Tag Archives: Adoption

Happy Blues, Sad Love Songs

Posted on by Standard 60
ArtPrize 9/11 Installation Hate Bigotry Intole...

ArtPrize 9/11 Installation Hate Bigotry Intolerance Racism Bias Front Street 9-16-09 5 (Photo credit: stevendepolo)

Just for the record, the whole thing sucks!  Parents, being young, being ignorant, educated via bigotry and bias, confusion and last but not least, distance.

My Mum has taught me to keep my distance.   My father is the distance that she keeps.  My desires, wants and beliefs are the distances that I keep.  I’ve kept them locked up behind the white house pillared with black shutters and off white blinds.

When I was a child, more so than I am now, I took riding lessons at Windswept Farm, the horses taught me to love something other than hate.  The farm and its owners had been my release from a rich society to which I had been adopted.  I was pulled away from riding lessons at a young age.  Why?  Mother Theresa needed me to keep my distance from the working class people.

I drew upon Canterbury NH as a shining little burg with promises of pastures, dreams and butterflies.  I attended the Canterbury’s Children’s Center, an alternative school.  I had found my niche.  The kids loved me.  I had been anything but myself.  If they laughed, I laughed.  If they cried, I cried.  For once, the distance between me and the outside world seemed to shrink.

Mother Theresa put an end to that.  The teacher had been back woodsy.  Not well rounded and obtuse to the fashion of being a snob without the benefits of earning the title.  Again, the distance had been formed.  The anger set in.  The little town of Canterbury stood off in the back of the road as I looked out the rearview mirror.  As my family sought refuge from the Hippies, Yuppies and Earthy people; I found myself and my mother at odds with all that was interesting, different and edgy.

My family and I are the box of categories that others refuse to believe in.  We are white, upper-wardly middle class, educated to the point of ignorance and normal from the outside in.

We are the epitome of happy blues and sad love songs.

 

Bad Pennys & Ambien

Posted on by Standard 20

Mother Theresa was hospitalized today for not taking care of her diabetes.  Who does she call?  Me!  Not Father Floyd.  Me!

We sit together in the hospital wing.  Wait for the levels to level out.  She speaks down to me but in a professional tone.  Must be the academic in her.  I am wearing men’s jeans and a Cart hart Jacket.  That is the first reprimand.

“Ambien Grace, can’t you just be a little bit more feminine?  Why must you go out of your way to upset me?”

As I stare beyond her and her Lily Tomlin haircut.  I look out into the grayness that has descended Concord and the perpetual cloud of illiteracy and ignorance that wanders just above my head.  The room that houses Adopt-A-Mom and her less than perfect daughter.

I wonder how it could have been; living near Penny down in the arm pit of the south.  Somewhere north of Tyler, Texas.  Somewhere where there may be a graduate school for photographers with a personality disorder and poor learning schools.  Penny had been my not for real girlfriend for we both aren’t gay.

Mother Theresa hated Penny.  She represented a threat to her control over Ambien and all of my side effects.

I look at the scars on my wrists.  The attempts at asking for help that fell short of completion.

I met Penny, pudgy and filled with pork rinds, while visiting my birthmother and sisters.  It was a white trash trip all the way around.  Penny no more wanted me then she wanted someone to fill the vacancy in her Cowgirl Up ego.

She was for me, dirty, decadent and deliciously dumb.  We held quite a bit in common.  Texting.  Poor language skills and a thirst for drinking.  Indeed she turned out to be a bad Penny.

Fucking every two bit stud that came into the barn.  Dressing like Annie Oakley on Crack.  Taunting me occasionally with, ‘honey, I miss you, we’ll be together soon.’

But I one upped her.  Just when she had strapped a young wrangler onto her backside; I had found a married Kate.

I sliced and diced for Penny.  She never even called me her girlfriend.  She wasn’t attempting to be a lesbian.  Well, for that matter, I had hid my fears of homosexuality like a well guarded sin!

Penny, being all like I’m sorry honey I haven’t texted or called in a while I’ve been busy at work

And trying to be cute and forgiving!

I didn’t like how she treated me and then suddenly she’d text me and I’d just miss her and I’d hate it.

And how I don’t want to be here.  I just wanted to cry.  I still do.

I look at Mother Theresa, who happens to have the middle name of Penny; she is glossed over in indignation.  She holds my hand suddenly and tells me, ‘you must go home and take care of your father.  He isn’t well and can’t do anything on his own.’

