The Magic Slide…

…a dreadful ride.

When I became pregnant, the already weird family dynamics became even more so. I’m not entirely sure what caused the giant explosion but there was one and little bits of dysfunctional family whatsits lay higgledy-piggledy throughout the Central Atlantic region. By the time the Milkface arrived, X wasn’t speaking to Y. Y wouldn’t acknowledge Z’s existence. Kang tried to mediate which proved as fruitful and productive as herding the metaphorical cats. Only one thing came out of that attempt and it was a spate of vicious emails. My sister (we have a mutual disdain for each other) said to me “Just you wait. After you have been a parent long enough, you’re going to become really angry and here is why: being a mediocre parent is easy. Being a good parent takes a lot of work. Being a shitty parent takes a lot of work, too. Think about it.” Then she hissed something about that being her rationale for speaking to no one in the family (save the most dysfunctional, imho, branch). From my esteemed perspective, my sister’s emotional fuels of choice have been anger and resentment. They propel her. It’s her base. My base is sadness and confusion so I cannot relate. I’m too busy scratching my head, crying and trying to figure out why everyone acts like a blistering, selfish asshole which, I hasten to add, is a total fucking waste of time (my insatiable compulsion to understand the incomprehensible).

That wisdom was filed in Kang’s “Big Book of No.” The Big Book of No is, essentially, how I parent. I look back on my experiences as a kid. I think of what my parents did. I do the opposite 90% of the time. Right now, the outcome is one Milkface who is compliant, happy, well-adjusted, exceptionally intelligent and a genuine pleasure to be around. Granted, I’m only five and a half years into the whole parenting gig but I’m confident I’m on the right path. The Big Book of No, combined with advice from anyone remotely sane seems to be working. Suck on that, those who say you can’t break cycles and unlearn bad behaviors. This bitch isn’t accepting that excuse at all. This bitch has also been in therapy for fourteen blissful years trying to be anything other than some of her parents (when you have more than two parents, you get to use the word some). It’s not fun. It’s not a comfortable admission. But, it is the truth and my reality. Furthermore, if it makes Milky’s life better – then, by all means, I’ll spend another 14 years’ worth of time and money in therapy and maybe my darling shrink can get another boat out of it, as well (The man works hard and puts up with my shit. He should actually get two boats. Possibly three.).

This past weekend was graduation at Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns. The graduation ceremony is dramatically different from the traditional ceremony we have come to accept. To me, it was lovely but emotionally exhausting – pretty much like a majority of my experiences with the school this past year for I have learned that being in a loving environment when you’re not exactly used to such a thing is fucking overwhelming. Each of the students had a letter read to them by a faculty member. The letter was actually written by the family (parents or grandparents). It was loving, supportive and nurturing. Then, each of the seniors prepared speeches. As with most things PCSGU, the students are encouraged to put themselves out there. Filtering is not something that happens at this school. Exploration is desired. Expression is encouraged. These were positively amazing expressions of love, support and gratitude. For someone raised in an environment where there was very little of this, it boggled my mind. Emotional feral cats don’t receive this. Wait – I really shouldn’t use that term without a qualifier. I wasn’t entirely emotionally deprived. I was on the receiving end of a good amount of emotional feedback; the majority of it was of the soul-crushing, esteem-destroying variety, however. While I had more of my fair share of the negative, I was starving for the positive; distended belly and all. By the grace of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, I did have some decent adults in life: my father (with whom I did not live), Kate’s parents (who become more and more heroic to me as my journey down Parenting Lane grows longer), my Swedish parents (to whom I will never ever begin to articulate how much they mean to me or how they actually saved my life) and some amazing teachers and school administrators who knew to look beyond the propaganda (the smear campaign towards anything related to Kang’s paternal side) and see the hungry child beneath the surface.

Approximately a third of the way through the commencement exercises, I was a legitimate mess. While fumbling through my sack of magic tricks, I managed to locate the tissues but realized the much needed bottle of Klonopin had been left on the kitchen counter. On the verge of becoming overly emotional and feeling like I would cause I scene, I excused myself and slithered to the bathroom to get my shit together. Because while the glowing words from the parents were read and the seniors spoke candidly of their experiences, something was overriding everything in my head. My selfish bitch wouldn’t stop whispering “Soooooooo very different from your graduation, innit? These kids are really lucky.”

My graduation was different. It was typical. 252-ish students packed in the circle gym of our high school (we had two gyms – check out the badasses up in here) in the stagnant June air. Everyone in their nice clothes, polyester blue robes, caps, etc… Aqua Net, Drakkar, Ben-Gay and boy sweat (the boys had the circle gym, the girls were stuck in the creepy, old, wooden gym) fumes permeated the room further contributing to the inability to stay awake while people droned endlessly about whatever it is we’re supposed to drone endlessly about during occasions such as these. I was separated from Kate because her last name begins with an M and mine begins with an L. The bobby pins holding the mortarboard in place were stabbing me in the scalp. My coworker tied my hair into a nice french braid but it was a bit too tight so I was crabby about that. The darkest cloud came from looking in the stands. I saw my father, his girlfriend, my then boyfriend (a college lad…ooooh) and my aunt and uncle. So, 50% of my parents were represented. 50% were not. Incidentally, the absent party included a teacher in the school district. One who worked directly across the street from the building we were in. And if you didn’t think that wasn’t the dominating thought of the evening for me, you’re wrong. It was so present and cause of so much shame for me, it was a large contributing factor to why I drove the 40 minutes back to my father’s house instead of going to a post-graduation kegger. Yes. 40 minutes to a house that wasn’t even in the school district.

What?

