest conservatively in order to have enough to get you through the rest of your years. By the time you reach the middle of life, you know you will have much use for grief. Sometime you stopped having to be fitted for bridesmaid dresses and found yourself in need of sober suits. They don’t come cheap, and you start asking yourself if you need more wardrobe options to wear to grieving occasions. You don’t know how long this will go on, and if you’ll even stay the same size.

Some of your grief must also be invested in higher yield riskier instruments, you need to make this pay while you can. You’re got to build it up fast in order to have enough to let it take care of itself when you just don’t have the strength to work at it anymore. It is more likely that you will become disabled, than die young. Also, the bigger the grief nest egg, the more comfortably you’ll be able to do it. If you get lucky you might even be able to spend you grieving twilight years somewhere warm and sunny. You could also need constant care in your grieving, you want to be able to do it somewhere nice, with scheduled activities, good food, and a caring staff. You don’t want to end up grieving on the welfare state.

You could even invest in commodities. Speculating on grief contracts. Will greif demand be higher next hurricane season in the south? Will grief come in short supply due to a lighter than usual civl unrest season in South America or Africa? Should you bet on it? It’s risky, but the rewards can be high.

I can’t even afford to buy into this right now. I have my grief contribution at it’s lowest level. I’m not even taking full advantage from my full vestment by order of being an adoptee. I need ready cash reserves for anger.

Anger is cheap and I can buy it anywhere. In fact, I can get it wholesale. There is something to be said for buying anger on the open market, it drives the world. It get things done. It even feels good. Sure, it’s addictive, but it fuels the fire.

And I can quit any time I want.

Happy Ass Adoptees

2008-05-27T09:57:00.001-04:00

I hate happy-ass adoptees. If I hear how special they are because they were “chosen” one more time, I’m going to explode.

They can take their “I’m so special because I was wanted more than bio kids.” and shove it.

As for the attitude some of these happy asses seem to have about only adoptees that had awful childhoods being disatified with their situation, I’d like to invite them to take a swim in Lake Fuck.

I’m just sick to shit of hearing it.

To think someone would have the audacity to tell a firstmom who has searched for her near middle aged child to forget about contacting her directly because the a-mom didn’t want her to, I say screw off. This firstmom at least deserves to hear that her birth-daughter doesn’t want contact directly. If for no other reason than she was brave enough to seek her daughter out. That takes a fair amount of guts and she at least deserves to hear her daughters voice for her troubles.

The very disrespectfulness of suggesting a reunion shouldn’t even be attempted because Miss Happy-Ass wouldn’t want one enrages me.

We aren’t all like you.

Grow the fuck up.

I probably shouldn’t post this, but I’m going to anyway.

Conversations

2008-05-27T09:56:00.001-04:00

I spoke with a strong lady last night. I like her very much, we have a lot in common. We’ve been down some of the same roads.

In speaking with her and others involved in adoption, I’m always struck not so much by the similarities, but our reactions to them. I’m beginning to detect patterns somewhat like the stages of grief.

It seems that many of us start out as the happy adoptee, we cannot fathom what these angry people are saying. What do they mean by declaring adoption as something like slavery? Our parents loved us didn’t they? We were cared for.

Then we come up against everybody from the government to our families and friends treating us like the eternal child when we complain about the lack of information available to us. At first we wonder why the hell they are so mad at us for just wanting to know what everybody else does. Then it occurs to us they don’t think we deserve to know these things, we should just be grateful that someone adopted us. This is where the anger starts.

We aren’t really mad a these people, we are mad at something much bigger. We start to sense what we are up against. It seems that the institutions and people who should help us are instead putting up every roadblock possible to finding answers. It dawns on us that those angry adoptees might just have a legitimate reason for their anger, but we aren’t quite there yet.

So we take on the system, with varying degrees of sucess. Some of us find what we are looking for, some don’t. The funny thing is, from that point, it doesn’t seem to matter. Those who are disappointed stay mad, those who aren’t stay mad too. Knowing what you missed is every bit as maddening as not knowing.

No matter which road life takes us on, we end up in the same place. All roads lead to anger.

What’s the next stop on the road? I honestly don’t know.

I’m stil mad.

