Yes, I Hate Mother’s Day

I’m one of those people…yes, I’m one of those people who absolutely hates Mother’s Day.

For weeks, the run-up is soppy, sappy commercial after maudlin, saccharine commercial lauding “Mom” and demanding that we shower her with diamonds, with edible arrangements, with new phones, ad nauseum.

In theory, I’m fine with Mother’s Day. Hey, our moms are supposed to love us unreservedly, patch up our boo-boos with kisses and Bactine, cheer for us when we play the 3rd tree to the left in our school play, be our cheerleader, our confidante, our disciplinarian, our wisest counselor and our best friend.

My mother was none of those things. My mother was a cold, hard woman who resented every minute she was forced to spend caring for her two children and considered my brother and me to be the equivalent of a prison sentence to hard labor. She made her resentment felt in any number of ways; both right-up-front aggressive in the form of corporal punishment and more subtle, yet cutting passive-aggressive comments about every aspect of my life.

She laughed when she hurt my feeings; I remember coming across a tragic little drawing on pink construction paper that I made as a 6 year old. It was a stick figure me with lines of tears flowing across the page and the inscription in straggling block letters in purple crayon, “you dont love me you never loved me.” My heart aches for that little kid – who knew, even at the tender age of 6, that her mommy didn’t love her. My mother thought it was hilarious; I can remember her laughing at me, her pint-sized drama queen.

Spankings were regularly administered, along with hard slaps to the face if we “smarted off” or “needed something to cry about.” My mother used her hand to spank; the belt was relegated to “wait until your father gets home!!!” The passive-aggressive stuff was worse. If I, as I frequently did, brought home a report card with all A’s and one B (PE. I never could do better than a B in PE), there was always that eyeroll and long-suffering sigh to tell me how much my (continual) abject failure disappointed her.

My mother abused us in other ways as well. Outgrowing my clothes and shoes was a personal failing of mine, as were the regular eye exams and new glasses I needed once a year. I was sick for a week with stomach pain, but to my mother, I was simply faking it to get attention or to escape PE – until she finally took me to the emergency room after a full 7 days, and I was diagnosed with a burst appendix and taken straight to surgery. I fell and broke my leg in 9th grade, and of course I did that deliberately to make her life hell.

And the crown jewel in my mother’s revenge on me for being born? She allowed my stepfather to molest me for a number of years. I know the gentler-hearted of you, my readers, will ask “Are you sure she knew?” My answer is yes, she did know. When I was 8 or so, I once told my stepfather that if he didn’t leave me alone, I was going to call the police. That very night, my mother came in to my room and sat down next to me on my bed. She grabbed me by my shoulders and jerked me up into her face, where she fixed me with an angry glare and said, “If you EVER tell anyone, I will never speak to you again!”

So yes, she knew. I still can’t wrap my head around the conversation she and my stepfather must have had which precipitated that visit to my room and that threat she made.

Once I left home at 17, I continued to chase after my mother’s approval for a number of years. Every attempt was rebuffed; some more hurtfully than others. I’m not going to detail all those things here, but just know that I had been conditioned for years by my mother to be like a moth – to batter myself against the glass walls of the lamp until I either dropped exhausted or burned up in the flame.

Finally, in my mid-30’s, after years of therapy in which I came to understand what may have been my mother’s own life as an abused child, I reached out to her in a heartfelt and tear-stained letter and told her that I forgave her for the years of neglect and abuse, and most of all, for allowing my stepfather to molest me. I guess I was hoping that she’d tell me that she was sorry too, but that’s not what happened. Instead, she called me “sick and twisted,” a “birth defect” and accused me of “making it all up to hurt her.”

That was the end. I cut her completely out of my life, and I never regretted it. She went on to marry Husband #4 and built a completely new family where she could be the doting grandma and pillar of the community.

She died four years ago this summer. I stumbled across her obituary accidentally while I was doing some research on Google. And unsurprisingly, neither my brother nor I (her only two natural children) were even mentioned.

So yeah, I hate Mother’s Day. With good reason.