You see, my mother’s house had a very unique feature: The Magic Slide. If memory serves me correctly (and it does because I have one of those weird memories that recalls just about everything vividly), my sister and I came up with this one day at my dad’s house. Where my sister lived. She lived with him from the age of 14 onward and not by choice. My mother decided that she no longer wanted to parent my sister so my sister was shoved down The Magic Slide and landed straight in my father’s yard. Locks were changed. My sister was banished. I only saw her on my father’s custodial visitation schedule. I was seven years old and I basically became an only child. This was only mildly upsetting since my sister wasn’t exactly the nicest person to me, even then. But still, personal contempt for my sister aside, shoving her down The Magic Slide, separating siblings and the trauma it caused her was pretty horrific. I also knew that I would eventually suffer the same fate. The only questions were “when?” and “how long could I evade it?” My father moved out of the school district to a more rural area and this bitch wasn’t going to a cowtown high school in the middle of nowhere. This bitch had visions of going to college and nothing was going to get in the way of getting the fuck out of dodge for good. Sweden was a legitimate way to run away but that was only a temporary escape. Even I knew that. Returning to America remains one of the saddest days in my life.

My mother and stepfather were long convinced that I was a loser with zero prospects in life. They would have lengthy discussions at the dinner table (my presence irrelevant) about how I would amount to nothing, how I would be lucky if I could score a place at the lowly (they looked down upon it yet my stepfather eventually taught there so go…irony?) community college. I was my father’s daughter and therefore I was only partially human. The fact that I had a solid B GPA was irrelevant. The fact that I wasn’t a troublemaker at school, also irrelevant. The fact that I worked two jobs in high school also did not factor into any character assessments. Rather than spending time parenting me, I was, more often than not, grounded for the slightest infraction. Granted, I did develop quite a sarcastic mouth and contempt for their authority but it’s next to impossible to respect those who have zero respect for you and spend most of their time shitting on you for things you cannot control – like your own fucking DNA. That I loved my dad did me no favors at all. That I didn’t care for their incessant trashing of me and that I would stand up for myself didn’t bode well for me. After a while, when you realize whatever you choose leads you to punishment, you start to care less and less. You cannot change the opinions of others so why bother? Survival mode kicks in and all you do is try to make it through the day without sustaining some form of abuse. You cling to your friends, your hopes and your dreams. You build a strong work ethic and save your pennies to get the fuck out of the hell you’re in as quickly as possible. You stop caring altogether yet you don’t because there is no possible way to fully accept that the person who is supposed to love you the most, your mother, not only doesn’t love you – she hates you. She hates you because you remind her of a mistake she made. You remind her of her bad judgment. You’re a scar but you’re human so you can’t literally be thrown away. You can, however, be used as a pawn, belittled, emotionally destroyed, mocked, slapped around, deliberately deceived and outright tricked.

I knew I had a game to play if I didn’t want to go down my sister’s road to cowtown high. I had to eat the shit, develop ways to minimize the damage to me (as my father referred to them, “catatonic fits.”) and generally try to be as invisible as possible. Unfortunately, being a teenager and knowing everything, I was a bit too precocious and audacious so I would battle back. It’s unrealistic to expect a human to be trampled on so many times before they rise up and say “Really? Fuck this shit.” and return fire. I returned fire one too many times. My punishment: hearing in May of 1989 that my ticket for The Magic Slide had arrived. My mother declared that she was done with being a parent and that I was my father’s problem now. Like my sister before me, I was given my termination date as her child which would be repeatedly barked at me in a harrowing, taunting fashion. No one stopped her. No one corrected her. She was rife with fury and completely out of control. In her mind, she had “suffered” enough and was done. Her horrible, evil ex-husband was to pick up the slack he never did in her mind. The minor child of whom she had custody was no longer her problem. Let’s completely disregard what the law would say about that, too.

Here’s the thing she never fully understood: be as angry as you want at your ex-husband. Rage all that you want towards your ex. You do not, under any circumstance, let your child see that shit go down for every time you do, you send the message to the child that 50% of that child is a piece of shit. You send the message to the child that you think the child is garbage. You send the message to your child that you don’t love your child because you don’t love your ex. You send the message to your child that you hate your child because you hate your ex. And this is exactly what 17 year old Kang received for high school graduation. Validation that her mother hated her. Plain and simple. Then, after packing her bags with the help of some friends (because she received none from the parents who were all too anxious to get rid of her), she was pushed down The Magic Slide, just like her sister before her.

The school district, having seen this happen with my sister, had mercy on me and allowed me to finish the year and graduate as a student in spite of no longer residing in the district. They knew the score. They felt badly for me. My college recommendation letters from staff and faculty had references to my stellar home life. “Look at what this kid did in spite of…” Yay. I was marketed not on my achievements but on the fact that I came from a fucked up family and managed to survive. And this is why I loathe pity from others.

The Monday after my magical ride down The Magic Slide, I foolishly returned to my former residence to collect my mail. It seemed like an obvious thing to do. I was paying a good amount of my own bills then (because I was treated like a tenant rather than a child). I arrive at the door, stick my key in the lock and turn. Nothing happened. I had been gone less than 48 hours and the locks were changed. It was then I accepted that my mother didn’t love me and likely never would. I walked to my car and broke down in tears. To be dismissed and rejected by your own mother is a special sort of agony. It’s a pain that doesn’t abate. Ever. You will always walk around with that and wonder if people know that part of you. You can convince yourself that it says more about the other person. As a parent, I cannot wrap my head around this behavior and think it speaks volumes of a parent’s failure and character flaws. As an individual, it’s a shame I’ll never be able to scrub off, no matter how many showers I take, no matter how many times I may be decontaminated, no matter how many years I will spend in therapy. Not only was I told by my mother that she was done being a parent, the locks were changed. The message was driven home – not only was I not welcome, I no longer existed. It set the tone for the rest of my life. And for as many times as I tried to build a relationship with her after (why on Earth would I even try, I have been asked – because…no matter how hard you work to get better, being rejected by your mother is insuperable and I’m only human), I know in my gut, she will never love me. So, I tried building a relationship with her for the sake of my son. It has been a very hard struggle for me. I feel like I have built a constructive relationship with my stepfather (finally…he approves of me and is proud of me). My mother – not so much. Today was another exercise in stepping on an emotional landmine and I’m not sure how to proceed or if I should even bother at this point. I will not have my perspective devalued nor will I sit and be screamed at.