I hope there is reslution for every single one of us, all I know is many of us are walking together now.

Down To Business

2008-05-24T19:16:00.000-04:00

Now that I’m over the stress of the move, let’s move on.

I’m still trying to figure out how much of the shit I go through is about adoption, and how much isn’t. I’m not sure there is any way to tell.

It is said that we are all much more complicated than we seem to others. I do believe that, but why does it seem that everybody’s more adjusted than me? By this I don’t mean the brave everything’s alrght face that everybody puts on, I mean, how is they can say what they are with such authority. They say..

I’m the mother of three, that’s what I am.

I’m an artist, that’s what I am.

I’m a IT person, that’s what I am.

Whatever.

How are they so convinced that’s what they are?

I have no idea what I really am.

Just how do you come to this decision? I’m too many things. I’d need a book.

Am I overcomplicating things?

I'm Outta Here

2007-01-05T09:46:00.000-05:00

Just go here..

http://addiepray.wordpress.com/

Thanks.

Who You Are Dealing With Here

2007-01-03T10:57:00.000-05:00

It has come to my attention that there are those out there who aren't quite sure who I am. They want to know who they are really dealing with, okay.

It's really pretty simple. I'm a 41 year-old woman from a small town in the mid-west. My interests include weaving, painting, writing, and pissing people off on message boards.

I have no fear of crowds, snakes, or Republicans. I'm a good cook and a decent gardener.

Oh and I'm an adoptee.

2007

2007-01-02T11:03:00.001-05:00

The New Year. A time for resolutions, promises, and new beginnings all around. A time to look back on the last year and evaluate our experiences and reactions, to try to work out a way to start anew, with a fresh perspective.

Screw that.

In the past I've made plans, promises to myself, resolutions. The thing is, they never work out. I think I'm going to do what I always end up doing anyway, flying by the seat of my pants. Why fight it?

It's my belief that the moment we think we have any control over our circumstances, that's when things really start to fall apart. Too many times from a western perspective we view ourselves as the stream, forever moving and carving our own channel. I more truly identify myself as a pebble in the stream, washed over, buffeted, but still complete.

So this year I'll let the waters rush by, take me where they please, but remain just as I am.

This isn't to say I'll be passive, just steady, and not fight the forces I can't change, no matter what I do. I've pushed a lot the last few years, I think I'll sit on the porch with a glass of wine and watch it all go by this year.

Yes, I can hear you, "She is so completely full of shit."

Yeah, probably, but I'm going to try.

We are not a gang, we are a club..

2006-12-22T10:21:00.000-05:00

"We are not a gang, we are a club.." so said some character on a 70's TV show, the name of which I've forgotten.

I hear I'm the member of a gang, crew, clique, posse, called the Clean-up Crew. I'm disappointed, they could have come up with something better. Let's face it, batting clean-up is the best position, you get the base runners in. I like that, I think I'll embrace it.

I won't tell you who the other members are since we are secret society, with blood initiation, the car coat, the whole deal, but I will say I'm proud to be associated with them.

I think that those that bestowed us with our name must view us as something like this photo,

cool.

I'm a bad girl.

Oh and a free e-margarita for the first person who identifies the above photo.

Darkness Retreats

2006-12-21T09:36:00.000-05:00

Today marks the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year. Over the past few days there has been no light here, cloudy, foggy, and raining, it is as it should be.

Somehow these dark days feel right. Tomorrow things will be different. The day will be longer than today, and each one after longer than before. Eventually things will grow again.

I welcome the short days as a time to slow down, as much of a hibernation as the modern world will allow. As others scurry about, preparing for the holidays, in what seems an effort to banish these days, I try to embrace them. I have always felt that one has the embrace the dark as well as the light.

One must pay homage to the dark in order to keep it from growing wildly as a neglected garden will. To keep the pansies and sweet potato vine from overgrowing the magnolia and asters, they must have attention. They must be cultivated, watered, fed, and yes, trained. Ultimately the dark complimenting the light, each making the other more beautiful.

Now things will change, I will look to the light. Through the bright winter days when the sun shines so intensely on the bare ground reminding me the corner is turned and brightness is returning. Through the first days of warmth when things struggle up through the soil only to be cruelly reduced to brown again by the brief return of cold.

