I'm going to throw this out here, and you tell me if you'd be put off: About every other year, my cousin the rich one with the attorney husband and the three spoiled brats throws a thing on Christmas Eve. And every year since the spoiled brats were little, I've spent a ton of money buying them each a gift, which is all right, because they're kids, and I usually ended up buying them Shel Silverstein books. This year, the family tells Mother and me NOT to buy anything, because money's tight for me and Mother cries poor even though she's not.

We get there, we eat, and then it's time for Attorney's side to have their annual grab-bag, and that was cool. But then, Cousin the Rich One starts handing presents out to my aunt, my cousin, the kids, Mother ...(!) Yeah, Mother gets a gift handed to her while I was standing right there. I? Got nothing.

Now, it's not that I'm some sort of present whore or anything, and it's not that I'm not happy that she thought of Mother. But wasn't that rude? Or is it just me?

Mother thinks she got something because she goes with my aunt to the spoiled brats' soccer games and all that rot, but even she was a bit horrified by the blatant ignoring. I mean, I don't go to their soccer games and all that because not one of them has ever asked me to go. Sure, the chances are good that I might be working, but if I wasn't I would, because kids deserve support in those kinds of things. Never been asked. Oh, and then I guess my aunt was pissing and moaning that I never call her. Well, guess what? I don't see her picking up the phone to see how I'm doing raising Mother, but you don't see me fucking complaining. So I tell Mother this, and she tells me that oh, with seniors you (meaning "I") have to bend. To that I said "Bull. fucking. shit" (exact words, too). You get my respect when you give me yours, and I don't give a Goddamn how old you are. Not that I'm going to mow down little ol' ladies or anything, but no one gets to be an asshole just because they turn 65. Yeah, I know you have aches and pains and you can't move around like you used to; that still doesn't give you license to be an ass.

So there you go. Let the commenting commence.
Oh, whatEVER.

Not sure who called who, but they talked about how Nancy was doing and some other stuff that had nothing to do with me, which is fine, but not really. Why? Because a couple things literally just popped out at me that while they're no doubt part of my issues with the whole debacle, I've never admitted them out loud, at least in any sort of tangible way to anyone except Kaffy. They're the following:

1) BFKAS and Crazy Aunt talking could conceivably end up with the two of them patching things up, and I would somehow be kicked out of the family, which in turn makes me want to run and distance myself from the whole damn lot of them before anyone gets the chance to do anything; and
2) When Boy Wonder dropped some stuff off from my sister for Nancy, he told Crazy Aunt that the two of them went to the movies last night. And I'm jealous and hurt that he and I don't have that relationship.

Now, that first one sounds like pure crazy talk, I'm sure, because the rest of the family has supported me the last six years, so why would they all of a sudden just stop, right!?!? Absolutely, and I'd agree 100 percent, except that BFKAS and SC weren't supposed to turn on me, and look how well that went. The thing with my brother, on the other hand, is all about never having had siblings and wanting one, and worse, knowing that he could have a relationship with me if he wanted but apparently has chosen to not. (Background: At one point, he and I did start having a relationship, and then it stopped for reasons I can't go further with here. But suffice it to say, I ended up feeling manipulated and used.)

Ok, I'm not falling into some sort of pit of anything, if that's what it sounds like; I know that these are my issues, and until something happens to validate the existence of these boogeymen, they're just that -- boogeymen under the bed of what is actually a pretty damn cool life. More importantly, I'm not going to turn this into a big whinefest. Part of this, if y'all must know the truth, is my fault but for a completely different reason: In my BlogExplosion profile, I kinda pimped out the fact that I'm an adoptee -- something I kinda wish I hadn't done now, because although I am one, I don't necessarily want it to be my shtick. It was either that our pimping out my exceptionally foul language, but BE frowns upon that.
Oh, whatEVER.

The evening was April 16, 1998; I was still living at home and working as a customer service wonk at a downtown publishing company. I'd gotten home around 7-ish -- Mother was cross-stitching on the couch, and Dad was in his plastic chair watching TV -- and I was scarfing down Mother's spaghetti and a salad with Western French when the phone rang. Mother says, "Yeah, someone called for you earlier but didn't leave their name," so I answered the phone.
And those were my exact words, too. I mean, when something like that gets dropped in your lap, you kind of don't forget the moment.

So, this Chris Lucas and I started talking, and I of course asked how this whole thing works. The process goes like this: Indiana is an intermediary state, which means that a person sworn in by the courts can petition them to have an adoption record opened on behalf of the birth parent or adoptee. Once opened, the intermediary then finds the person through typical detective methods; in my case, it was easy, because neither BFKAS nor I ever left Lake County.

The choice then falls to the person who's getting contacted: Do you wanna or not? If you don't -- and here's the catch -- you don't get access to your original birth certificate. But that was never even a consideration, because of COURSE I was going to meet her. I mean, my God, right!?!? This is the person who instilled in me my somewhat crippling abandonment issues -- you think I'm NOT going to meet her!!??! (Actually, at that point, I'd started attempting to work through my somewhat crippling abandonment issues in my third go-around at therapy, so thinking about finding her? Not a priority. Not that I wouldn't have at some point, because knowing me, I'm sure I would've. Just not then. And honestly, at that point, I was beyond the whole thrashing "OhmiGOD-how-could-you-LEAVE-me?" drama and realized that it was probably a choice between a good home and a trailer park or worse that she had to make, so, you know, she did the right thing. On so many levels did she do the right thing, but that of course comes later.)