Father Floyd has some testicular situation going on.  He may have to lose his manhood.  I don’t ask questions.

Of course, I’ll go home to Floyd, the 2,500 dollar pedigree dog with separation anxiety.  I know however, where I won’t be going.  I won’t be going anywhere without money.  I won’t get into AmeriCorps.  The Peace corps or grad school.  I will not win.  There was no coming out of the closet with Penny.

She texted me not too long ago.  Months after I bid her good-bye.  Not knowing she had already wrote me off as a bad bet a long time ago.  I refriended her on Facebook.  I thought, well, she isn’t gay and my mother says, neither am I.  Could it be that possibly we were really made for each other?

As I turn to leave Mother Theresa.  I glance over to the darkness the shrouds our relationship.  She doesn’t smile at me.  She focuses on my losing my hair and my slouching.  She points out the stains that dribble down the front of my US Open sweatshirt.

As typical for me, I agree that I am a bi-polar mess waiting for the next depression disaster to come.  My hands shake and I hurry down the hall to the public bathroom to throw up.

A used Penny is not without its value.   It promises nothing and gives nothing in return.  But then again, Ambien, if not taken in small doses will leave you tarnished and Ambien Gracewith an attic room in your parent’s house, sex toys galore and pockets of homophobia.

Filth

Posted on by Standard Respond
The Body Bi-polar

The Body Bi-polarNot a moment after a quick stop to Dunkin Donuts for a high-fat blueberry muffin and a breakfast sandwich topped off with a thirsty iced coffee low fat milk and equal; my mother calls.

I refuse the call in my own stubbornly awkward way; I toss it in the backseat.  The backseat of the Honda looks similar to the barge that floated around NY’s harbors filled with trash, unwanted and lonely.  Just like me.

She calls again!  And, again!  And, again!  Then comes the texting.  Again and again.

At wit’s end and coming down off the not as prescribed sedatives, I review the texts in the middle of a panic attack.

“Ambien, this is your mother, don’t forget you have to meet me at the gallery.  I mounted the picture, framed it, picked it out and contacted the curator.”

Long text for such a short minded person, it’s my friggin picture.  Where do I stand in all of this?

When someone finds themselves dirtied by bi-polar/mania/depression/alcoholism/borderline tendencies; you are always feeling one cigarette shy of an empty pack.  What makes matters worse for me is my mother!

Mother Theresa perhaps was not barren when she adopted me.  My father the stunted by beat downs soiled upon him by his wife, must of had at least one sperm in the bank.  Yet, the two decided on adopting a white trash baby, such as me.

The longest relationship I’ve ever been in romantically?  I would have to say, 22 years!  That’s my age and the duration of time spent with Theresa.

Theresa not only sets up picture assignments for me.  She grooms me, feeds me, dresses me and would most likely go into my GYN appointment with me if I asked her to.

The Adopt-A-Dad, Floyd, well, he stays out of the picture, neither a negative or positive charge omits from dear old dad’s mind, body or spirit.  It works best that way for Theresa.

Filth!  That is what I am to Theresa.  She loves me but like is too strong a word for her.  In the mind of my mother the scholar I am the following:

Dirty in a physical sense, I don’t always see the need for a shower.

Soiled by my impure thoughts of women, Theresa is a homophobic politically correct, don’t ask, don’t tell, educated woman.

Filthy to her are my needs to pay subordinates to lie.  Aghast, I think the word is.  I’m not sure of the spelling or the meaning but that is the term Theresa used.  Appalled at the fact that I have for months paid workers at Ma and Pa Kennels to lie about when I have arrived at work, when I have left work and most importantly, what time said, employee, should arrive at work, so as not to upset my routine.

My routine?  Sex at work.  More sex at work.  A nap with my dog at work.  And, the occasional phone sex at work.

I suppose if you took all the times I cried, HARASSMENT!  The table could easily be turned in my direction.

It is filthy to me how unusually sexual our relationship is.  Mother Theresa and I.  It is deplorable how manipulative my legally maternal but not really, Mom can be.

Is it a wonder that I text back in the only way I know how, depressed and sullen, “Got it, Mom.  When should I meet you and what should I wear?”

My insides are not only filled with astronomical amounts of bad calories.  It is overflowing with obscenities.