It is from down on, I do know that the darkness will end, for a little while.

Competitive

2006-12-19T08:59:00.000-05:00

My a-mom and I were recently discussing my sister's one-and-a-half-year-old son. A-mom had been to visit them and was so proud, and she should be, he's a beautiful, bright child. But she wasn't going on about his pretty blond hair, his bright eyes, or his mostly sunny disposition.

She was proud because she had seen him take a toy away from his cousin. That meant that he was competitive. This was the best thing ever.

Competitiveness has always been stressed above all things in my a-family. I came from a family of girls and we were expected to compete in sports, but oddly not in academics. When the school started a gifted program, my sister was removed because their "little projects" got in the way of sports training. The fact that this might keep her out of better colleges was not taken into consideration, as she wouldn't be allowed to play basketball at a major school. She was groomed to attend a community college where she could make the team. Nothing else mattered.

Early in life I was categorized as "not competitive enough" so nothing I did would ever measure up to the pride my a-parents felt seeing my sisters on the athletic field.

The odd thing is, I was competitive, and continue to be. I have a case full of racing trophies, a few appearances in national car magazines, a box full of ribbons and various accolades for my art, a quite a few published articles on a variety of subjects and fiction. None of this means a thing.

I continue to be competitive as my sisters do not. Neither have gone on to use these skills in business or life. The lessons they learned on those fields did not translate into their lives My continued competitiveness also bothers my a-parents.

They will not watch me race, they do not understand why I maintain a studio, they do not care to read what I write. They think I should "get serious about life".

What that means, I have no idea. I cannot just quit and go to the mall and hang around the country club. I'm too competitive.

Bite this

2006-12-18T11:06:00.000-05:00

As most who read this are aware, there was the Pizza Hut dust up. For those that aren't Pizza Hut through a website that offered "bites" for adoption managing to piss off almost everyone who had any connection to adoption. While being able to get every member of the plane to agree on anything comes close to being a miracle, the website disappearing so quickly almost made it a non-event.

The one thing I'm left wondering about is the page on that site that featured "adoptive parents" pictures with their bites. I assume they were not for real. But, if someone was lame enough to send in a picture of themselves posing with a greasy bit of snackfood, I do wonder how they were effected by all this.

Do they feel that their rights as adoptive parents have been infringed upon? Do they feel that those of us touched by human adoption have taken away a true source of joy? Have they lost their bites, or do they continue to parent without the support of the internet? Do they feel we just don't understand "their story"?

There just isn't any way to tell.

All in all, I think this is probably a good thing.

Failure To Communicate

2006-12-08T09:48:00.000-05:00

"What we have here is failure to communicate.."

The line delivered by Strother Martin in Cool Hand Luke. I've had occasion to borrow this line in my message board crawls. The sad thing s, people take it for face value. That line wasn't delivered at face value, Captain knew that there was no misunderstanding, just as I do.

I don't use this line for the confused or obtuse poster. I don't post it to plead for understanding or as comic relief. I use it to point out that someone is not failing to understand a point, but refusing to.

Just as there was no doubt that Strother Martin, Paul Newman, and even George Kennedy were very well aware of the point being made, they all knew somebody was going into the box, as the poster knows that they belong there.

The subject matter being discussed seems to have little bearing on this phenomena, I've seen it happen arguing the merits of Van Halen albums and abortion, milkshakes and religion. The only common thread seems to be some personal dislike between posters, usually over anther earlier discussion.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying this form of defense doesn't work, it does. The rational poster is usually either wore down or or just quits out of sheer boredom. The non-misunderstander then clams victory.

It's an empty victory, if you ask me.

No Photographs Please

2006-11-27T15:04:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving.

My husband and I had Thanksgiving dinner(or as we like to call it, the day of Mom's martyrdom) at my a-Moms house this year. Things started off as they usually do.

Mom whining that nobody likes her turkey and why did she bother to even make. Actually this is true, she cooks it in a plastic bag and it still comes out dry and flavorless.

My brother-in-law, Captain Comb-over, complaining about one citizen of our small burg or another. For someone that told us how he and my sister are the most popular couple in town, he sure doesn't seem to be enjoying his popularity very much.

