Freedom to Ejaculate

ipledgeafallegiance

Donald Trump’s presidential running mate, Governor Mike Pence of Indiana recently signed an anti abortion bill passed by the Indiana legislature. Mr Pence opposes all forms of abortion no matter the reason nor complication. He also hopes to help the Republican party De-fund Planned Parenthood if he and Donald trump are elected. I can only assume because all lives matter.

But have you ever noticed how men are never mentioned during the debate over abortion. A debate that continues even though the Supreme Court of the United States decided long ago that a living woman has more right to her body than an unborn fetus in the first trimester of pregnancy. And have you noticed  how in fact men are hardly ever in the conversation when it comes to the discussion of pregnancy and abortion rights in America… not even as a responsible party in the equation of life?

So…

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Open Conversation

In the previous post, I described conflicted feelings in my obligation toward my siblings. In response, my friend and reader posed the following questions of me and of you–
“I have wondered for many years what characterizes the familial relationship. Does a blood relationship require love and connection? Are you required to love your siblings simply because of the blood relationship?”

I don’t believe DNA is the defining characteristic of family. There are people, I have no genetic ties to, whom I love more than my family. For me, GUILT is the primary characteristic of the familial relationship. I feel guilty that I don’t love all of the people I’m related to. I feel guilty that the people I’m related to and whom I love drive me crazy. I feel guilty that there isn’t enough time in the day for me to meet their needs and guilty when I’m resentful of their demands on my time. I feel guilty when I do not want to answer the phone to listen to a long, needy, monologue, “Hi it’s me, let me tell you all about me. Hear me, affirm my actions and confirm my existence.” Jesus! Me, me, me; it’s tiring. If I were a better person I would want to listen to that. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

A blood relationship does not require love and connection. We’re not the same, we are not required to love and connect. We are required to be decent human beings. We are required to refuse to be the familial doormat.

I do not love all of my siblings. It isn’t necessary for me to tell them that. Cruelty is unnecessary. It doesn’t feel good to be soundly rejected. When I don’t answer the phone it allows the caller to rationalize that behavior, “That’s just the way she is.” To a certain extent that’s true, I am that way.

Hanslr and I are very interested in reading your thoughts on the subject. Don’t be shy, tell it like is!

Just Can’t

30 June 2013
There are, were, six siblings  in my family; three boys and three girls. I am the eldest. In childhood, it was my responsibility to care for my younger sisters and brothers, often to distract our lunatic father and protect the younger kids. After we moved away from my father and my parents divorced, it was my job to interpret events for the younger kids and to help my mother raise them.

It was a shared burden, each child who was older than the others had a responsibility for the younger ones in succession. I guess that’s where the failure occurred with Brian and Joe. Brian was born with arthrogryposis. He spent the fist two years of his life in the hospital, where he was adored by the staff because he was cute and smart. It must have been awful for him to come home to be just another one of many. Joe was the baby. He was spoiled, by all of us, as the youngest so often are. Neither of them had to be responsible for anyone else.

At 15, I rebelled in earnest. My siblings were not my children or my responsibility.  At 18, I moved out. At 19, I moved far away. I lived a new life and reveled in autonomy. Coincidentally, Brian relished his autonomy as well. A social worker once told my mother, after he was diagnosed with HIV but before he had full blown AIDS, that she didn’t know he had any siblings other than Joe. Brian loved to be free and I did too, free of the burden and disappointments inherent in sibling rivalry, free of the chaos in our family, free to live lives we hoped would be better than the ones we’d left. Free to be just us, independent of the family connection, roaming anonymously. If he had a headstone it would declare, “Not all who wander are lost.”

The kids who had responsibility for younger siblings became more traditionally independent. A couple of them have advanced degrees and enjoy professional success. They were not dependent on my mother. Brian wasn’t dependent on Mum either. Even Joe, whom Mum bankrolled until the day she died, held several state regulated licenses to practice a trade. We were raised with a certain expectation of achievement. We have helped each other in attaining goals.

I have never completely abandoned my sisters and brothers. It is unlikely that I will. I’ll be available for legitimate emergencies and tragedies. I’ll send cards and gifts for milestone occasions. I won’t be calling any time soon. Conversation is more than I can bear. Talking and listening is too much. I just can’t.