Sixteen years ago, I made a promise to myself to take myself out of the line of fire. Two years ago, I put myself back on the range as a target to do the right thing (I maintain zero regrets there). Two years later, knowing full and well that people don’t change, I remain heartbroken that lessons haven’t been learned by either party. Fourteen years of missed opportunities – a wedding, amazing career progression on my part, the arrival of a grandson – have taught her nothing. Fourteen years of deep introspection and I’m left to wonder if I’m making a huge mistake letting certain people into my life. And what do I do about my child who has developed an attachment to a potentially harmful person? He can’t be pushed down a Magic Slide but he can be hurt if he doesn’t toe the line to the exacting specifications. Right now, he’s perfect. What happens when he isn’t? What kind of mother will I be if I set him up for a similar disappointment – to be emotionally dumped on the side of the road because of whatever reason my mother deems fit?

The families who experienced the joys of commencement on Saturday – outwardly – had a blissful, wonderful experience and I’m genuinely happy for them. I hope that the same is going on behind closed doors. Shit, a reasonable facsimile would be fine with me. Anything other than my experience, at least.

I think I’m still going to wrestle with the positivity that surrounds PCSGU for years to come. Milky thrives there. My struggle to manage the feels and the good vibes will not become his burden. I’ll slink off to my car and save the tears from the overwhelming feelings for the ride home or share them with my dear friends who understand the same pain, the random internet people who read this rambling nonsense and the wise shrink who has made me well enough to parent my child in a very different fashion than the models I had. Eventually, I will learn to accept them as familiar. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to fully embrace them as normal, however. My normal is different. My normal is rooted in confusion, heartbreak and consistent disappointment. My normal, no matter how far away I get from the hellscape that was my childhood, is always going to have an undertone of “Why?” and “How” and “Why? How? Who?” To be able to entirely let go would be ideal and the desired outcome but I’m realistic. I don’t think that will ever happen. There is a part of me that doesn’t want it to happen (for now, at least), either. That part of me allows me to remain hyper-vigilant and ensure that my son’s childhood isn’t mine; that he grows up knowing his parents love him, that his parents will always be stable and reliable and will do anything and everything it takes to make sure he is secure and provided for. It’s my touchstone. It’s my Big Book of No. It’s my parenting manifesto, if you please.

And to those who may think that I’m disconnected from reality or not focused on my son – they should take a long, hard look in the mirror. When Milky was a few months old, my father stopped by to visit. Milky was fussy that afternoon and crying a bit. I turned to my father and said “I don’t want to fuck this up. I want to be a good parent.” My father turned to me and said “You’re already a much better parent than most.” And with that, I knew that things would be ok for my kid. That, at the very least, my priorities were in the right place and the behaviors weren’t inherited. There would be no Magic Slide in my back yard.

The cycle was broken.

“I got yer fiscal responsibility…

…right here in my lapbanded gut.” Governor Sammiches: football seasons 2010 and 2011, somewhere in Fuck-All, New Jersey

Chris Christie has t3h munchies

Short and sweet: how in the name of sweet holy fuck do you rack up $82,000 in expenses on fucking stadium food and beer when you have a gastric band in yo motherfucking belly? Let’s just ask the resident blowhard in Joisey, Governor Chris Christie, to tell us. But he won’t. He can’t. His mommy told him not to talk with food in his mouth.

Now, I’m sure there is a logical explanation for this astounding display of supply chain management discipline. After all, we Sayers-of-the-Word-NO make damn sure there are limitations in place so the P-Card system couldn’t possibly be abused. You know, used at places such as department stores and sports arenas. Unless, of course, you’re the governor and you can throw any purchasing and contract grunt out on their ass with the snap of a greasy finger and toss of a chicken bone over one’s rotund shoulder and quadruple chin.

Awww. I’m being hard on the man, am I? Fuck him. I’m going to call him a fat, miserable lout. I’m going to take the low road and mock him whenever the opportunity presents itself and it’s not solely because he’s from the cesspool that is New Jersey, either. I’m going to do it because he’s a double-talking, idiotic shitstain who yells at teachers and is, generally, a blight on humanity.

$82,000. How many teachers, combined, make $82,000 Governor Sammiches? Of the teachers you have verbally eviscerated while provolone cheese drips down your Jabba the Hutt chin, how many of those would have to work one year to make $82,000? And, what would their personal financial outlay be to make sure their classrooms are appropriately equipped with all necessary supplies that you and your horned cohorts cut from budgets like you slice through butter to put on your margarine covered bread?

Governor Sammiches, you could come up with an iron clad alibi. You could provide receipts showing that you took every single foster kid and/or orphan in your state to a game for Christmas for all I care. There’s no excusing $82,000 on foodstuffs in two years. I don’t spend $82,000 on stuffed animals, toys for my kid, my hair and my wardrobe in a decade and I can spend some money. I’m so motherfucking talented at spending money, I made a career out of it.

Such a gross display of disregard for one’s office, one’s civic duty and the tax payers is so vile it doesn’t even merit a spot in the Go Fuck Yourself Weekly hall of shame. Nope. It merits a much nastier penalty: living in New Jersey for the rest of your artery clogged, loud mouthed life. And to be precise – Newark or Trenton.

Mother’s Day…

…Hallmark’s emotional landmine.

Yeah, I’m going to do what I do best. I’m going down south to the depths of sadness and despair. You know, where I shit on the good feels because that is EXACTLY what I do best. BUT, I do it with such flair and style so it’s okay, right? I hasten to add the following isn’t coming from an ungrateful or selfish place at all. It comes from the place where Kang’s heart and brain spends most of its time; in the land of the overlooked and forgotten. The Island of Misfit Toys, if you please.

Motherhood is something we should celebrate. If one thinks about the process of falling in and out of love, the manic highs and the soul crushing lows – how the euphoria of being in love makes you feel giddy, drunk and sparkly and the trauma of rejection and a broken heart makes you feel like throwing yourself in front of a train – is so powerful and overwhelming, love cannot touch motherhood with a ten foot pole on the emotional scale. It is, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the best gift a woman can receive.