My other a-sister cycling between praying and complaining that "the gays" are taking over the country.

My a-Dad fast asleep, ignoring it all. Sleep is his defense mechanism.

The football game blasting on the TV.

I tried to stay out of all of it. I attempted to amuse myself by looking at the family pictures on the room long mantle. There were pictures from all stages of life, baby pictures, school pictures, graduation pictures, wedding pictures etc.

I braced myself for finding my prom picture, early 80's you know, Gunny Sax dress, hair in a French braid, date wearing a tux with blue satin lapels. My wedding picture, basically imagine Jimmy Page marries Bernadette Peters, in another Gunny Sax dress. I really didn't want to see that again.

There were at least fifty 8x10 photos on that mantle. There were pictures of my parents, my sisters, their children, my grand-parents, even family friends, but not a single one of me.

Well, it saved me the embarrassment of my mis-spent youth anyway.

Seeing That It's Thanksgiving

2006-11-21T16:53:00.000-05:00

"This song is called "Alice's Restaurant." It's about Alice, and the restaurant, but "Alice's Restaurant" is not the name of the restaurant, that's just the name of the song. That's why I call the song "Alice's Restaurant."

Some of you recognize this song already. it plays at my house just before we have a Thanksgiving dinner that just can't be beat. The thing is the song isn't even really about Alice or the restaurant. It's about something else entirely. Something timely.

"But that's not what I came here to tell you about."

I came here to talk about adoption.

For some reason this passage comes to mind...

"It was about four or five hours later that Alice--(remember Alice? There's a song about Alice.)--Alice came by and, with a few nasty words to Obie on the side, bailed us out of jail, and we went back to the church, had another Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat, and didn't get up until the next morning, when we all had to go to court. We walked in, sat down, Obie came in with the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one, sat down.

Man came in, said, "All rise!" We all stood up, and Obie stood up with the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures, and the judge walked in, sat down, with a seein' eye dog and he sat down. We sat down.

Obie looked at the seein' eye dog . . . then at the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one . . . and looked at the seein' eye dog . . . and then at the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each on and began to cry.

Because Obie came to the realization that it was a typical case of American blind justice, and there wasn't nothin' he could do about it, and the judge wasn't gonna look at the twenty-seven 8 by 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explainin' what each one was, to be used as evidence against us.

And we was fined fifty dollars and had to pick up the garbage... in the snow."

Take from it what you will, and listen to the whole song, it's not about adoption, nor was Arlo adopted, but somehow he's still making sense.

About a lot of things.

How Was Your Childhood?

2006-11-20T12:32:00.000-05:00

Just as soon as anybody hears I was adopted they ask, "How was your childhood?".

What are you supposed to say?

Why is it any of their business?

I can't imagine someone asking a non-adoptee how their childhood was upon learning they grew up in Akron, or Los Angeles, or Bugtussle. It would seem impolite. I would never dream of asking someone I had just met about their childhood. What gives people the right to ask me?

Still they seem to think they have the right to do it.

I wasn't abused, I got fed and clothed, I had everything I needed, and my parents loved me, so I suppose it was okay. That's what I tell them.

I'm never sure if they want an affirmation of how wonderful adoption is, or want to satisfy some morbid curiosity.

The thing is if I gave them a real answer, it would satisfy neither need and they, more than likely, would walk away very confused.

Can we just change the subject, please?

Hold My Hair While I Puke

2006-11-16T17:43:00.000-05:00

"Some of my best friends are adopted"

Yeah, just not ones like me. I don't think I'm affirming enough to hang with that gang.

I can just see it, me and five or six adoptive Mom's all throwing back shots at a bar. Talking about how wonderful our lives are. How they happily made so many sacrifices and went through such trails just to bring children like me a better life.

I'd buy a round and gush about how grateful I was. We'd tell adoption jokes and comment how the comic Family Circus is just exactly how it was when I was growing up.

Later one adoptive Mom would throw her arms around me and say "I don't know if I've told you this before, but I love you so much." Then another would come up and join the hug, before long we'd all be in a giant group hug.