So after I was on the phone for an hour or so with the mediator, Mother calls her best friend and tells her the news, etc., and I go out to the living room where Dad was, and he looked and said, "Wow, isn't THAT something?" And was like, "Yeah, yeah it is. Holy hell." And then I said, "You know I'm going to do this, right?" And then, as if he knew the disaster it was all going to become before it even became it, Dad said to me, "Why don't you wait a few days before you make a final decision?" And I said, "Well, sure, but I don't see how waiting a few days is going to change my mind."

If you're interersted in how adoption law works in the U.S. of A., Bastard Nation has an easy-to-follow chart of the terms and laws and stuff.
Oh, whatEVER.

Crazy Aunt finally went to see her today. She said it seems very much like she's learned some sort of lesson, but what that lesson is, Crazy Aunt doesn't know, because Nancy still doesn't understand what it is she did wrong; she thinks she was just defending herself. The problem I seem to be having here, meanwhile, is how to be empathetic and cool while telling her how badly she fucked up. That? ain't easy, especially when I'm guilty of enjoying the occasional unprescribed downer myself. Speaking of which, her drug test? They found benzo-whatever-the-family-of-pharmaceuticals-that-encompasses-Xanies-is, and she told her dad she and her friend took Klonopin. And I was like, "Wait ... what!?!?!? Klonopin!?!? Isn't that, like, trying to get high off Prozac or something? That's just retarded, man. Retarded and wrong."

Back to the drawing board. I want her to get it before she's potentially released next week.
Oh, whatEVER.

Sorry about that; I'd started watching the interview with Lori Hacking's mom, Thelma Soares, this morning, but between phone calls and blog reading, I didn't get to hear all of it. What a rotten mess, though, man. And what an admirable frame of mind Mrs. Soares has so soon after it all happened. (If y'all didn't see it, she basically said that although she's heard that the murdering pigfucker is allegedly supposed to be pleading guilty, she'll be all right if he doesn't, because once God gets a hold of his sorry ass, she won't have to do anything.) It's not that she isn't hurting tremendously, but to achieve that kind of peace so early is remarkable, at least to me. I mean, if it were me? I don't even know what would be coming out of my mouth or rotting in my melon.

Which brings me to my pseudo-zenlike state about my asshole hackers/the fucked-up part of my bio-fam, though the two are mutually exclusive for the time being. (Yeahyeahyeah, cheesy segue. I know. Work with me, here, though, because I'm actually about to articulate something resembling my feelings.)

See, now I'm all about the revenge, and I can revel in it and wallow in it with the best of them. In fact, my most favorite revenge tactic, though it wasn't my idea? Epoxying a big gnarly dildo to someone's license plate or front plate. (Think about it: It's not like your license plate is the first thing you look at when you get in your car in the morning, right? You could drive for MILES without knowing you have a big gnarly dildo sticking off your car. And then there's the whole agony of going to the BMV to get a new plate because, well, you have a big gnarly dildo on your plate, not to mention the fact that you have to shell out the dough for said plate. It's absolute brilliance, I tell you. And wasting the $30, $40 on the dildo wouldn't even matter.) I've never exacted it on anyone, however, tempting and funny though it may be. Not because I'm a puss, but because making someone's life miserable doesn't make my life better in any way, shape or form. Hell YEAH, that would be hysterical, and I'd likely laugh and pat myself on the back for my brilliance. And then, proud of myself, I'd tell one too many people, and then it would get back to Ol' Sexy Plate, and then I'd be screwed. But even more than that? I'd get a laugh for maybe a day or two, but then I'd still be pissed off, and then what? Do I keep exacting revenge? Because that gets old really quick, not to mention that's how stalkers are born.

Anyway, I guess my point is that no matter how much revenge I want to take out on someone (rhetorically), I still gotta wake up with my big ass, so why not spend the time dealing with my shit instead of acting like a 19 year-old embittered about her first love?
Oh, whatEVER.

I'm sure at some point I'll feel the need to talk about how that all happened and why, of all the biological relatives in my life now (and there are a ton of them), the three who went out of their way to find me -- my brother, sister and mother, aka "BFKAS"-- are the only ones I don't get along with. But now ain't that time. I'm more interested in pondering the tidbit that my sister is allegedly living in a $500K house on a Lake within driving distance of me, which is entirely too close for my liking. See, I know that my brother-in-law makes some good coin in pharmaceutical sales, and I don't begrudge him that. And I'm sure they've bought and are able to afford a lovely house with a pool and all the other shit that you need to clean and maintain when you buy a huge house. But $500K? With two kids and my sister not working? Not buyin' it, and not seeing the point of having to make that shit up.

In other news, cousin Bren is about to pop with her second baby girl (eeeee!).
Oh, whatEVER.

which I do as often as humanly possible.) I'm not going to say exactly where; those who need to know where I am do or will, and those who don't won't, and that's the way I like it. I mean, I'm not trying to be anonymous or anything, because that would be kind of pointless since my byline is in a fairly large newspaper every day (and sometimes even in the Chicago Sun-Times -- woo!) But peoples is crazy, and I'm perfectly happy to keep where I live private.

Lessee, what else would someone want to know about me? Um ... I'm single with two cats who are the loves of my life -- who needs men when you got cats, right? Just kidding ... sort of -- and, despite it being one of the most depressed areas in the country, I couldn't imagine living anywhere else except Northwest Indiana. Except for maybe New York, but until I win the Powerball or someone decides to bankroll me for the next 50 years, I don't see it happening.

How's that for starters?
Oh, whatEVER.