Or maybe that’s simply my perspective formed after battling infertility for well over a decade. A battle so consuming it resulted in my locking myself away from all things baby: no baby showers, no visiting new babies, refusing to hold freshly arrived bundles of joy because I knew I would fall apart knowing that I was resigned to a life of not being a mom. And while I would walk around and try to convince others I was comfortable with my fate, people who barely knew me would, rightfully, tell me otherwise. I hated them. After one last futile attempt to procreate, I decided to do what any irrational human would do: I bought a really expensive car. Seven months later, I was pregnant without any assistance. As the saying goes “Man plans; God laughs.” Woman commits to spending an obscene amount of money; Flying Spaghetti Monster says “Oh, I didn’t realize you thought you were rich. Let me give you something to actually deplete your finances.”

So, there’s landmine number one: Mother’s Day for the women who can’t [be mothers] but desperately want to. It’s awful. If they manage to get out of bed, be kind to them. If they are crying, don’t ask why. Just hold them, comfort them and if she has a proclivity for shoes, shiny objects or something material that you deem silly, buy it for her. Distract her. Mourn with her. Support her. My perspective: don’t take her out to brunch, lunch or dinner. There are too many happy (appearing) families outside. Seeing smiling face upon smiling face enjoying family fun time is akin to being riddled with a billion bullet holes and then having someone try to soothe the wounds with salt. Just. Don’t.

Landmine number two: those who don’t have relationships with their mothers or those who have very difficult relationships with their mothers.

Do not judge for you are not a mental health professional with a full work-up of a patient. You do not know why a relationship failed. You do not understand why things could be more difficult for some than others. Humans are weird, nonsensical and often disappointing. Alternatively, humans do the best they can with what they have and sometimes, their proverbial tool boxes aren’t fully stocked with all they need to get through life. The end result is usually a giant ball of pain. And this ball is like those pink, rubber balls: you throw it as hard and as far as you can, yet the little bastard always comes back (like the cat in the camp song, if you please) and pegs you squarely in the face.

On a day when people are celebrating, sending flowers and schmaltzy cards to their mothers, there is a group of people out there who aren’t. Some of them are thinking “Phew! Bullet dodged!” Some of them may be thinking “Yeah, this doesn’t feel the greatest. I wish I had a mommy to talk to when the shitstorm hit and I left my shitstorm umbrella at home.” There are others who are likely feeling the combination of both. What do you do on a day when it’s all about mom and you don’t have one? What do you do when your experiences and memories aren’t those made for maudlin, feel good, family television sitcoms? It must be a very isolating experience like being alone on Thanksgiving, Christmas or Assholian Valentine’s Day®. Sure, you can find your substitute moms, those who stepped up and assumed the responsibility out of the kindness of their hearts, but it’s just not the same. It never is. It never will be.

Landmine number three: those whose mothers have died.

This is one I cannot even relate to. Thank goodness my mother is still here. Sincerely. Yes, there may have been times in my adolescence where I have cursed her very existence out of general teenage angst. There were instances in young adulthood when I didn’t appreciate what I have. I haven’t lost Carole. I’m fucking lucky and I know this. As the years go on, I thank the Great Flying Spaghetti Monster for keeping all of my parents (biological, step, host, Kate’s) on this planet for me to love and take for granted.

I remember when Carole’s mother (my maternal grandmother) passed away quite clearly thanks to my freakish memory which annoys the hell out of everyone. It was Spring Break of 1992, my last semester of Kolludge. I had just arrived back in Philly from Beffalo (yes, Beffalo – there was a buffalo/cow hybrid farm down the road from Kolludge) State University full of nothing of substance and a desire to continue chain smoking cigarettes and swilling shit beer. My mother was in no mood for my inanity which was not unusual. What was unusual was the reason.

Her mother, who was in her 80s, had fallen ill and was in the hospital. A flurry of activity was taking place, largely via phone. My stepfather, ever supportive of mom, was trying to figure out the fastest way to get from Philly to Pittsburgh. He mentioned chartering a plane for her. My stepfather’s love for my mother is so strong that if he could figure out a way to build a time machine and preserve everything for her, I have no doubt in my mind that he would do exactly that. Within a few hours, my grandmother had passed. And, aside from the recollection of my stepfather’s intense efforts to help mom get to Pittsburgh, my strongest recollection of that night was my mother’s crying in the kitchen and hearing the words “I’m an orphan.” It may seem that I’m slightly detached from my grandmother’s death as I write this. I’m not. It was painful. That said, through that entire ordeal, there was nothing as painful as seeing my mother cry, hearing those words, watching an accomplished, strong, ferocious woman become a very sad, little girl in our kitchen and knowing there was no possible way I could provide any measure of comfort what-so-ever.

On Mother’s Day, I think of my friends, my family and others who have lost their mothers and can only imagine the pain. Memories are great but, let’s face it, they’re not the same as holding your mother’s hand, hearing her voice or getting a peck on the head from her.

Landmine number four: mothers whose children have died.

For what is a Mother’s Day without your child? Fucking hell. Anniversary of the death of said child aside, is there a worse day of the year to be a mother than Mother’s Day?

It comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me that I have handled Kate’s death with the grace and dignity of a three year old who has been told the word “No.” I will neither apologize nor make excuses for my grief, either. My best friend, my soul mate is dead. She’s not coming back and there isn’t a fucking thing I can do about it. And while I try to do one uniquely Kate thing every day to celebrate her, I’m still really fucking angry and hurt. I don’t know that there will come a day when grief isn’t a dominating force in my life. The only thing I can say is that I have accepted this and I manage the emotions better than I used to. That’s the best I can hope for in my particular case.

I look at Milkface and all of the joy he brings me. How he makes the worst days infinitely better with a hug, a smile, a silly joke or a story about his day. I think about how lucky I am to be his mother. My favorite part of the day is when I pick him up from school so I can see him again. Milkface is definitely my favorite human.

Then, I think of Kate’s parents.

Kate’s parents aren’t just “parents.” They’re not just two amazing people who did everything right and raised two brilliant, successful, good human beings. They’re not just accomplished professionals who worked very hard throughout their entire lives. They’re not simply good pillars in their community. To me, they’re the model to follow in life.