Some Thoughts on ALS…and My Challenge to You

One of my dearest friends died last week.

He died of an infection that was an end-stage complication of ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, better known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease). My friend was a vibrant man with a huge smile and a big “Hi, pal!!” for everyone. ALS took that wonderful vibrant man and shoved him into a prison it insidiously crafted from his own body – and locked the door. Because of ALS, my beautiful friend was trapped inside a gaunt, voiceless, motionless shell, hooked to machines, fed through a tube, with large unhealed and excruciatingly painful pressure sores – and completely unable to communicate. At the end, he couldn’t even move his eyes.

The true horror of ALS is something I’m not sure even the master of the genre, Stephen King, would be able to capture. There have been plenty of sci-fi/horror stories featuring individuals who are trapped alone – on an empty planet, a different dimension, a different time, etc. Mostly, these people are able to move around, because, well, what kind of story could you tell if your protagonist was unable to interact with his or her surroundings? What kind of story could you tell if your protagonist, trapped on this empty planet, had a black bag over his head that couldn’t be removed?

He was trapped inside the prison of his own body, with a black bag over his head. Was his spirit like a moth trapped inside a jar, battering itself over and over and over again on the impenetrable glass in frantic and fruitless attempts to escape… until the poor creature falls exhausted to the bottom of the jar and waits for death? Was his spirit like that of a man trapped underground in a lightless cavern or collapsed coal mine, possessed of his full faculties – and knowing that no rescue was coming…ever? That kind of horror is very nearly unfathomable…and that, reader, is amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Imagine yourself locked within your own body with no way to communicate. Feel it. Sit or lie down, perfectly still. Got an itch? You can’t scratch it. Do you have a fold of your clothing pressing uncomfortably into your back? You can’t move to adjust it. Have a cramp in your foot? Nope, you can’t move your toes. After 15 minutes of that, I guarantee you’ll be exhausted. Now, imagine that feeling 24/7 for the rest of your life.

That is the true horror of ALS.

Fortunately, my dear friend was very much loved and was tenderly cared for around the clock by his wife and a team of devoted nurses. My friend was also visited by legions of his friends (I am fortunate to be able to count myself among them), and we all told him in every way we could how much we loved him, on an hourly and daily basis, as his ALS locked him away from us. We could hold his hand, and kiss his temple and smooth back his hair and tell him we loved him. At least ALS couldn’t take that knowledge from him. He knew how much he was loved…that one little candle in the darkness of his prison, burned brightly and steadily.

In the end, I think we were all relieved to see the end of his unbearable suffering. I think he too was glad it was over, and that he was finally released from the rotting shell his body had become. We are all so much poorer for his loss.

I hope I have conveyed to you the real horror of the disease that is amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. There is no cure for ALS. One in 50,000 Americans will be diagnosed with ALS this year, and their families and loved ones will have to watch them die slowly and painfully and be able to provide only palliative care.

That’s why we have the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. It’s light-hearted and fun, and of course, there are some Scroogy folks who have bitched about it wasting water, but the Ice Bucket Challenge has raised close to $80 million dollars for ALS research since the challenge first went viral in in late July, 2014. And it continues to capture our imaginations and the donations continue to pour in (did you catch that pun…?).

If you haven’t donated, well, consider yourself challenged – you have 24 hours to donate to the ALS Association at, or pour a bucket of ice water on your head.

You can do both if you want. I did. It’s quite refreshing. 

Thank you. 

Photo by Ramon de Ocampo

Photo by Ramon de Ocampo


Justice for All…? Or Only Just White People?

It’s heart-breaking and it makes me furious that a government-hating, assault-rifle-toting white sovereign citizen and alleged “patriot” can actually shoot real bullets at police with the stated intent to kill them can be safely overcome and taken into custody…

…but a young black man known in his neighborhood to be mentally ill, *possibly* carrying a small knife, gets shot dead (at least 6 shots) by 2 white police officers IN UNDER 30 SECONDS because the cops allegedly “feared for their lives.” (Note: the police officers say that the man was “brandishing his knife” in an “overhead grip” – but I’m here to tell you that I’ve seen the video of that shooting, and that is a flat-out LIE. Both his arms were at his sides when he was shot.)

