Month: March 2021

Looking for this quote, I saw it attributed to many different people from Dr. Phil to Oprah to Tony Gaskins. I decided it really didn’t matter who said it because it is one of those inspirational quotes that look good, sound good … but, are primarily a steaming load of crap.

I have been abused in my life. I can assure you, I didn’t teach anyone to do that. I didn’t go to the chalkboard, hand out a syllabus on horrible things to say or do to me and then instruct them through how to do it. They made a personal decision to act a certain way. And, in turn, I then made a decision to either fight back, walk away or tolerate it. Personal responsibility for one’s own actions is cool. More people should try it.

I thought about that quote as I watched the activists, oh sorry … I mean “journalists” lop leading, pre-planned, scripted, SLOWLY read questions yesterday at Biden’s first “press conference”. I seriously have to air quote and italicize all of this because it is such a joke that I cannot even give the words to people that don’t deserve them.

NOW … I can only imagine that the self-excusing people justifying such a poor job of getting straight, unscripted answers from the leader of the free world would try to justify it as, “Well, he is nicer to us. So, we are nicer to him.” A. Grow up. B. Stop it. C. That is so completely disingenuous that it is one of the excuses that goes right through me. We all know the vast majority of the media “leans left” … whatever the Hell that even means anymore. But, then those reporters should suit up and run for office because their JOB is not to play favorites or further their own political agendas, but to ask tough questions to get the truth to the American people. Does ANYONE work for us? Bueller, Bueller ….

The fact that it is pretty common knowledge that isn’t the case anymore is pathetic, sad, unconstitutional, reckless, dangerous and RIDICULOUS. Do your JOB!

I have stated many times that I mostly ignored Trump until the coronavirus briefings. I know and knew many that were “fans” of his. I also knew people that were going absolutely, freakishly bonkers in their hatred of him. I found either extreme odd. I just don’t usually get that excited about anyone or anything. BUT, when I saw how the press behaved during a time that the information was literally life or death; my disgust deepened to a level that was indescribable. Their behavior lent credence to the “fake news” claims of Trump and with that, opened the door to look at many other things through a different lens.

Watching the “press conference” yesterday after a year of diligently watching the ones with Trump … these journalists should absolutely relinquish the title in their job description. Call it something else … Activist with a Pen, Democrat With A Chair Saved for Me … something … anything. But, you can really say you are there on behalf of the American people to ask tough questions, re-butt when facts seem altered, cross examine when answers seem evasive, dig deep. Please, that is NOT what we saw yesterday. It isn’t about being aggressive and rude. But, it is about doing your JOB. The excuse that “Trump was mean to us” is an immature, pathetic and a which came first the chicken or the egg argument.

Half of America saw something really odd yesterday. The pace, the notecards, the drifting off, the flashes of anger when he was being lopped the softest of softballs. There WERE lies, but you aren’t counting those now? Did you break your fact-checkers? It freaked a LOT of people out. And, what disturbs me more and downright angers me is that the people placed in the room, with mics and pens, using titles that indicate they work to get the facts to us COVERED for it and continue to do so.

So, do we … do we REALLY teach people how to treat us? Then, perhaps it is time that the press understand that treating us like morons that don’t see through the fact that they have allowed their own political beliefs to poison their pens is not okay. If we really are to teach people how to treat us, then okay. Class is in session. First thing on the syllabus, DO YOUR JOB!

“Dammit, Mom … I didn’t do anything and they all hate me.” I wailed.

“Well, you clearly did something.” She replied as sweetly as she could with the stinging words.

“No, I didn’t. I just went to school and none of them will speak to me!” I sobbed back.

“I heard you with your one friend talking poorly about some of the other girls.” Mom came back at me.

“But, she was saying stuff, too and I didn’t think she would tell!” I wailed.

“Oh … well … that was a dumb assumption.” She responded dryly.

“YOU ARE NEVER ON MY SIDE!!!” I screamed.

“Not when you are wrong, no.” She shrugged.

“What am I supposed to do now?? This SUCKS and you don’t even care!” I screamed back at her.

“I care, but I can’t fix what you broke. You deal with the consequences, it will pass and never do it again.” She said ending only one of many conversations I had like this with her.

I was so resentful of that approach for so many years when I was young and immature. And, then as I grew up I realized … it was the best advice I had ever gotten.

I never viewed myself as a victim. Neurotic and insecure at times over it, sure … but, never a victim. Life handed me some serious blows; the tragic loss of my only sibling, cancer and open heart surgery at the same time, relationships failing in epic, often humiliating fashion and economic hardships.

Most of them … I viewed as partially or wholly my fault.

That may sound idiotic and being too hard on myself, but I would sure rather have it that way than the other. That thought came to mind when discussing a friend that had gone through a recent break-up. The couple at the center of the conversation were well-suited, they got along well. But, one had suffered through a pretty traumatic divorce years and years ago and her trust in men was just gone. The consensus was that just created too many hurdles for her to truly move on happily.

That made me sad.