To think of Kate’s mom on this day of all days gives me a massive case of the sads. I understand she is not alone – that she’s a member of a shitty club no one wishes to belong to and everyone would reject membership to if remotely possible. Moms who lost infants, children who were young, adult children – it doesn’t matter. The pain is the pain. It’s not one I’m sure I’m emotionally sound enough to endure, either. I’d sooner throw myself on the funeral pyre than outlive my child. And no, I’m not being dramatic, either.

So, as I find myself doing on most holidays, Hallmark or non/bullshit or legitimate, my mind wanders to those who may not be having the most celebratory of days. Those who may be feeling a bit lost, certainly blue and in need of a hug (like my bewildered friend in Borås). And because I’m hopelessly drawn to wanting to fix emotional boo-boos, I get frustrated because I don’t have that particular magic wand that makes everything all better. I lack that certain magical kiss to make the ouchies go away. Instead, I hide behind my words and hope that they make their way to the eyes of the right person who needs to know that in spite of the pain and the shittiness and the unfairness that is life, there is someone who gets that this day may not be “all that,” who recognizes that life is a bit messier than we had hoped it would be and happens to have a giant box of Kleenex and a huge pile of stuffed animals for snuggling.

It’s not a condemnation of holidays or celebrations – more so a reminder to be grateful for what it is we have and mindful of those who may not be as fortunate or may be struggling.

Failure is an option…

…and a viable one, at that.

Content wise, I have been resisting the urge to push links to other stories and articles. We did that in KangWorld, which was fine, but Random Misanthrope is more about us and less about everyone else. Every now and then, I’ll stumble across a story and think “Hmmm…this needs to be shared” and then nope away from it because it’s not in scope; not what this iteration of Kang’s int4rw3bz fuckery is about.

Today, I’m breaking the law. I’m washing the dog. I’m being an editorial rebel because I just (fo realsies and shit) finished reading an article that was like an egg beater to the brain. A much needed kick in the pants for me, at the very least. A sorely needed reminder that it’s perfectly fine to fall flat on your face, owning it is good and sharing the failure is even better.

Professional Kang has never had a problem with owning her mistakes. Early in her career, she learned it’s an admirable trait and people appreciate honesty, chutzpah and the willingness to right the wrong. Personal Kang loathes failure. In fact, she lives in visceral fear of it. Why she cannot apply what works so well for her professionally to her personal life is something she struggles with daily; especially since she knows she really is far too intelligent to have such a significant mental disconnect blocking her on-ramp to Happiness Highway. :vomits in mouth a little:

With that blather done and addressed, I’ll get to the good stuff: the article in The Guardian titled “My big fail: losers come clean on their all-time low.” I tried looking for a few passages to pull out as a teaser and, really, I don’t think it’s fair to the article to do that. Everything is compelling and to snag a snippet for click-bait would be…meh. Not to mention, each of the vignettes deserves its full due. I suppose the only thing I could really carve out and leave as a point to ponder is this:

“A failure isn’t always big. It might just be a realisation that you could be doing better things with your life.”

Ahead of me, tomorrow, is a long drive home to Philly with my ever-present sidekick, the Milkfaced One. At some point, as we molder on I-95 in Virginia, he will fall asleep and I’ll be left with some quiet time to climb up into my brain and over-think just about everything in my life as I’m wont to do. I will be revisiting my friend, The Big Bewildered Bunny of Borås. I will be intensely auditing the past six or seven weeks of the clichéd “new normal.” I will be wondering how and why it is that I use the right words on the wrong people and what I can do to correct that timesuck. There’s nothing quite like the breakdown (or epic fail) of a major relationship in your life to get you thinking about all of your relationships with everyone else. Who is worth the time? Who isn’t? Now that you find yourself feeling pain, are you inflicting it on others and what the fuck are you going to do about that, sugartits, because that’s not a good way to go through life?

Then, I’m going to do something very bold: I’m going to ask myself the question “What’s it going to take to make you happy?” Supremely happy. Because I have learned two things as I adjust to the “new normal” and they are:

Happiness: it’s mine for the taking.
Failure: just a synonym for opportunity.

Kang tries poetry…

…and doesn’t do it well.

Kitten says it’s World Poetry Day. This is my contribution. It’s not satire. It’s not snarkasm. It’s a stunning display of my complete ineptitude and my deep appreciation for the beauty that Blitz and Kitten produce so easily. Sincerely, I’m in awe of their talent.

Years ago, before Kang existed, Kang’s parents were beatniks living in Greenwich Village (explains a lot, nej?). They hung out with poets, walked the walk and talked the talk (but did they inhale?). Yet, this influence and the words from the first editions of Ginsberg’s works that sit on my nightstand (thank you, Daddy) enter my brain, swirl around and go to the file cabinet drawer where things like finite and applied calculus reside. Poetry, like men and mathematics, is a code I cannot crack no matter how hard I try.

Marnie can’t Haiku
although she doesn’t blame you
Poetry is weird.

Oh, Kang. You made Applebloom sad.

To the poets of the world, I thank you for the gift you share, the joy you bring and the thoughts you provoke.

The Big Bewildered Bunny of Borås…

…is bewildered.

Last week, in the world of pop culture, people invested an enormous amount of time in a picture; a picture of a dress that plays games with your mind due the way the brain processes color. The dress sparked animated debates, destroyed relationships and, for all I know, caused millions of support groups to form around the world. When things get messy, as the world is right now, it’s a lot easier to focus on the trivial. Everyone deserves a break from doing mental gymnastics and trying to make sense of the senseless. The world is not the nicest of places to be with its wars, starvation, disease, poverty and loss. Sometimes, all a person can do is look for a mindless distraction. I managed to avoid the all-consuming dress debate. My contribution was a Jules Winnfield meme because the world needs more Jules Winnfield. I may have also grumbled a bit about hypothetical kids on my hypothetical lawn.