Well, I say BULLSHIT.

Just another "good guy with a gun" out shopping for the family.

Just another “good guy with a gun” out shopping for the family.

If you think a white man carrying an assault rifle in a the local Kroger is just another “good guy with a gun” and all-around regular citizen practicing his 2nd Amendment rights, and at the same time, you tell me that an unarmed black kid who may or may not have stolen a few cigars is a dangerous thug who deserves to die, that makes you a racist.

That twisted double standard is the definition of right up front racism.  


"Thug" who was shot dead in the toy section of Wal-Mart because he was holding a toy BB gun.

“Thug” who was shot dead in the toy section of Wal-Mart because he was holding a toy BB gun.

And if you don’t like that designation, I guess that’s just too damned bad, isn’t it?

Try not to be a racist and I won’t call you one. See how simple that is?

Tell me that a black man has a right to carry an assault weapon into Chipotle because he’s a “good guy with a gun” and it’s his 2nd Amendment right to do so – and if you can’t do that, slap that “racist” label on your forehead and wear it with pride. 

“Christian Nation”? Really?

It has been a while since I have regularly posted on this blog; I got tired of the “all outrage, all the time” thing that life with teabaggers has become. But – is it just me, or has the current crop of teabaggers become even more virulently batshit crazy?

Is that even possible?

Yes. Yes, I think it is possible.

Normally, the way this works, I am inspired to write a post by some random news article or tweet or post on Facebook. Today’s post was inspired by an article I just read on ThinkProgress (an awesome site, by the way – entitled, “At Least Five Homeless People Froze To Death Last Week“, which introduced me to Willie Mae White, a 55 year old woman from Joliet, Illinois…who froze to death on her bus-bench “home” in the bitter cold.

????????????????????????????????????????Reading that article pissed me off. Here we are, a nation chock full of the fattest, wealthiest, most church-goingest bunch of Bible-thumpers on earth, and every single day, the rest of us are forced to listen to wingnut after sanctimonious evangelical Christian wingnut spew hate-filled dreck every day about how America is a Christian nation, that all those dear little “babies” must be allowed to be born (whether the woman who is their incubator wants them or not – or even if she’s dead), that we must prevent those awful gays and lesbians from corrupting our pristine bakeries with their sinful wedding cakes, that we little wimmen must be obedient to our husbands and are completely unable to control our raging libidos without our dear Uncle Sugar handing out birth control pills like candy on Halloween  …and on and on and on.

I’m not a Christian. I’m an out-of-the-closet atheist and I’m not at all ashamed of that fact. But that’s not the point here; I’m not here to debate the relative merits of religion vs. non-religion. Oh, I can – and have – done just that many times, and I always enjoy walloping god-smacked fundies with their own ridiculous assertions, but not today.

Like most atheists, I am very knowledgeable about religion; in fact, there is research that indicates that atheists in general know more about Christianity than so-called “true believers.” If I’m not here to debate the merits of religion vs. atheism, then why am I introducing this little factoid? I’m introducing this little factoid in order to point out that the very most bottom-line, fundamental, boil-it-down meaning of Christianity can be reduced to one single verse from the New Testament book of Matthew (Matthew 25:45), where Jesus says, “Whatsoever you do to the least among you, you do also to Me.”

There you have it. Christianity 101. We are our brothers’ keepers. And our sisters’ keepers. And yet, every day, homeless people living a desperate existence on our streets starve and freeze to death. People like Willa Mae White. And yet, every day, hordes of wingnuts are on the teevee complaining about those lazy  moochers, the welfare queens, the takers, the useless mouths, the 47% of Americans who are unwilling to take responsibility for their own lives, ad nauseum.

homeless-man-polar-vortex (2)So, you Bible-thumping, sanctimonious, well-fed Christianists, riddle me this:  how can America be a “Christian nation” if we ignore the most basic teaching of Jesus in favor of rhetoric trashing the poor, scorning the homeless, and demanding that we stop feeding hungry children? How can America be a “Christian nation” if even one single poor, homeless person freezes to death on a bus bench? How can America be a “Christian nation” when even one child goes to bed hungry?

