Adoptee on 23 & me

I am literally losing my freakin’ mind about this. The 23&me testing kit just came on the mail last night. I took a photo of it- opened the box, and read the directions. I registered my barcode and said they could keep the sample for further analysis for research or whatever.

What my struggle here is, is that I am fuckin terrified. I have lived my entire life up until 12 weeks from now not knowing anything about where I came from- and also not caring too much because it never occurred to me that finding these other people was a real option. I used to care from time to time and even did a little research like calling the adoption agency and getting he paperwork to open he file whatever whatever … I never sent it in. So…

Here I am. I drank a little too much tea, smoked a bowl with my best friend, listened to Daniel Tosh’s new standup album with my husband (who bought me this test kit by total surprise)…(might have I mentioned I have been a bit snippy to recently)…and am now running out the clock smoking a bit more waiting to go coach the last soccer practice. THANK god it’s the last one. We are at he end of our ropes with this shit 😩*sigh*.

So I’m having a good day man. Oh I looked at houses on Zillow too. Anyway- I keep wondering what I will do with this information when I get it. Will I feel differently? Like….about myself and who I am and shit? I guess I’m going to find out if ignorance is bliss or not in about 12 weeks.

Has anyone else done this? Anyone else adopted?

My Pet Sloth

I have come to the determination that having a baby is what I imagine having a pet sloth is like. They’re slow, they’re cute, can’t run away from your love, and are disproportionately sized.

sloth tongue

I had this thought when I had a drink or two and went into deep-space thought. It happens.

sloth fat and cute

ohhhhhhhhh the cuteness!!!


Nesting: Better Than Adderall

“I MUST WASH THE COBWEBS!” My 35-week pregnant brain screams at me from 6 am til 10 pm for the fourth day in a row. “SIT THE FUCK DOWN!” My newly-acquired gestational hypertension and gigantic fat kankles scream back. It is as if I was written a prescription of the widely loved legal amphetamine that is given to children and housewives alike, except I still get hungry and I sleep a bit. I don’t remember nesting with my first pregnancy, although that was 6 years ago and I don’t remember much from back then anyway. I also was a stay-at-home with an apartment that was so small it didn’t even have a dining room, so I didn’t have anything to clean or organize or room to rearrange. Now I have a decently sized brick ranch in a rural suburb – where the dogs can roll in horse shit and the leaves threaten to bury us alive, and have somehow accumulated enough shit to start my own craft store. So I have plenty to do to occupy my brain. My maternity leave had to be started two weeks earlier than originally planned, and yesterday they moved my C-Section date up two weeks due to gestational hypertension, which is basically high blood pressure that is only present during pregnancy and the cause is unknown.

So, my first project was the laundry room. Displaying IMG_0911.JPGwhich is a huge ass laundry room chock FULL of shit that I have been stuffing in there for about a year without a care – easy enough because I could just shut the door and say “fuck it”. But my brain wont let me say fuck it anymore – so it has gone from there, to the kitchen cabinets, to the weird cabinets that the builders of the home put in the living room, and where to next – I will figure out today!

Anyone else ever had or known someone that has had this crazy, laser-focused, adderall-like nesting shit before? Tell me!

Days til baby extraction & tube tying: 12

Batteries Required – “Am I an asshole?”

So I made the mistake years ago of mentioning how I loathe such things as battery-operated toys…thus giving everyone I know an opportunity to get back at me for being one of two extroverts in two whole families of extreme introverts. Oh and they took that shit and ran four-hundred miles with it, laughing like hell when my hair seemed a little thinner and my face a little redder every time they saw me. Every parent in America knows the choice that I have faced a thousand times now. its, ‘do I take this away? Do I tell them to stop? Am I being an asshole? Are they being an asshole? does this fucking thing have a volume button?’ Only to end up taking said toy, angrily/calmly as possible digging through your kitchen junk drawers for the small phillips-head screwdriver to take the batteries out of this damned thing that Lucifer himself had the minions of hell make special for you. The results of this action? Peace, my friends. Peace. Immediately followed by, “mommy, it isn’t working!”

“Well honey, they just don’t make them like they used to…”

*child tosses toy to the side for something else*

ensued by the whole, ‘am I being an asshole’ thing again. There is no greater joy than your child willingly picking this toy up and putting it in the ‘donate’ pile during ‘we have too much shit season’, which is between December and January (depending on how much recovery time you need from the holidays). This is the time in which you relieve the ‘am I an asshole’ struggle by saying, “yes honey, some child somewhere will really enjoy this, good job”. The presenting it to the goodwill guy who must think, “geeze, your kids take great care of their toys! Its in such good shape!” Nay, it has been unplugged in the bottom of the toybox/closet since the week they got it.