The picture that caught my attention went largely unnoticed by the masses. It was taken by Miss Kitten as she went about her day to day life, spreading the joys of English throughout Sweden. Miss Kitten posted this picture and titled it “The Big Bewildered Bunny of Borås.” Instantaneously, I had a connection to the bunny. The bunny’s expression is captivating. So captivating that some of us started wondering why the bunny looks the way he does. Being the diagnostician that I am, I wanted to know if the bunny had a backstory (after research, it does but it’s not relevant to my perspective so I’m going to do what I do with shit like that – largely ignore it). Miss Kitten said she did not know (we both did agree that the bunny is a boy) and suggested that I create my own. Heh. Challenge accepted.

Oh the humanity…

My theory: The Big Bewildered Bunny of Borås was likely a completely normal, well-adjusted bunny who was plopped into position in the park and was denied the opportunity of running away from the scary and freaky that is humankind. The years of exposure to the shitshow that is humanity has made the bunny not jaded but exceptionally exhausted and, well, bewildered.

And what evidence do I have to support this, you ask? In the spirit of full disclosure, I have yet to visit Borås. Usually, we just drive by it on our way to somewhere else. From what I know of Borås, it’s not overflowing with unusual people. It’s not globally renown for being a freak show. Borås doesn’t have to have a reputation as such to cause a bunny to become hopeless or confused, though. Wherever there are people; there will be weird. That is a fact. The same could be said of disappointment. And for those inclined to sport the rose colored glasses, I will even acquiesce and say there may be love or optimism. Essentially, there is a whole lot of shit, the bunny has seen it all and now the bunny needs a stiff drink, a big hug and (potentially) some reassurance that things are going to be ok.

I understand the bunny with his confused expression and wonky ears. I know the bunny’s struggle. I’m the Short Bewildered Bunny of North Raleigh.

Life, as I know it, currently makes no fucking sense at all. For three weeks, I have been walking around with a similar expression (my ears are smaller and not pointy, however) and in, presumably, a similar mental fog. All that I knew to be real and valid disappeared within the course of an hour. The bits and pieces are now mine to reassemble and, because life is just a funny, little prankster, I have no user manual. Furthermore, tech support is closed. My existence is now akin to the experience of putting together Ikea furniture; largely frustrating, lacking the necessary tools yet potentially fruitful so long as I keep myself from going completely barking mad in the process. Sincerely, it has not been a good month (never cared much for February with its assholian Valentine’s Day, its dreary weather and complete inability to decide how many days it wants). I may be smiling on the outside but on the inside…not so much. And for a person like me, lacking in goals is one thing but I have always had some sort of forward momentum. Now, not only do I not have forward momentum, I find myself regressing – moving backwards on the happiness scale, making blunder upon blunder, committing offense after offense. It’s a shame spiral of epic proportions and, as usual, the harder I try to stop the madness, the more mad the madness becomes. The mess. It. Is. Everywhere. :lowers head in shame:

Feeling unsettled and discombobulated has never suited me. Some people are more adept at managing these feelings and life in a state of flux. I am not one of those people. I need a certain amount of structure and order to foster a sense of emotional security and balance. I don’t object to confusion, in general, because it is my muse. I do mind when confusion is consuming, though. I especially detest it when I cannot identify the source or the solution. It becomes far too distracting and deprives me of joy. It causes me to do peculiar things like falling into silence and becoming a passive participant in life. My ability to make smart decisions lessens so I opt for making no decisions at all. I don’t recommend this particular approach if you’re an adult with a job or a child or any sense of responsibility. People may find that disappointing or frustrating. Also, the outcomes are subpar.

But the worst part of this all-consuming bewilderment is the toll it has taken on my psyche. I can think of dozens if instances as of late when I did not know what was going on in my heart, head or gut. I can also recall, clear as day, the times where instead of speaking, I stood mute, literally paralyzed by fear or confusion with words in my brain begging to be set free yet the body unwilling to cooperate. Instead of opening up, I shut down. The dreaded blank stare that frustrates my father so very much has made way too many appearances on my moon face. The catalyst behind the mess has triggered a shift from “This is who I am” to “Who am I, again?” Alternatively, “Why?” It makes me add another row of bricks to my wall that protects me from the outside world; the wall I work so very hard at knocking down so connections can be made with others as opposed to making connections with large sculptural bunnies who aren’t necessarily bewildered, they’re just looking for love (the actual name for the sculpture is Mate Hunting). Wait a minute – love is bewildering. Go on with your bad self, bunny friend.

Last week, before the snow that ate Raleigh arrived, I was at the store (of course) and was invited to go fuck myself by a very charming man in front of the shredded cheese. The invitation was offered out of the blue as I was just standing there. *POOF* In an instance where my forked tongue would be quick to issue a takedown, nothing happened but a smile. But I did walk away with a very confused expression and some concern for the shredded cheese. The man was boorish. I was unsettled. I cannot imagine how the poor shredded cheese must have felt. Think of what he must have said to it knowing shredded cheese was entirely incapable of defending itself. All that said, my response to the charming man was atypical for me. I do not smile and walk away from things like that. If anything, I leave entrails on the floor but I do it in a sweet, endearing fashion befitting the lady I was raised to be and the mother I have become. Yet, this very morning, the forked tongue rears its head in a playful manner and slices someone in half. Someone who, quite likely, had no idea I was joking and certainly doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of any negativity from me. :lowers head in shame further and tries to lodge it up ass:

After the three week ago incident, I promised myself several things. I promised that I would be kind to myself (whatever the fuck that means). I promised that I would be patient with those around me and myself. I promised that I would make no decisions in an emotional state. I promised myself the luxury of emoting when I felt like it and not emoting if I didn’t. I reassured myself that it was ok to be confused, sad and bewildered; to be lacking in the answers department. Then, I made what I felt to be the most important promise of all: my shit would not bleed on to others. I may be going through some confusing and trying times but these problems and issues are mine and mine alone. Others will not pay the price for my sadness, anger or confusion. Until this morning, I was doing pretty well, too.

So, where does one go from here? How does one un-bewilder herself, right the wrongs, find her path back to whatever her version of normal is? Should I make a pilgrimage to Borås and leave an offering of sculptural carrots at the feet of the Big Bewildered Bunny? Is it time to run away with Milkface and join the circus (No)?