Victimhood keeps you stuck. And, not just a little stuck, completely stuck. In a world where you believe every act is nefarious, every deed isn’t altruistic, too many hearts are cold or intentions are almost always bad … you die. You don’t die a physical death, but emotionally you are stunted and rotting inside. Just like my friend (and we all have one), who has decided because of the bad acts of those in the past cannot let go and feel true, trusting love again … she breathes, but she doesn’t really live. I was just as hurt as my friend, but (thanks to my mom), I went to a therapist and actually asked, “what in the HELL am I doing wrong here? I am either a really bad judge of character or a masochist.” And, even in knowing it wasn’t all my fault, I was also able to recognize that some was, dealt with the consequences, fixed it and never did it again. (I mean … yet … time will tell … I didn’t say I won’t still mess up .. but, no worries … it will still be my fault if I do)

But, not blaming everyone else for everything set me free.

It’s why I fight so strongly against the victim mentality. I want everyone free. No one is ever free when carrying the baggage of yesterday. And, no matter how hard you try, you never unleash the weights of those bags by throwing them on someone else. It simply doesn’t work. I often get met with the same rage when I do so. Serious rage. Threatening rage. When I see that, I think back to my juvenile responses to my mother as she forced me to take on my own challenges and even admit that I played a part in them (even when I ACTUALLY didn’t … MOM!) I see wounded children acting out.

That makes me sad.

And, in the end what makes me saddest is we will “cancel” the world and the pain and emptiness will still exist. But, in a world full of so much less. Hollowed out. Empty. Sterile. Sad. And, still … the same pain will throb. And, some will sit in the ashes of the destruction and still find someone else to blame for it.

Today marks a year of the two weeks to flatten the curve. It all seems like an awful blur of sadness, rage, loss, humor, intensity and sheer mental will.

I remember being sent home from work when Governor Wolf first issued the stay-at-home order. My reaction was like someone trying to throw a cat in a tub of water.

“You can’t make me go!” I screeched something about my Constitutional Rights. I clawed to keep the last shreds of normalcy. But, I had no choice. And, the fact that I had no choice left of my own made the claws come out further.

I stomped around and finally went home to watch The White House Coronavirus Task Force speak. I sat stunned watching and listening hard to the words and the details I was hearing behind the words. Mt science background ignited every cell in my body; they were trying to remain calm and optimistic. But, I knew how viruses worked. I knew we had 330 million people in this country. I knew … nothing was going to be normal again for a long time.

My son watched with me and asked , “What do we do now?”

“Do you want the truth?” I replied staring ahead, numb from the answer I knew.

“Yes“, he replied.

“We sit here and wait for people to die. This doesn’t end any time soon.” I said and hung my head defeated.

I then deeply inhaled and promptly began to lose my mind. I decided to look back over the year in my camera roll of my phone. Seeing the photos from February 2020 are almost too unbearable to see. A smiling photo of me in a group. COVID-19 was a rumble across the ocean at that point. I knew deep down it was on the way. But, I was still able to bury it then. But, within weeks I was trapped in the home and masks were made mandatory. I responded by continuing to lose my mind and have “craft time” with my kids. It resulted in the masks above. The one below I wore to The Post Office and got dirty looks from the guy working there.

I learned pretty quickly that writing on a medical mask with a Sharpie is a quick way to almost pass out. Also, the “of” on the pleated area needed to be bigger. I will never understand the people that were willingly compliant with the mask. I felt like a prisoner in my home and I felt like a prisoner in my body. I don’t think that makes sense to the compliant and I don’t care. The easily compliant angered me and I let them know it every chance I got.

“STOP PUTTING STAY HOME STAY SAFE ALL OVER YOUR PROFILE!!! I GET IT!!! WE ARE ON LOCKDOWN!! I COULDN’T GO ANYWHERE IF I WANTED TO!!”

They infuriated me. I don’t know why. I couldn’t scream loud enough, so I bought a bullhorn to entertain myself by yelling at neighbors through the window with it or driving to friend’s houses to see (scream) at them from afar.

Then, people I knew started to get it. Some lived, some died. Friends were blocked from seeing their parents in nursing homes and they died in there. Alone. Funerals couldn’t be attended. Other friends scraped and struggled to keep their businesses afloat. More people I knew died. One committed suicide, another relapsed and overdosed. I was losing my sense of humor along with chunks of hair. I smiled and made jokes on the outside. Inside, I was dying.

The long, dark winter began and holidays were limited to small groups. The large family gatherings I used to proudly host were dwindled down to a handful of people. I loved them all. I was happy and lucky to have them there. But, no gathering came without the sting of guilt that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t safe. But, what was safe anymore? I continued to find ways to laugh through it and had another “craft time” to make centerpiece puppets. I can distract myself with humor — my forever hiding place and I won’t notice that my extended family isn’t here or that my breath may kill my parents by being here.

Nothing we did this year was “safe”. Not really. I can work from home, but go to the store. I can not see my parents, yet my 49-year-old classmate died from it. I could wear the mask for you, but you could touch a shopping cart and then your eye. A year … on the run … from a nanoparticle. And, with violent crime, suicide and overdose rates off the charts in their rise and half million dead in the US, I don’t know if The Year of Living Safely worked. That’s probably the hardest part in it all. I sure hope it did. But, we have no way to prove a negative. So, we are left to Monday Morning quarterback one of the most trying year of all of our lives.

