Mommy Monday December 20th, 2010

My mom turned twenty-nine on December 16th and as a gift, I gave her the day off and something to enjoy it with. Franzia! It was her favorite color, white zinfandel. So, for my mother's birthday, I have prepared a special tribute. A list of my favorite Karen quotes. Enjoy!

"Why the fuck does that woman keep staring at me? What is her problem?"
"Mom, I think she's blind."
"Oh."

"Knickerbocker. Is that your real name or is she making fun of you?"
"No, that's my name."
*pause* "...Oh... is it Dutch?"

"Mom, Brenna is doing Patrick's homework."
"So? That's nice for him. I used to do your homework."
Dad: "That explains a lot."

In church:
woman in pew behind family: *sniff, sniff*
Karen: angry glance over shoulder
woman in pew behind family: *sniffle*
Karen: angry sigh accompanied by angry glance
woman in pew behind family *sniff, sniff*
Karen: turns entire body around to stare at woman, turns back (under her breath) What is WRONG with that woman?
Me: Mom. We. Are. In. Church.
Karen: whatever, it's disgusting

Following the birthday theme:
*ring, ring*
Me: "Mom, it's 5 am. What do you want?"
"I wanted to say happy birthday to my baby girl."
"Ok, great. Can I go back to sleep now?"
"My first baby, it was such a beautiful day. The day you were born, it was a Sunday..."
"I know, Mom. We do this every year..."
"I can still remember the song playing on the radio..."
"Goodbye Mother."
*Click*

"My baby girl. She was such a good nurser. That's why her breasts are so big."
This is usually delivered to a large group of people in a public place while gesturing in the direction of my chest.

Every parent has "the talk" with their kids at some point. My mother, when I was a bit older once said to me:
"If a man doesn't want to do oral sex, he's selfish. Dump him."

"If you want to be Jewish, I'll still love you."

Happy Birthday, Mama!

Free weekend on Match.com? Maybe next time...

Once upon a time, a friend managed to convince me to try a dating website. She still doesn't know she managed to convince me, because I never told her. I did it in secret one night. I closed the door to my bedroom and stuffed a towel along the threshold. I didn't want my roommate to see the light and want to know what I was up to. It felt dirty, kind of like watching porn.

I went on two of the most popular websites and entered all my information. As I scrolled through my "matches" I wasn't disappointed, but I also wondered how many of these guys were actually on the website and how many were just faked profiles to draw me in... I'm fairly certain the Eric Dane look-alike wasn't hurting for dates. Even if he was a "busy, successful business man". The only "business" that man could have been involved in (that would prevent him from getting a date) would be the drug business.

I won't lie, I got excited a couple of times. Until I checked out the price tag connected to a potential liaison with these mysterious soul-mates. If the weirdness didn't stop me, sticker-shock did. Every time I actually thought about signing up I got a shudder. So I sat, scrolling in a self-loathing manner in my darkened bedroom like some kind of anti-social pervert. As I reached the end of my list, I found a five star match. He was perfect for me, according to the dot com version of destiny. He met all of my qualifications. We had the same goals, we both wanted big families. We had the same hobbies, we were astrologically predestined to bear the next great American author, artist and/or actor. If we did not immediately marry, the world would implode with the desperate hopelessness of it all! He couldn't have been more attuned to my every secret desire and need.

He was my ex-boyfriend!

If it didn't work with that guy the first time or the second or even the third... even Roto-Rooter couldn't fix it!

Mommy Monday

After last week's events, which I must mention have yet to be resolved, I thought a bit of humour was in order.

When I need a bit of humour I have two options. My children, aka, the cats. Or my mother. I picked my mother. Seeing how my mother has refused to take a photograph since 1977, pictures of the kittehs will have to suffice. (Although, as I look at the picture of Isis in the fridge I must question the amount of alcohol within... we get a lot of company with questionable morals. That is my explanation.)


Isis in the refrigerator. She enjoys a cold beer after
a long day shredding furniture. Unlike a normal cat
she prefers to get her own, no need to wait on this
independent feline.

My mother is an excellent topic as she has always offered to be the subject of my comedic monologues. I should mention that she has always believed my exploitation of her would result in millions of dollars, which she would be entitled to a portion of after she sued for likeness rights. If she had a hero it would most likely be Kathy Griffin's mother. Most of her more priceless antics are lost if not seen first hand. However, I am lucky enough to have a few stories that might lend themselves well to the written word. I'd like to introduce you with the following tale of the great and magical Karen.