I do not know.

For the past three weeks, that’s been the way I have been answering most questions because I’m an honest lass (to a fault). I do not know.

What I know is that I feel awful. I feel lost, confused, bewildered, baffled and an aching desire to hide under the blankets where I can daydream about pleasant things. I know my boss was right when she told me to take the afternoon off and do something nice for myself. I know that my friends are right when they offer me encouragement and help make my life easier with their general awesomeness. I know that wisdom lies in surprising places. My amazing five year old reminded me of that on assholian Valentine’s Day when I was feeling unusually low. I also know that I have survived worse upsets than this and in the end, we’re all ending up where we’re supposed to be.

Lastly, my next visit to Swedenland will definitely include a stop in Borås. I’m not a fan of the selfie. There are actually very few pictures of me in human form (octopus form – totally different story). I will, however, take a picture of myself with the Big Bewildered Bunny of Borås. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be a little less bewildered and help bunny feel the same.

I see what you did there.

Go Fuck Yourself Weekly: Ronald Reagan and His Sheeple

Thinking. You’re doing it wrong. Alternatively, not at all.

Good grief. The stupid…it is powerful.

This shit popped up today. Isn’t it just sooooooo funny‽ Don’t you see the fucking hilarity of it all? If Ronald Reagan was alive, ISIS would be WASWAS!!!! ZOMG – The sheer brilliance of it all! King Ronnie would shepherd his flock to safety. He would save the world! No more pesky and nagging threats from radical religious fundamentalists with a thirst for blood and an unyielding need for decapitating human beings. Peace on Earth shall be. Finally. And after that, King Ronnie would quickly rid the world of the scourge that is Welfare Queens in Escalades. Although, he’ll only do that to those who are of color. White, corporate welfare queens; you are safe. Kindly resume life in your ivory towers giving zero fucks about the struggle outside the moat. It is not yours to manage.

And this is why Rainbow Dash is 20% cooler than you.

What these people who post this tripe fail to understand is that Al-Qaeda and its bastard children are the fucking product of Ronald Reagan’s foreign policy. In the spirit of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Ronald Reagan armed, trained and developed the militia that is now Al-Qaeda (and subsequent splinter groups cum bastard children). This is a fucking fact. Yet, it’s so oft overlooked, I wonder where my generation was when this was in the news? Oh wait – outside playing until the street lights come on. That’s right. I forgot about the series of memes waxing idiotic about the good old days when it was acceptable to beat your kids and kids didn’t sit in front of screens all of the time. Also, do homework.

And, furthermore, how was Reagan going to deal with ISIS? Was he going to deploy that monument to awesome military strategy taught to all West Pointers? You know the one I’m talking about – running away like a fucking coward when 241 Marines were slaughtered in Beirut?

These people who think Ronald Reagan was the Second Coming (more like the Second Coming of Lucifer if you happen to be religious) seemingly overlook all that was wrong with the 80s. They forget about the bullshit that is “Trickle Down Economics.” Fuck that. Why should any of us have to wait for a fucking trickle? Why didn’t anyone ask that question? You work hard. You think a trickle is an acceptable reward for your labor? This bitch doesn’t. This bitch, like many other bitches, doesn’t break her back so an executive can have a golden parachute.

Iran/Contra. I could go on for hours about that because I listened to every single hearing during the summer of 1987. I’m emotionally scarred. My shrink has advised me not to go back to that point in time.

The dissolution of the family farm. Now, we have agricorporations. It’s not unlike the health care model Nixon and Kaiser developed in the 70s. Shut out the little guys, allow the big corporations to take over and *presto* instant monopoly, albeit legal.

These are mere highlights of one of the absolute worst things to befall this country. And people line up to metaphorically gargle the balls of Saint Ronnie’s corpse. Not even Nancy would go that far (unless her astrologer told her to).

So, for those spreading the ISIS/WASWAS, for those who ache for the golden era of Ronald Reagan and for Ronald Reagan and his political cabinet (less James Brady) – CONGRATULATIONS, MOTHERFUCKERS. You are the recipient of this week’s Go Fuck Yourself Weekly award.

Don’t like it? There’s the door, sugartits.

The motherfucking dress…

…motherfuckers.

Say it, motherfuckers.

Work in progress. I has one. In fact, I was thinking of wrapping it up today but the Go Fuck Yourself Weekly post is so fucking fantastic that I didn’t want to bury it under the weight of The Big Bewildered Bunny of Borås. Then Blitz decided to bury it with a poem about that motherfucking dress. The cunting dress. The dress that has enraged me so much that I’m now suffering from bloody Tourette Syndrome and am one step away from involuntary commitment to a psych ward.

Dress, I fucking hate you. There is only one blue dress that matters and that’s the one with Bill Clinton’s DNA on it. There’s only one white dress that matters but the fuck if I know what it is because I DON’T FUCKING CARE.

Llamas in dresses, llamas on the lam, dresses on llamas, dresses changing colors, dresses, dresses causing me distresses.

My thoughts on the dress:

1. It is fucking hideous.
2. It is made of substandard fabric.
3. It doesn’t deserve to see the light of day.
4. Not even the most desperate of drag queens would touch it.
5. You’re going to see it on Halloween (Someone who is trying too hard to be funny will wear it).

FUCK. THE. DRESS.

Love,
Kang

Pay parity…

…or unfair disparity?

Poor, poor men. Honestly, I have no idea how they manage to live through conversation upon conversation about pay parity. It has to be tedious and frustrating, listening to us shrill women moan about the measly cents on the dollar we earn. It is so very gracious of the men to listen and provide broad shoulders for support. From my perspective, nothing soothes me more than a man telling me to relax about this grievous injustice. Wait. That’s not true. Ideally, I would be most pacified by a broad shouldered man telling me to relax about the 77 cents on the dollar I earn while pushing my head towards his dick so I may fellate him. Yes. That’s the good stuff, indeed.

