Saturday, May 29, 2010
I don’t like getting chain emails and I would rather have my fingernails removed than listen to political diatribes from ignorant, racist assholes. So you can imagine my delight when I received a chain email containing all the above; and from my brother no less. I have told him time and time again to stop sending these. He knows I’m especially sensitive to political rhetoric after being married to a lying, cheating, thief who morphed into an ultra-conservative political junkie then back into a thief while still wound tighter than a latent homosexual preacher’s wife.
My brother always liked to pick on me. He loved to sit back and watch me slowly come to a boil. I think he’s doing it again. He has the same ornery look on his face as he taps the send button, wishing beyond all that is holy to see my face when I open and read it.
This one was particularly vulgar. It contained a series of photos of what could only be described as vintage porn - a young woman, posing in various black and white photos with captions asking the reader to guess who this mystery woman might be.
Is she a stripper, a porn star, a centerfold in a men’s magazine or perhaps even a hooker?
Each question is followed by another photo showing her breasts or shapely butt while wearing nothing but a pair of killer heels. After we have exhausted our attempts to guess who it might be, we are finally told it is a woman by the name of Stanley Ann Dunham Soetoro, otherwise known as Barack Obama's mother.
Let me pause for a moment to feign shock while holding my hand to my mouth.
Barack Obama has a mama named Stanley?
The dumbass who crafted this piece of drivel then goes on to imagine “the widespread play these pictures would be getting by the mainstream media if this had been John McCain's mother, or Sarah Palin's mother? But you won't ever see these pictures anywhere in a regular media outlet.”
No, of course not silly, here’s John McCain’s mother.
I was hoping to find a photo of Sarah Palin’s mom but came up empty handed. How can that be? You can easily access photos of Sarah Palin’s mother-in-law and photos of Sarah Palin’s daughter’s baby daddy’s mama but nothing anywhere on the interweb containing an image of this woman’s mother. Which begs the question, did Sarah Palin spawn in a petri dish from specially prepared organic matter? Is that why she can raise all those babies, run for office, kill large animals and still manage to have tidy hair and up to the minute lipstick?
Somebody needs to get on this right away. I think it’s much more important for us to find the woman responsible for this.
Seriously, I don’t get why it matters what anybody’s mama is or was. I’d like to think my kids can grow up to be leaders of the free world in spite of the fact their daddy may be going to the slammer, or we can’t afford to pay for their college or because their mama has had her own colorful, somewhat unconventional life. Like Obama, you take what you get and you make what you want.
The final shocking revelation in this insidious chain mail included a photo of Obama sitting with his biracial parents and the quote, “Oh, and keep reminding yourself that Obama is the first BLACK President of the United States. Yeah, right.”
In his first press conference as President-Elect, Barack Obama famously referred to himself as a mutt comparing himself to dog of impure breed. Many people thought he was disrespecting his own mixed race heritage. There is such irony here. Biracial children were always lumped in or categorized as Black. They were called mutts, zebras or mulattos. Historically, they were given the same legal treatment as blacks, which means the struggle against slavery, the Civil Rights movement and the global fight for African rights is theirs too but the President is not allowed to refer to himself as the first Black president?
Perhaps I am the ignorant one dear brother, because I just don’t get it. Please don’t send anymore of these emails. I wish to remain blissfully uninformed.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
And just like that, in the blink of an eye, Zen Mama is back. I wanted to stay angry, to bathe underneath a waterfall of anguish and dive into a pool of pity. I wanted to swim in it until I could no longer feel anything. No pain, no worries; just a cool, dead, numbness.
But I’m not dead.
I am alive and I am enough.
I received this cute little package in the middle of my swim in the pity pool. It came from one of my dearest friends, Robin. She’s the Bert to my Ernie, the yin to my yang, the sister I never had. She’s creatively gifted, a non-stop virtual well spring of talent. The things those delicate little hands craft are nothing short of breathtaking.
Throughout my recent struggles, she has been the little birdie in my ear, softly chirping three words to me - “You are Enough”. Over and over and over again, she comes back with it each time I doubt myself, each time I express fear or worry or expose my anger. She comes back with it, those three words.
I suppose I didn’t really believe her or more appropriately, I chose not to believe her because I was safely wrapped up in my anger.
Not one to give up on getting a point across, she took matters into her crafty little hands and sent me this box. My girls wanted to hold it so they could show Robin how excited they were to see it. They know of her talent, it is practically legend in my household. They love her dolls and her knits and they love that mommy has a friend like that. A friend that had apparently picked up a new talent – soldering metal and cutting straight through my anger…..
…….slicing directly into my heart. I cried when I opened it. Then I had to explain to the girls that it had special meaning. That Robin was sending me a message and mommy finally got it. A rush of emotion flooded my heart and I emerged from the ugly, anger infested waters feeling clean, alive, whole and ready to take on anything that comes my way.
On that day in April when I was notified of a suspicious lump in my breast, Robin had sent me a text message. She told me she knew it was going to turn out okay because she had envisioned a picture of me with lovely roses covering my breast. As I waited for the results of the biopsy, she reminded me of her vision. She was, of course, correct about everything. On the flip side of her pendant, she gifted me with this charming lady who, like me, is calm and clean of anger, delicate and perhaps even soft spoken but wearing her battle proven armor, a breast plate of roses.