Lawn Poop

 

Good Gawd!!! There is so MUCH that annoys me at this moment. I’d like to cry in frustration and rage that The Donald is the very best the GOP can do. “They” must have the lowest possible opinion of all of us out here. You know who we are, we’re the working slobs. We’re happy to have the infrequent vacation, delighted to rent a limo for our kids to go to the prom in, EUPHORIC to pay our bills on time, in full. Yup, we’re all good little citizens doing our part to make America GREAT.

Here in the hinterland I’ve been told that Hillary wants to annihilate the Second Amendment so we’d better arm ourselves and if The Donald is elected we’ll be shooting people in the streets. I think that’s happening now, actually. Our electrician friend told us that. Could I just tell you the gun sellers are loving every misguided minute of it, counting cash as fast as it can be printed. You know how I am…I had a debate with one of them and tried to explain that it would be a slooooow, arduous, process to annihilate the Second Amendment. He didn’t like to hear that, told me how much he loved the flag.

Let me be very clear about a couple of things. My husband likes to have an expensive, new toy on occasion. Those toys remind him of his long gone youth. Last year, or maybe the year before-it’s happened twice, a deer was hit by the car in front of him and he had to shoot the poor thing to put it out of its misery. It broke his heart to see the deer looking up at him. He swears the deer knew it was going to die. Personally, I think the deer was in shock. My husband isn’t going to do anything with a new weapon. He thinks he will use it, on the big bear that has been terrorizing the neighborhood, during bear season. He’d like to have a drone too so he can spot the bear without having to leave the back deck. The overpriced weapon has a long range, whereby he could shoot the bear without having to look it in the eye. This is the same man who is angry that it is legal for hunters to bait bears with doughnuts.

We all need to come together in this epiphany- if society continues to deteriorate and weapons become an ill advised necessity, we’ll all be living in Thunderdome. We will be dirty, hungry, and without the comforts we’ve become accustomed to; a nice warm bed and the peace and quiet, which promote a restful night’s sleep. I do not want to be dirty, ever. My advance directive states that I do not want to live if it becomes apparent that I can no longer bathe myself and wipe my own butt. I am a strong proponent of personal cleanliness. When I go to bed at night I like to tuck right in for a restorative, peaceful, sound, sleep. Gunfire would be an impediment to resting.

In addition to the chaotic national/global situation, I’m forced to deal with a potential customer whom I do not like one teensy bit. I wouldn’t give this person a drop of blood if life depended on it. Quote me. I like the woman, who stopped in our driveway last weekend to let her dog crap in my yard, better than I like this potential customer. Although, if I am ever in Virginia again I think I’ll go to her house and poop on her lawn. The potential customer has no money. Typically, that doesn’t trouble me at all. If you can’t afford to pay but you are in desperate need, I get it, been there myself and I’ll help you as much as I can. If you’re going to ask me to help you, you need to treat me with basic human dignity. I am not your servant and the man you insist on calling “The Owner”, like maybe he has some authority over me, is not the boss of me. Let me enlighten you, Genius, “The Owner” is my husband. He doesn’t like you any better than I do. We’ll help you because you’re so unpleasant and nasty that nobody else is going to.

So there you have it. I’m disgusted through and through. I’ve had enough. I read a few things about ALEC, another topic that delivers dismay. Beyond that, we’re again working for the 1%. They don’t look at laborers, even their dogs don’t look at laborers. I think they must miss a lot that way.

Wrong Answer

My husband told me that we have luna moths that fly in dipping, circular patterns all night. Luna moths are magical, like fire flies. When I got up to pee, I looked out the window, and sure enough, they were there flying and dipping in circular patterns.

My husband makes me crazy. We are so different. One of the kids’ friends calls us Yin and Yang. I have never loved anyone as much as I love him. I yell at him because he can’t hear what I’m saying. I forget his hearing is gone. I miss it. He wants a gun, like in the North Hollywood shoot out. That happened in 1997. I don’t recall. He’s going to buy a big weapon that makes a sloooow machine gun sound. That’s not the death I’m dreaming of.

Climate change and global water depletion, I can’t stand to think of it. I’m overwhelmed. I want to smoke cigarettes again. I don’t want to hurt another living thing. The Singaporeans are on the forefront of desalination. I love where we live, in the middle of a beautiful, isolated, blueberry patch beside Route 1. Nothing is forever. I ordered 7 new bras. I don’t have a choice, no stores. Oprah is a LIAR. The bras don’t fit.