Yall want to see the one I can’t seem to lose/get rid of? Here it is. (The irritation ensues as my laptop betrays me and will NOT save the image of this terrible thing)

I. Hate. This. Fucking. Thing. Every single child who has come near my home pushes that big yellow sun in the middle of the steering wheel so quickly that I don’t even know what its actually supposed to say…it just makes this loud repetitive sound like “I I I I I – E E E E – I I I I – E E E E …”. This thing has NO off button and NO volume button. And the thing actually steers so they can repeatedly run into your feet and leave marks from all different angles! See, it also has a bar in the back so you can push them…that is, if you like bending and walking at more than a 90 degree angle, that is. It would have been great if you could attach a push bar so you could walk not like a cave man….and a volume button. It also is durable as hell. I have hit it with a F-150, an Impala, and my beloved old Crown Vic – only to have left a paint scratch on my Vic and NOTHING on this plastic monstrosity.

Can you believe THIS is a toy for children?

annoying toys post image 2

WHAT?! WHY?! WHY WOULD THEY DO THIS?! Thank god no one ever bought it for us, because I would have returned it to the store and bought a 12-pack to have a good enough excuse NOT to get in the car and find the giver and kick their ass. (not wanting a DUI is a good enough excuse to me).

In conclusion friends…”am I an asshole?” Perhaps. If you call self-preservation selfish and unworthy…so I guess it depends. If you are the stoic, magazine cover mom who can put up with this without a lifetime prescription of xanax, then you are a better woman than I. I was about to say “teach me in your ways of tolerance”, but then I thought, well, no, because I don’t want an assault and battery charge for kicking the stuffing out of your lying ass.

The Label of a Junkie (Is Fucked)

Once an addict…always an addict? What does that even mean? Does that mean we can’t come back from our dark days? In the eyes of the law and the eyes of our healthcare providers, no – they have no mercy or forgiveness. We are turned into a number, a code, to be filed away with the other “lost causes” to be judged and denied instead of helped and encouraged. Well, this is fucked I do believe. Sometimes it seems the only hope I have to escape this label is to have a new identity, ditch everyone I know and ever have known, and move to another country. Not feasible options.

I got pulled over a few months ago in Clayton County, Ga. In the car were my fiance (now husband), myself, and our daughter who was four years old at the time. I suppose the healed and faded scars from a long-dealt with methamphetamine addiction was the prompt for the fuckery that we endured here. Granted my old Crown Vic (which I LOVED) and blue artsy hair (which I also LOVED) were the basis for their suspicions, perhaps the part of town we were heading for as well, (Riverdale, where my in-laws live). Well, to condense this, we were pulled out of the car, the car was turned upside down while we were sitting on the curb, we were patted down and questioned. Yes, our daughter was patted down as well. They told us what they had assumed is that Anthony was my dealer and we were going to score. The tattoo of his name on my back, or of our daughters name on his arm was not enough for them, nor was the picture of us together on my dash. They found a Tylenol in my cup holder with an antibiotic that I had failed to take at some point in time – took it back to their car, looked it up, and i swear it was a look of disappointment and aggravation after all of their efforts when we were doing nothing wrong. They instructed me to put Kyla back in the car seat, (turns out i found out when we got home they failed to buckle back into place), and told us to have a nice day.

This is one of the many incidences of things that I guess I should have known were going to happen. I guess I also should have known about being denied treatment from doctors, therapists, and employment. Apparently when you seek help and go to rehab, it leaves a bigger stain on your records than being arrested, which is FUCKED. I went for years with no consequence transporting drugs, doing drugs, getting jobs, losing jobs, going to doctors, etc, etc, and now that I am a contributing member of society, it is like the train has run out of tracks. Making it ever so much harder to continue. One might say this IS my consequence, the suffering I incur still, years after my habits have long been dealt with. And they might even be right. But I think it is all truly fucked.

Ill tell you this about the current state of affairs around where I live, it is a whole lot easier to be a criminal and a user than it is to do what you are supposed to do. The honest working individual is stomped at every turn, and struggle is synonymous with honesty.  In order to succeed it seems like you have to lie, steal, cheat, and deceive others, which are all things I try not to do anymore. I must say though, the pride and personal satisfaction I get out of the life I live now is unparalleled my any high I have ever had, and I would rather have this any day.

“Keep doing right and it will catch on”, someone told me once. I suppose I have just reached a difficult spot in life where I am having a hard time answering the questions and going through the motions. Some of this being prompted by my wedding in July…seeing some old friends who are more fucked than I ever realized. One of those people being my own brother. Life-long alcoholic and addict of everything, jealous, hateful, just over all not nice person who being negative energy around with him like a cloud of perfume. More on that in another post perhaps.

So, friends, and readers, what are your struggles in your recovery? Any words of advice for dealing with the judgement and negativity of others in this lifelong process? What the hell do I say to people when they say, “where did you get all those SCARS OMG?” besides, “not that its any of your fuckin’ business, but meth. Thank you.”? enlighten me, friends.