The Gonzo Mama: An Affront to Women?

"To tame incendiary bombs

it takes a lot of sand.

You'll find it pays to always have

a good supply on hand."

I'm so pleased. I've received more hate mail. The strange thing is, over the last year, I've only received two pieces of hate mail regarding my column, and they both come from the illustrious Judy Brezina of Carlton, Washington.

Does no one else hate me?

Here's her latest, written in response to my column, It's October. Let's Talk About Breasts!:

Gonzo Mama an affront to women

Dear Editor,

Before I begin, may I ask you a question? Do you even read what is written for your paper much less edit it?

With that in your mind lets walk through this.

Ms. Wright cheerfully informs us that her breasts are fine enough to get instant attention at bars, lusty comments from her husband and a get home free pass from cops. Oh yeah, she briefly mentions suckling in there somewhere in passing. To objectify your breasts defeats in one fell swoop what women have been fighting for the past century.

She then dissolves into tears, and stays there, upon finding something amiss with the before mentioned mighty fine breasts. I ask, how can you teach your children to be strong and think through a process if you collapse at the mere thought of disease? For Pete’s sake, in the future, get a grip.

But the corker was at the end of the article (and I use this term for that written piece very, very loosely). When given the choice of giving up coffee, Oh gasp, she blithely bids the doctor “to cut them off.”

With absolutely no regard to the millions of women who have had to endure the pain and suffering of losing their breasts to cancer, she manages to trivialize and insult them all in one breath.

Great going there Bozo, Gonzo, whatever, its one in the same.

Judy Brezina
Carlton


What do you think, readers? Is The Gonzo Mama an affront to women? Do you think The Gonzo Mama has let her fellow women down by not being a shining beacon of strength and the poster girl (I mean, woman) for women's rights?

Please send an email to my editor, Les Bowen, and tell him what you think!

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/bcostin/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

It's October. Let's Talk About Breasts!

It’s October. Let’s Talk About Breasts!

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and everyone is talking about breasts. That’s a good thing. Breast cancer is an ugly disease, and a cure needs to be found. Frankly, though, I’m not a huge fan of my own breasts.

I’m not saying they’re a bad set, as far as breasts go. It’s just that they don’t serve much purpose beyond filling out sweaters and giving Mr. Wright something to comment on when I get out of the shower. “Hey, Mama, you’ve got some sweet ‘stuffs’ there! Need any help drying them off?”

The “girls” have served me well. They’ve nourished a child. They’ve caught the bartender’s eye to get me quick service in a crowded nightclub. They may have even helped me get out of a speeding ticket or two.

Last year, I found an alarming lump.

I was drying off after a shower (Mr. Wright was in the other room and had somehow failed to offer assistance) when I hit an extremely painful spot. Instinctively, my hand went to the source of the pain – a lump, about the size of a quarter.

“GREG!” I shrieked. (I don’t call him “Mr. Wright” when shrieking.) “GREG! COME IN HERE!”

He came running. “What? What is it? Is it a spider? Did you forget to vote in the last primary? Good God, woman! WHAT IS IT?”

I grabbed his hand and pressed it to my boob. “Feel!”

He felt. “Very nice. Very nice, indeed.”

“No… THIS.” I placed the tip of his index finger directly on the lump.

He frowned. He felt some more. He frowned harder. “What is that?”

“I don’t know!” I cried. “It wasn’t there last week! If it’s cancer, and it grew that fast, I’m going to die! Think of the stories you hear about people who are fine one day, and then dead a month later from some cancer they got that just GREW! That grew so fast that the doctors couldn’t DO anything! I’m going to DIE!”

“Calm down,” he said. “You’re not going to die. We’re going to get it looked at, and you’re not going to die.” I could tell, though, by the worried look in his eyes, he knew I was going to die from some form of mutant breast cancer that grew faster than the national deficit.

We called for an appointment, and learned the next available date was a week away. I called old friends, announced I was dying, confessed lies I’d told but never been caught in, assigned favorite books of poetry to writer friends… “I don’t know if I’ll have time to make a will, but I want you to have my favorite collection of Rumi poems…”

When the day finally came, I sat, crying, in the waiting room, praying that Mr. Wright’s meeting would get done early so I didn’t have to hear the news alone.

“That’s a really big lump,” the doctor confirmed. “We’re going to do a mammogram and an ultrasound, then we’ll assess it.”

Mammograms are as uncomfortable as everyone says they are. I won’t bore you with the details. As the ultrasound technician pulled a paper “drape” over my chest, I continued to cry. I looked at the monitor as the ultrasound device rolled over my breast, alarmed at the series of dark spots it revealed. It appeared that half of my breasts were made up of the sinister darkness. “Oh, God,” I whispered. “I have cancer, don’t I?”

I looked away from the screen, wiping my eyes, as Mr. Wright walked into the room. I’d never needed him to hold my hand more than in that moment. The doctor entered the room and surveyed the screen. “It’s not cancer,” she announced. “It’s fibrocystic breast disease.”

“Am I going to die?” I asked.

“Not from this,” the doctor assured me.

Fibrocystic breast disease is a very common – yet rarely discussed – condition which causes my cha-chas to produce painful, non-cancerous lumps. It’s estimated that 30-60% of women may suffer from this condition, and there’s no clear consensus on what causes it.

“There are some things you can do to diminish the growth of the lumps and discomfort,” the doctor advised. “Avoid fatty foods. Avoid caffeine…”

“Avoid caffeine?!” I gasped. “Can’t you just cut them off?”