My mother is a woman who's feelings and thoughts have never been a question to those around her. We come from good female stock. Women who spoke their minds. Through a relationship with my grandfather my mom picked up a fondness for the more colorful bits of the English language. I was once witnessed at the tender age of 2 playing with my dolls singing, delightfully, "...bullshit, baby...". My South-side Irish father says he never used the word "fuck" before he met my mother. He is a construction worker by trade, so that assertion is questionable at best.

One of my fonder memories of Karen involves myself, a school bus full of special needs children and a projectile.

Like Karen, Romeo has many opinions about the neighbors.


It was a warm fall morning in late September and my mother had graciously offered me a lift to work. It was very nice of her as she had graciously demanded use of the vehicle (which happened to be mine) the night before. I gathered my work paraphernalia and got myself into the car. I had planned on driving, but was informed that it made more sense for Karen to drive as she was simply dropping me off. I thought it made more sense for me to drive as I wished to arrive at work alive.

As we travelled down a street riddled with road construction I was worried for the life of my tires, not to mention the interior of my vehicle. I was gripping the door handle in such terror that I was concerned that I would have to have it surgically removed from my palm. My mother was whipping around corners, blatantly unaware of my mounting terror. Chattering on about some "bitch in line at Walgreens, you should have seen her hair... and the pants! I wouldn't get caught dead in those pants, I thought my ass was big... get the fuck out of my fucking way, asshole. Why are you so fucking old, asshole?!!!!" The offending vehicle was being driven by a Mr. Magoo type man. He could barely see over the wheel, going about twenty-five miles an hour. I could understand her frustration. Elderly people that drive twenty miles below the speed limit aggravate me, but he was going in the opposite direction. Two lanes over. I really wasn't sure what part he was playing in my mother's scheme... I WAS a little concerned that he might have a heart attack, but when my mother is driving it's every person for themselves.

As an aside, I might mention that Karen takes personal offense to things most people can't control. Like aging, breathing and height.

As we neared my place of employment, I had exhausted nearly every prayer I knew. My eyes were closed as I believed death would be less painful if I couldn't see it coming. I was starting to bargain, I would give up chocolate, television and I was considering giving up reading when my mother laid on the horn. I jumped and pressed myself against the car door, "what the hell...?!" I demanded. My mother was staring out my window. She was having what I call a "stand-off" with a small yellow school bus. The road construction forced the two north-bound lanes into a single lane and my mother was determined to be go in front of the bus. The driver of the bus had a contrary notion. I felt like a spectator at the OK Corral.

My mother was growling expletives under her breath as she inched the nose of the car forward. The bus driver reved his engine, causing the nose of the bus to lurch forward. My mother attempted to angle the car in such a way as to force the bus to actually make contact with our vehicle should he move forward. The bus driver made a pleasant, relatively universal gesture that I took to mean, "go right a head, it's my pleasure to let you pass me..." This, I would learn, was an incorrect assumption.

My mother responded with an equally pleasant, "fuck you, you motherfucking ugly asshole!" As I slid down in my seat, praying that I would make it all the way to the floor, I scanned the bus windows. I was thinking, please, please don't let there be any children on this bus.... God was having a holiday that day as nearly every single window was filled with a face. Young children, clearly with special needs, were staring wide-eyed at my mother. The driver, whose window was open yelled back, "nice mouth lady", to which my mother replied, "fuck you!" with the aforementioned gesture. Then, when I thought I was going to die, not in a fiery wreck, but instead of humiliation, that this situation could not possibly get any worse, my mother turned to me and said, in all seriousness... "give me something to throw at him".

Karen and Lucky have the same views on excercise. It's overrated.

What falls under the umbrella of NOH8? Part 2

 For years I battled low self-esteem. As a young woman I dated a man with a serious drinking problem, which was compounded by my father's recurring drinking. I felt as though I was worthless and undeserving of love. All of these factors, I believe, led to my making unhealthy decisions. One evening, at a party, I was sexually assaulted. A tumultuous emotional decline followed.