About that time, that last Jager shot would get to me and we'd stumble to the bathroom. As I knelled on a dirty floor there would be a fight over who gets to hold my hair while I puked. One would say,

"I saved her from a terrible childhood."

Another would say,

"I protected her from herself."

Yet another,

"I made sure she felt whole and had no connection to her first family."

By this time, I'd be done, there would be puke in my hair, on my clothes, and in mu handbag.

None of the adoptive mothers would notice.

2006-11-16T12:54:00.000-05:00

Zilla! Zilla!

I didn't create Godzilla, I just pointed her out. I bet you didn't know Godzilla was a girl, well she is, and I didn't have a thing to do with her existence.

She was always there, she just didn't know her true nature. Sure, she came bubbling up from the ocean like a very disturbing re-enactment of the birth of Venus, wreaked havoc over a peaceful city and instead of being destroyed she walked back into the foam from where she came, only to return.

But she had failed to recognize what she was. Everybody else did too. They called her silly, mean, cruel, sick, and angry. She was all of these things, but so much more.

Godzilla wasn't a natural being. She was created by an experiment. An experiment that set out to do good and improve lives. Godzilla was a by-product of these experiments. A factor that no one foresaw. Isn't this how these things always happen?

I just pointed up and named what I saw.

This is Godzilla's first reaction when I told her who she was.

Did you know that there are more Godzillas out there? Maybe someday we'll swim up out of the ocean together.

Oh no, there goes Tokyo.

Guilt

2006-11-14T14:21:00.000-05:00

Great, now I have something else to feel guilty about, ignoring my blog. Just another thing to add to a long list.

Let's see what do I fell guilty about right now at this very moment?

My house. I'm not working on it. All that woodwork needs to be re-finished and I'm just sitting here

My birth sister. She emailed me three days ago. I haven't responded. It's not that I don't want to, I just don't have anything to say. Am I supposed to tell her that the woodwork isn't done, or what?

My job. I really should be doing something more productive with my time, like cleaning up that produce case. It really needs to be done.

My weaving. I've had the same piece on my loom for almost a year now. It's not a large or complicated piece. I just haven't got around to working on it. It was to be the first of a series, I don't even know where the drawings and draw down charts are now. Good thing nobody is holding their breathe for that one.

My writing. I started an interview with an e-friend weeks ago. All I need to do is give it a quick edit, then submit it. I've been e-hiding out from her. I'm sure she's anxious to see it, her novel has just been published, she loves to talk about it. I do feel bad about this.

My dog, my cats and my mother aren't getting enough attention either. They're used to it.

But you, dear reader, have my deep and undivided attention. Aren't you special?

2006-11-02T11:19:00.000-05:00

Some of you already know me, maybe by a different name, but you know me. But you probably don't know everything about me. This will be an attempt to bring all these things together.

I'm Addie, slippingirl, NoMoDem, and Mel.

Those of you who know me as Addie, know that I'm an adoptee in reunion. You've heard about my insecurities and trails. Some of you have been through the same thing, others have experienced adoption from a different view. So when I start whining about adoption issues and rights, you've heard it before.

Those of you who know me as slippingirl, know that I'm a heavy metal fan. You've heard my opinions on every band that released anything in the 80's. So when I start in on just exactly how silly everybody looked at that time, you've heard it before.

Those that know me as NoMoDem, know that I'm a progressive Democrat. You've heard my railings against the GOP, my local government, and Dems in sheep's clothing. So when I carry on endlessly about Governor Blunt, you've heard it before.

Those that know me as Mel, probably know a bit more about me and probably have had their suspicions that there is more to me.

That's what this is about, bringing it all together.

I'm on the verge of finishing up the biggest project of my life, to this point, a home restoration. It has been an all consuming thing that took me away from every other aspect of my life. I want to get back to that life, and all the things that I loved in it.

Did you know that I'm a weaver, I have my own studio. It has sat without project for almost two years now, but it awaits me. It's my favorite place in the world.

It's the place I want to go back to today. I miss the drudgery of the creative process. I want to be consumed by something besides this house renovation. I just simply do not have time.

I want to see friends and family, I want to read a book, I want to go places for the heck of it, but I cannot.

I want me back.