And with that, just like that – I am enough.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
If You Lie to Them, I Will Cut Your Balls Off and Feed them to the Bunnies in my Yard….Then, I Will Tell Them the Truth
The Commando was telling me an interesting story the other night. He is worried about his dad. He doesn’t understand why his dad won't give up on this whole cell phone recycling venture and get a real job with a paycheck.
He knows his mom has a career where they actually pay her money to do work. He wants that for his dad. He can see him struggling financially and he wants him to be secure.
When the little guy brings these concerns to his dad, he is told daddy likes what he does. He feels it is important and he has invested too much time and money in it to give it up now. He is told daddy plans to save the world one cell phone at a time, even if it means he might one day get into trouble for it.
My 11 year old, freckle-faced child proceeded to tell me it is possible for his dad to receive stolen phones and not know they are stolen. Sometimes, when you’re a "middle man", he says, you can get into trouble when you actually did nothing wrong. “Mom, I don’t understand why dad won’t give this up if there’s a chance he could go to jail.”
The bastard is making up a bed of lies and asking all of my kids to nestle up all safe and cozy underneath the covers of darkness and deceit.
I have spoken to the US Attorney who is prosecuting Mr. Sunshine's Case. Next week, he will be entering a guilty plea. A sentencing hearing will then be set for later this summer.The US Attorney tells me to prepare the children for their dad to go to jail.
Their dad tells me the company he stole from actually made money from the phones he took as they have been activated by thousands of people, creating new revenue for them. They should be thanking him. They should give him a commission and a pat on the back for a job well done. They should not send him to jail. See case study – Narcissist 101.
Meanwhile, as the days pass by in a twisted, anxious blur, I attempt to think the unthinkable. How do I keep these kids whole and healthy when their super strict, church going, Jesus loving, ultra conservative, saint of a father goes to jail?
And now, I have to figure out how to tell them the truth when/if he leads them to believe daddy was an innocent pawn in a twisted scheme to defraud. I will tell them the truth. I will get them help. I will not have them find out from somebody else and have their world collapse unexpectedly.
But first, I will give him a chance to man up, tell them the truth and keep his balls because I hear he’s going to need them where he’s going.
There is a house on an ordinary street in an ordinary city. It looked just like most of the other houses on that southwest street with its composition shingles and its masonry veneer.
It was built one year after my birth but I would not come to know it until the age of 16.
From its slab foundation to its gable style roof, it has seen much. Its drywall is saturated with devastating loss and unspeakable pain; forbearing through the years, providing a fortress for all who were lost and in need of shelter. They returned one by one to live there until they died. It remains the last stop before death even until this day.
He points the loaded shotgun inches from her face. It is cocked and he is ready. She pleads with him to shoot her, unwilling to take her own life. He is imagining her head splattered across the living room walls and he is salivating, wanting it more than a starving dog wants fresh meat. He is calculating the end game. The police will arrive, perhaps he will brandish his weapon, forcing them to shoot him as he too is unwilling to end his own miserable life.
Our lady of addiction resides within this otherwise innocuous parcel of real property. She carries with her the demons that torment the troubled soul, inhaling the life from their eyes until there is nothing left but a bare frame, floors you can see through to the floor below and remnants of the dreams that will never be.
No one will ever hear the music from those lovingly crafted instruments for they too shall be covered with blood.
And once again, addiction wins.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Dear Readers, I have confessed to you my deepest, soulful hurts and hopes; yet, I am not done. There is more, so much more but you must know, it is daunting. I have consistently tried to spare no detail, no matter how shocking, no matter how personal, no matter the cost. It has been and remains a form of therapy for me. I slice myself open, lay bleeding, let it all run out then I turn it over to you – to the universe – to take it from me, to find something useful from it or to know that maybe, just maybe you feel a little better knowing there is someone out there who keeps showing up. As of this day, May 10th, I am here.
Mother’s Day was and always is hard on me. My real family, a/k/a/ my girlfriends, sent me messages throughout the day. My kids made me breakfast in bed. My boyfriend even loaned me one of his kids so I could snuggle up with her as I went to sleep on Saturday, knowing my own offspring would not be arriving until the next morning.
I focused on the many blessings I have but it wasn’t enough to sustain the place of darkness that resides within my otherwise peaceful heart. My next series of posts are going to be a bit idiosyncratic. Peculiar for me. I hope you will allow me to indulge and wallow in it. I hope you will follow me to the dirtiest of places as I enter a new phase of grief. Actually, it’s not new; pretty sure I just conveniently skipped over it.
I desperately want to express it to you in my usual verbose, four-chapter- novella style with a touch of humor to soften the jagged edges but I’m too twisted, too tormented to go there. Instead, I’m going to free flow. It’s not intended to be poetry.
Zen Mama will be taking a break for a while. In her place, you will be meeting Mad Mama. See photo to the right.
Come with me as I swing wildly through the vines, screaming like the spider monkey I am.