As I started to recover from these experiences, I started clambering out of my depression. I began taking anti-depressants, I began attending Al-Anon regularly and I started standing up for myself. I grew out my bangs. Every one of my friends can attest to some situation in which someone has made an ignorant comment to me about my birthmark. Numerous verbal spats have nearly come to blows. Several times, my friends and I have left situations where comments were flying.

Every time I meet someone new, the conversation invariably comes around to my birthmark. It's part of who I am. It is not, however, all of who I am. I am a survivor of relationship violence, emotional abuse, physical abuse and rape. I am a medical advocate for a rape crisis center. I rescue neglected kittens. Even when they scratch my nose and terrorize my plants. I am an advocate for my friends and love their kids. I am a great big sister and awesome best friend.

My best friend and I are amateur social activists. When there is a march or protest for gay rights, we are there. When a senator needs an email or a phone call, we are there. My best friend's right to marry is important to me. I have told her that until the day she is allowed to take the plunge, I won't either. I mean it.

Given the chance to support her by taking part in the NOH8 photo shoot was an awesome opportunity. I was excited. I got to show my support and take a beautiful picture with my best friend. Until I saw the picture. I noticed that they had photo-shopped my birthmark out. It is not all of me, but it is a big part of me. A talisman to my strength through the years of bullying. Something I could never change about myself. IT WAS HOW I WAS BORN. For a program that advocates respect and love and acceptance, what was so terrible about a birthmark that they could not leave it in the picture? For the record, no spoke to me about it at the shoot or via email. I was aware that some touching up would take place, but you wouldn't photo-shop Cindy Crawford's mole would you?

That's my story and it's an important one. No one is perfect. I get that. But, when you demand I respect you (even when I already do) why don't I deserve the same?

What falls under the umbrella of NOH8? Part 1

As a new infant, it wasn't all that noticeable. It took a few days for my birthmark to settle in. It's approximately the size of a man's thumb, in the center of my forehead. To make it less noticeable, my mom maintained a steady style of longish bangs for years. She wasn't embarrassed, but she knew people always had something to say. My Irish grandmother would tell my God got His hands a little dirty when he was making me. I felt that God should wash His hands a little more often. I was always told that I was a beautiful little girl and my birthmark made me special. I agreed, until I entered school.

I was a child whose parents were encouraging.When I wanted to cut my waist length hair into what can only be described now as a "mushroom cut", my mother made sure I knew what I was doing. My response, that it's only hair and hair will grow, solidified my mother's belief that I did. Off went 16 inches of hair, with no tears. It eventually grew back, only to be sacrificed again and again to the gods of fashion. Once it even went to Locks of Love.

In school, I was mocked for being different. Different meant a kid who dressed how she wanted and felt totally comfortable in her skin. The hero of my young life, Clarissa from Clarissa Explains it All. I loved her devil may care sense of style and commitment to her unusual friend. I emulated her fresh take on life, until I started pushing my bangs aside and thinking of growing them out. That's when all the other kids zeroed in on my birthmark, it was the beginning of the end.

The year I entered junior high, my mother gave birth to my gorgeous little brother. That same day she was told that her father had committed suicide. What followed was a horrific descent into postpartum depression. My father couldn't cope, so he went to work. My mother turned her depression and rage into physical and verbal abuse. I was the stand-in for what my father should have been intercepting.

Things were not great at home, school used to be my safe-haven. Now, at school, I was being ridiculed for a birthmark. Something I had no control of. I was called "coffee", "dot-head", and other well thought out monikers. I was a little more developed than most girls in my class, which led to the always amusing, "hey coffee, got any cream". Teenage boys are incredibly ironic.

At times, the misery at home and the misery at school was too much for me. I considered suicide. One night, I was in my bedroom, racked with sobs. I couldn't do it anymore. So, I went into my bathroom and took a bottle of pills. I was horribly sick. My father heard me vomiting and yelled up the stairs, asking if I was alright. I just yelled yes and went back to bed. It was awful, I was even more depressed. I couldn't even kill myself. I was 13.

The torture went on for years, teachers were oblivious. All this time I fought to survive. I can remember being in the bathroom at a youth group meeting. I always wore earrings so that I could alleviate the pressure from the dark thoughts. I was sitting on the toilet in the bathroom of a church, carving my legs. Even in a place of worship I felt as though I did not belong.