Take your time.I’ll wait.

homeless 2

Say what, Mike Huckabee??

Holy seething shit, Batman! According to that flabby sack of dreck, Mike Huckabee, I’m merely a tiny-brained female who is completely helpless in the face of my raving libido and must desperately beg my sugar daddy government (aka “Uncle Sugar”) for birth control pills so I can indulge in wild monkey sex all day, every day…? Must…. <pant, pant> have… <grunt, drool> SEX!!!!!


Did you notice that entire flood of stupid did not contain a single word about men being sluts (what is a male slut anyway??) for demanding drugs like Viagra and Cialis – drugs with a single purpose: to enable men to have sex – from their Uncle Sugar? Nor did he have anything to say about drugs like AndroGel or Axiron – drugs that boost a man’s testosterone so they can be all manly men again?

Why not, Huck? Why are men entitled to have recreational sex any old time they want and still remain fine, upstanding (sorry for the pun) members of the community – and that their recreational sex drugs must be paid for by their insurance companies? And why, Professor Huckabee, isn’t the religious community pitching a fit about their insurance coverage for their employees covering recreational sex drugs for men? Isn’t that like sort of against all that Biblical prohibition of fornication and suchlike? 

But if I want to take birth control pills in order to prevent a pregnancy once a year and/or control painful and debilitating side effects of menstruation (which, in my case, included nausea, vomiting, constipation/diarrhea and extreme joint pain for 3 days a month)…I’m a slut? With the terrible dysmenorrhea I suffered from – I would have been taking the pill if I was a nun living in a convent! But, according to the Buy-bull, I have to suffer because I was weak and listened to that talking snake? Um… whut?

Well, I’m just a little woman and I don’t know these things. I must leave the tough questions to the wise men to answer. (Oh, god, that much snark is painful!)

Good grief. I’m so sick of these ignorant assholes – next thing they’ll be resurrecting the theory that if I have a uterus, I’m “hysterical.” <eyeroll>

Ayn Rand Is Right About the Moochers

I keep seeing idiot conservatives raging about the poor and the unemployed being “moochers” and “takers” straight out of Ayn Rand’s novel “Atlas Shrugged.” The thing is, I’ve *read* Atlas Shrugged at least twice, and I am struck by the way the current crop of teabag congresscritters sound just like the moochers and takers from the government in Ayn’s book.

They demanded that they be taken anywhere, that they be obeyed instantly – and they never bother to think about who was actually doing the work to get them places and make their wishes come true. In other words, these moochers and takers demanded that the people make bricks without straw.

One particular scene sticks in my head. It’s a group of government officials who demand to be transported by railroad across the continent. They approach a long tunnel in the Colorado Rockies, and are informed by the engineer that because there is only one viable modern locomotive left on the entire railroad network, their train is going to be sidelined because the locomotive pulling it is a coal-fired steam engine – and it would not be safe to use that engine to travel through such a long tunnel, due to a buildup of gases.

The government moochers angrily DEMAND that they be taken through the tunnel AT ONCE. They threaten the engineer and the engine crew with firings and/or jail time. They exclaim that they paid for the ticket, therefore they MUST be taken to their destination – regardless of whether or not it’s safe. They tell the engineer that getting them through the tunnel is his problem, and that he had better solve it toot sweet or heads will roll.

The engineer and the crew do the only sensible thing: they desert the train and disappear. A loud and drunken coal shoveler tells the government officials that HE can drive the train safely through the tunnel, so he stokes the coal fire, and drives the engine into the tunnel… and, of course, the very thing the engineer predicted happens: the engine explodes, killing everyone on the train and destroying the tunnel.

Now, let’s jump to the present, in the real world in Washington, D.C. Think about this: Rand Paul earnestly telling us that giving the long-term unemployed a paltry check in the way of unemployment insurance is “disincentivizing” them to find work. He tells us that we’d actually be doing them a favor if we cut off their unemployment benefits.