Oh? You mean you’re tired of this dialogue? You think it’s been done to death, do you? Are you intimating that I’m beating a dead horse? Really? I agree that I have written about this very subject before. I agree that it is most unfortunate that I’m writing about it again, four years later, with zero movement towards eliminating this inequity. It must be tough having to go through life dealing with this verbal pollution when you’re trying to enjoy mindless entertainment such as The Oscars and you’re confronted with the harsh reality of what those of us with internal plumbing deal with on a daily basis. Genuinely tough. I should have more compassion but as it stands, I can only offer up 77% of the full 100%. After all, that’s the disparity in my paycheck. You pay me a 1:1, I’ll consider giving you a 1:1 but only after the same amount of time has passed. You need to appreciate my struggle.

From my vantage point, the most frustrating thing about pay disparity is my output – my final product. After many years of toiling away in procurement, I transitioned to consulting (I’m sooooo talented, I get paid to tell people how to do their jobs). Now, instead of logging hours in an office and interfacing with suppliers and clinical staff, I hide in my house, interacting with Excel, three cats, one dog and a fish. My product is an Excel monument to Rube Goldberg detailing the numerous ways hospitals can reduce spend via cost savings and utilization measures. If you removed any traces of my name from my work and either printed it or forwarded it via email – the end user would have no idea if it had been slapped together by a man or a woman, let alone a human being. It could have very well been calculated by those million monkeys (they are everywhere these days) and their pesky typewriters (although, those monkeys would have to be pretty fucking smart and the typewriters certainly wouldn’t cut it in the modern era). Nonetheless, there is no way of knowing which gender did the work.

So, if there is no way of knowing which gender did the work – how and why would there be a difference in how the employee is compensated? Yet, the probability for disparity is there. Oh hell, it’s not a probability. It’s definite.

Now, I’m not saying this is the case with my organization. I’m certainly not saying this to be a sycophant, either. After you spend x-many years in the workforce and acquire a skillset along with some wisdom, you do have certain luxuries extended to you. If you’re not in a particular hurry to land a job, you do have the good fortune of being selective about what sort of organization you choose to work for. I’m considerably persnickety in this regard. Look for an organization that values diversity and you’re less likely to be on the 77:100 end of the scale. That said, it’s not necessarily a guarantee that you’ll be 100:100, though.

As I said earlier, women haven’t made much progress with pay parity. For some fucked up reason, no one seems to have a sense of urgency about this issue. Bills are being rejected. Women go to the polls each election cycle and continue to vote against their own interests again and again and again. Younger women are so far removed from the struggle for equality that they think Affirmative Action is largely unnecessary. Telling them that I’m older than Title IX barely resonates because they have no fucking idea what Title IX even is. As you find yourself continuing the fight, you end up spending half the time educating the next generation about the need for the battle in the first place. Herding cats yields a better outcome.

During The Oscars, Patricia Arquette decided to use her acceptance speech for a different cause. She felt it was important to remind us that things are still very much wrong; that women are still very much getting the short end of the stick. And, instead of being on the receiving end of “Can I get an Amen, Sista!” people are doing what people do best: they are taking her to the toolshed. How dare she ruin a mental night off from reality? How dare she challenge people with the truth? How dare she put fancy ideas in our lady brains? It’s bad enough that we left the kitchen and stopped making sammiches and babies. Now, we women are being reminded that we’re not paid equally and :gasps: heaven forbid we actually do something about that! The gall!

The issue isn’t a woman using her acceptance speech at an awards ceremony to push a political issue. The issue certainly isn’t about a “Hollywood Liberal” telling Middle-America how to live. The issue is what it has always been – disparate pay for equivalent output. No individual with outdoor plumbing would tolerate that shit. Why should we? And to those who think this is an acceptable practice because we choose different career paths, take time off to breed or are less skilled at negotiating, I should like to ask you, in the most courteous manner possible, to go fuck yourself as uncomfortably as you possibly can. Alternatively, go fuck yourself but only allow yourself to climax at a 77:100.

:stammers:

Suspend the prose. Suspend the creative process. All I can do is get on my soap box (well…box of soap containing bottles of CeraVe) and just look at the world with disbelief. And shock. And disgust because I’m usually disgusted by humanity.

Hyper Cacher happened. I started thinking humanity doesn’t deserve religion because we don’t play well with it.

Shortly thereafter, the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz happened. My feelings about that aren’t any different than any Jew (practicing or non) or any human being with a soul and a shred of decency.

In response to these things, I found myself rooting through my massive piles of jewelry (because all Jews have tons of gold at their disposal – not just sewn in the hems of their clothes) and plucked out a necklace with the Magen David charm and put it on. Not because I’m a religious Jew but to send a message that I am a Jew, that this Jew is not going anywhere and that this Jew made another Jew who will likely breed at some point. My father, also not observant, had started wearing his Magen David a while ago. Maybe it’s our way of telling the bigots to fuck off? Neither my father nor I are random people. We’re deliberate people and, chances are, if we’re doing something – our actions have meaning; we’re sending a message.

For reasons which have no place in this post, I crawled into bed very early last night, pulled the blankets over my head and avoided reality. I also spent a good amount of time unplugged yesterday. It was a Mommy-Milkface Day. I did not see the news until I woke up. And, before we go any further, because I’m so awesome and American news is anything but, most of my sources for news are foreign.

From Haaretz:

Danish police shoot and kill suspect in fatal attacks on synagogue, cafe

One dead in Copenhagen synagogue shooting, hours after man killed at free speech event; Danish PM condemns ‘cynical act of terror,’ says: ‘When the Jewish community is attacked, all of Denmark is attack.’

(…moar…)

The shooting at the synagogue in Copenhagen (one of my most favorite places on Earth) wasn’t the only one. The precursor was a shooting at a free speech event.

From The Guardian:

Jens Madsen said the killer may have been “inspired by militant Islamist propaganda issued by IS [Islamic State] and other terror organisations”, but it was not yet known whether he had travelled to Iraq or Syria before the attacks.

(…moar…)

Honestly, I have no words for this. None. I cannot even describe my emotions.

The shit…it needs to stop and it needs to stop now.