Counting Crows- “We can take it nice and slow. Are you happy where you’re sleeping? All your life is such a shame, shame, shame. All your love is just a dream dream.” This is different. When we first met I promised him we’d always have the breeze, the soft breeze that blows sheer white curtains in the window. Now he wants that deadly weapon. We can’t see. He can’t hear. I don’t know. WTF? My husband prays for work. His prayers are answered. He prays for it for all of us. The phone rings. As I recently mentioned to my blogging friend, PMAO, the perception and expression of love varies.

I’d like a cigarette. I remembered the other day, once I  knew a boy whom I loved. He told me that there were things in his life that were none of my business. Wrong answer.

Individually Independent

You don’t want to hear this again, I know you don’t. That won’t stop me. For a while I forgot who I was/am. I need new bras and a shower curtain. I spend more time devising ways to keep people out than welcoming them in. Sometimes I want to scream, so I yell instead. I go through long stretches where I do not want to get out of bed at the crack of dawn and do it all again. I contemplate the tactile sensation of steel against pallet. I consider the absorption properties of the Sealy Posturpedic mattress. I don’t have anything to say that will add to the conversation. I am marking time until I die. I have forgotten the meaning of me.

I keep chugging right along like the little engine that could. I   will   not   make   one   disparaging   remark    about those ungrateful, immature, pretentious kids. I will not point out that there is a reason I chose not to procreate. I will say my heart breaks with every disappointment my husband suffers.

I wanted to crawl inside his skin. He magnified my existence. I married him because I wanted him all to myself for the rest of my life, for the rest of his life, forever. I did the right thing. I did not keep him from his children.

I couldn’t love a man who walked away from his kids the way my father forgot us. I couldn’t respect myself for perpetuating confusion and loneliness in a child’s life. If I hadn’t consented to this we wouldn’t have done it. In fact, if I hadn’t orchestrated it, it wouldn’t have happened.

I know who I am. I will remember who I am as an independent individual. It took me five days to cut my hair. My office upstairs is fabulous. I’m going to see Taj Mahal on the 30th. I’ve got it going on.

 

Love’s Force

My husband and I are in diametric opposition to quite a lot. Sometimes we surprise each other and ourselves. *Spoiler alert- do not buy Marvin push out windows if you live in an area of high wind velocity.

Those windows were the only thing I begged for in this building. I didn’t care for cabinetry, cut corners at every opportunity, pared it down to the quick. The windows make the apartment endurable, oh yeah the heat pump is the BOMB, but the windows make the habitat habitable.

You never know how love will manifest. You can’t call it. Last week after we scared Laila the boxer dawg (not ours, one of the “boys'”), who sometimes is very warm in the summer heat and becomes a hotdawg, she was so disturbed by the yelling that she hid under my husband’s chair in my office, cringing thinking confused, upset dawg thoughts, “Why are they yelling at each other? Whose side should I be on? He gets me ice cream and burgers but she is so delightfully difficult…I love when she wraps her arms around me in the morning and tells me ‘Laila, I love you!’ Jesus why do they yell? None of this shit is important.” We were sitting in my office late Friday evening just talking about work; the wind picked up, like it always does now that the Apocalypse is looming (or so a Pentacostal woman told me with anticipatory lust). We heard a big crash. I was afraid something had exploded- the generator, the heat pump, the washing machine perhaps? We heard another crash. It was shocking and scary. My husband tore off up the stairs to our apartment.

I could hear him yelling up here. It scared me. I did not run exactly but I did move pretty fast for an old girl. I was afraid the windows had been ripped off their hinges by the wind and it was more than my husband could reconcile. The wind blew with such force that it popped the screens open, which knocked the plants on the windowsills on to the floor, smashing heavy, glazed clay, plant pots to smithereens.

My husband was enraged. He wanted to smash every motherfuckingwindowoutathisgoddamn building. I said, “Don’t worry, Honey. It’s okay. I’ll clean it up and we’ll get some new pots and different plants.” He left to close the 1st floor windows, still disgruntled.

After we had supper, he told me, “It just made me so fucking mad. I thought, ‘She never asks for anything, are plants on the fucking windowsill too much to ask?'”

I told him a few days later in an entirely different context, “I couldn’t bear to wake up to a world without you in it.”

Wildflowers over the leech field in the back yard.