How are these people to live? That’s their problem. They got themselves into this situation – they need to pull up their bootstraps and get themselves out of it. 

Same with the other mooch—er, “government officials” who shake their heads solemnly and tell us that the poor are lazy, and that if we cut off their welfare checks and take away their SNAP benefits, they’ll be much more motivated to find a job and get out of poverty, instead of lounging in that comfy government-provided hammock.

Again, how are they to find work if they end up homeless? That’s their problem, say the teabaggers in Congress.

My question to you:

In light of the above, who are the REAL moochers in this country? The poor and the unemployed, who are desperately scrabbling for the means to keep a roof over their heads and feed their families – or the smug Tea Party/Republicans in the House and the Senate, who make a 6-figure salary – and work fewer than 100 days out of the year?

Open Season on Young Black Men

Last night, George Zimmerman was found “not guilty” of the murder of Trayvon Martin. I firmly believe that if the situation was reversed, and George Zimmerman was black, he would currently be serving a life sentence in a hellhole like Pelican Bay.

But I’d like to try something different, and this is specifically aimed at those white mothers of 17 year old boys who are telling themselves this morning that justice was served, that Trayvon was a hoodlum and a thug and deserved what he got and that George Zimmerman got a fair trial and the verdict is just.

So, you hypothetical white woman (and I happen to know a specific woman in Arizona who fits the above description to a tee, including the teenaged honor student son), let’s get started, ask some questions, and set a different scene, shall we?

You’re a white woman. You have a 17 year old son. Let’s call him Terry. It’s a winter night in February, around 7p.m., and Terry asks if he can walk down to the 7-11 to get a can of his favorite soda and a bag of M&M’s before the football game starts.

You say yes. Hey – it’s a safe neighborhood, and it’s only 7p.m. So 17 year old Terry puts on his hoodie – because it’s raining out – and takes off.

Terry gets to the 7-11, buys his can of Coke and his bag of M&Ms and he’s on his way back, talking to his girlfriend on the phone, when he notices a black guy in a pickup truck following him – the guy isn’t just passing by; no, the guy has slowed down and is creeping along, pacing the your son.

So, understandably, your son gets scared – who is this guy following him?? So he turns off down a short cut and starts running, hoping he can get away. When he comes out the other end of the short cut, the guy in the truck is still there, stopped and waiting.

In the meantime, the guy has called 911 and reported an “effing punk” who is maybe “on drugs” and “up to no good.” The 911 operator tells him they’re sending a police car and asks him to stop following the kid, because they’ll handle it. The guy mutters something about how “these assholes – they always get away” and, in spite of what the 911 operator has just told him, he jumps out of his truck and runs after your son.

Now your son’s really and truly scared. He’s unsure of what to do. At this point, the guy is coming toward him — a big black guy, weighs around 200 pounds – who outweighs your son by about 60 pounds. He comes toward Terry and demands in a loud voice, “What are you doing here? Who the hell are you?” Maybe he has his right hand behind his back reaching for something (a loaded gun with a chambered round), but Terry can’t really see, because it’s dark and it’s raining.

Your son freaks out – he has no idea who this guy is, he’s full of adrenaline from fear, so he perhaps reacts badly and punches the guy in the nose, hoping to get away. The guy tackles him. They roll around on the ground. Your son starts screaming “HELP ME!! HELP ME!!!”

Then there’s a single gunshot, and your 17 year old son is now lying on the wet grass, dead, shot through the heart at close range.

The black man gets up, wipes off his hands, tucks away his gun and hangs out until the police show up, and then explains how he was totally justified in shooting your unarmed 17 year old son – because your son attacked him and he was in fear of his life.

The police totally buy his story, pat him on the back, take him down the local police department, where he’s given a friendly interview and the police simply take his word for what happened and let him go. Yeah, the kid was a thug and probably a drug dealer and the guy did the right thing.

So, as the mother of this 17 year old white kid, an honor student in high school, would you feel that this black man would have been justified in killing him?

I DARE you to say yes. I fucking dare you.


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