I can say this year has taught me a lot about myself. Much of it, I already knew. I don’t like being told what to do, but I follow rules. I fight when trapped. I laugh when I want to cry. And, again … drawing on a medical mask with a Sharpie is a quick way to a pass out.

My boys were five and two when I got divorced. I didn’t receive any child support. The courts found that with 50/50 custody and my education and earning potential, I was more than fine to survive on my own for 16 years of raising children as a work mom. That is 192 months. 192 months of hustle, struggle, tears, laughter, late nights, bills left un-paid, sacrificing the things I wanted to give to them, rearranging work schedules to be there for their events.

I wouldn’t trade a minute of it. Being a working single parent wasn’t easy, I struggled and my struggle became a hustle — a hustle my boys learned from me. No, I wouldn’t trade a minute of it and because it was my choice to become a parent, I never believed anyone owed me anything to do so.

But, now Reshma Saujani has the brilliant idea of printing more money from the Fed to hand out $2,400/month in check to mothers who have struggled during the pandemic. Ms. Sauhani, I have ALWAYS struggled. So, for the 192 months I raised children and worked, I will send you a bill for $460,800 in reparations.

The Girls Who Code founder and CEO, Sujani ran a full-page ad in The New York Times urging President Biden and the rest of Congress to per her Marshall Plan for Moms to include the unpaid labor that moms do at home. Excuse me, are we just waking up to the fact that there is and has always been things that we do in life that we don’t get PAID for. Having children is supposed to be a choice, correct? Did I miss where it was a job inflicted on us that the government should then pay us for?

Where is all this money coming from? Are we just going to keep printing it to pay off everyone until the value of the dollar is nothing?

The pandemic has been a trying time on us all. Sales have dropped in some industries, leaving salespeople struggling. Layoffs have happened in other industries. Businesses had to down-size leading to personal losses in jobs. We have ALL struggled. Any mother that was forced out of the workforce due to the pandemic is already collecting unemployment.

Are they suggesting that on top of that an extra $2,400/month is warranted? So, what of the other untold masses that have lost?

Where does all of this end? The full vaccine distribution to all adults is now slated to occur by the end of May. Schools will be re-open soon. We don’t “Build Back Better” by bankrupting the country to pay for CHOICES and we don’t Build Back Better by incentivizing women to stay OUT of the workforce by paying them to do so.

It all seems like an endless payoff that there isn’t a tru way to stop. I am consistently stuck between trying to fight is as I watch the growing tide of debt and handouts become the norm and just getting in line for my “hand-out” for what I have always done without ever thinking the government owed me anything for doing so.

So, if this passes … I want my $460,800 in reparations for the 192 months I single-parented without any help from the government. Actually, I will make it an even $500K because I want a bonus for the teen years.

When I heard of the pending castration of Mr. Potato Head, I responded with an eye roll that actually hurt my eyeballs. But, the more I got to think about it; everything in my kitchen is just so offensive. If you can’t beat them, join them!

Why are we stopping at the potatoes people? Never fear, I will fix it!

This is the syrup formerly known as Mrs. Butterworth. Now, how in the world do you know she is married???? She doesn’t need a MAN to give her BUTTER some WORTH. She is now Ms. Butterworth to you.

I’m sorry, but do MEN only get hungry for some pancakes? I find it completely a sign of toxic masculinity that only a man like Jack could be hungry for some carbs! Are you calling me fat? I’m offended. These are now Hungry Jack or Jill pancakes! You misogynistic fools.

Don’t call me “Honey” or “Sweetie”! It’s sexist! Again, I feel deeply offended by this and we aren’t giving credit to the bees and the struggle they face birthing this delicious nectar. You will now all be putting Bee Juice in your tea. You are welcome.

All this getting offended is making me thirsty ….

Oh, come on!!! “White” Claw? “White”??? Enough said. That goes straight in the garbage.

Just as it seemed to take the world from 1978 until now to truly listen to the words to Greased Lightening and classify the the movie, Grease as “a bit rapey”, I soon discovered after leaving my kitchen to enter my laundry room that the offense continued. What if I don’t WANT to Snuggle? What if I just don’t want static cling???? I find that so presumptuous! You rapey little fabric sheets!

Oh …. EXCUSE me! Men don’t clean. Why is he gender appropriating floor scrubbing? The last time a saw a man do that is when he lost a bet or spilled a White Claw … I’m sorry … I mean Claw.

And, let’s not forget my bookshelf so tall … I’ll throw away books as I cancel them all … Seuss is a racist and not a doctor on call … I’ll replace it with Fauci’s brand new tell-all.

It feels kind of good to be on this side of the insanity. If you have a business, a cookie, a favorite drink, a toilet bowel cleaner; I wouldn’t wait for the mysterious cancel mob to get offended and come for your names to castrate you! Begin the castration now! You are “Mr.” nothing, “Mrs.” nothing! The lunatics are firmly running the asylum. So, get ahead of them and start the less offensive new logos now!