Best Breast Forward

Since I'm deliriously and deliciously busy in Washington, D.C. at the moment, and because I know that each and every one of you will miss your regular dose of humor from TheGonzoMama.com, I've asked my dear friend and fellow humorist to write a little something for you.

So... without further ado, let me introduce The Gonzo Mama's first guest blogger, Rose Norton. I like to think I discovered Rosie back when she was in fifth grade and I recruited her to write for my high school lit mag. These days, she can be found hilariously blogging over at OpenSalon. Rosie's "Best Breast Forward" made me laugh out loud. I hope it makes you pee your pants!

* * *

It is a well-known fact the shape of your breasts generally reflects the kind of day you are having. Now, it's a lot easier to read a gal with a huge rack than a chick with raisins for tits; but there are a vast assortment of breast moods, and we shall look at a few today. Scenarios, that is.

Interview day, tits are at full attention, only slightly lower than the eyes, which helps to distract the interviewer from noticing the sweat moustache that just seeped out of your makeup after the questions about your previous employers.

Let's play "Choose your own Adventure: the Secret of the Coded Chest." You wait nervously by the phone, your chesticles are still acute, yet nervous. A call comes in. It's the Human Resources Dept. If you get the job, read the next paragraph, if not, skip down to the one after that.

You nailed the interview and they want you to start training on Monday. You are so excited that your breasts are bouncing around, giggling with glee on their Victoria Secret water trampoline. You put on a sexy shirt and waltz down to the nearest ‘tini bar to join your girlfriends and their 'just got off work, but happy to be able to afford getting hammered' breasts. "Life is good, and my boobs were spectacular!"

The interviewer calls. He says he's sorry but they hired someone else, but you were definitely second and if you would be interested, could he take you out for dinner a drink? (Lord knows, you'll need it, as it might be the last non-PB&J meal for a while.) Before the end of your conversation, you have already freed your downtrodden ta-tas, allowing them to wilt with emotion. You hang up the phone. "Life sucks. At least my boobs were spectacular."

After nursing for a little over four years of my life, I find my breasts much more histrionic than the next gal’s. If I want them high, then my cheekbones are going to have competition. If I'm feeling low, I just might trip. If I'm feeling strong, they can melt together to form one mighty giant mass of chest that is no stranger to punching me in the face during jumping jacks - the sports bra uni-boob.

The ladies with less endowment seem a bit more understated to me. The average B-cup comes along with a type-B personality. Don't get me wrong - there are shades of grey here; but from observations, the average librarian and Sunday school teacher often possesses the breasts to go along with the temperament. They seem a lot more emotionally stable.

However, there is a distinct cup size personality similarity. Yep, I'm talking about A-cup-personality traits. These women are usually have a perky little rack that looks like they have had one too many shots of espresso. That woman involves people with her little daily tragedies, with angry, irritated mosquito bites that can't help but point at you. This kind of personality/cup size paradigm takes claim to the term, "titterpated".

Now, we can't forget the plastic ones. But what would you expect? These are just fine all of the time. A severe lack of emotion. But if your eyes can manage to venture north, the majority of the time, their spray-on faces reflect the mood: Just fine. In the magazine section of the Porn Super Store, you can look at some of these breasts and see the thought processes that their owner, or maybe just lessee, have. A painfully blonde woman standing in nothing but a skirt and a blank gaze has these odd, perfectly circular bowling balls on her chest. Then you look at their nipples, on the emotionless masses. One is staring blankly at you while the other drifts off looking at the floor. The lazy eye of nipples.

I can't help but wish that everything was just fine, minus the lazy boob. I'd just rather experience the slings and arrows (or rather, poking underwires) of life and then get it off my chest an move on. I can't fake perky in my best breast upward bra, no matter how hard I try. They'd only assume the fetal position, curling up in the bottom of the bra, waiting for the miserable day to be over. You have to respect your state of mind and your emotional well-being as well as the state of your mammaries. May you forever think a little differently when someone utter the phrase, "tits up."

Borrowed Boobies Boon for Bloggers

It’s sad when moms turn on each other. Motherhood is tough enough without having to keep one eye on the kids and the other over your shoulder to see who is waiting to judge or condemn you. However, that is exactly what has happened in the blogosphere in the last day or so. While the action continues in the center ring, Twitter’s capacity is overloaded, the sparring blogs in question are racking up hits, and everyone else (including me) has something to say about it.

Who needs UFC? We’ve got blogmamas to tune in to!

It is my opinion, redundantly enough, that an opinion is just that: an opinion. It is not a condemnation or judgment, and we are all entitled to one. Like the saying goes, “Opinions are like assholes – everybody’s got one.” The difference is, while I am willing to display my opinion to the world, I really hope someone would tell me if my asshole was showing.

The problem begins when opinions evolve people into assholes. It’s when an opinion is so vehemently stated and defended that it becomes a judgment.

I’ve got opinions. Strong ones. Some of my opinions don’t curry the favor of others, and that’s okay. As a vegan, for example, I really think that eating should be a celebration of life, and that my personal celebration needn’t involve another living creature’s suffering. I’m open to other opinions, and I respect them. For the record, I’m married to a hunter.

As a woman who has mourned the loss of a miscarried fetus, it is my opinion that life begins at conception. How else, then, could I grieve for my unborn child, if it was not truly a life to begin with?

The current “blogroversy” turns on the issue of breastfeeding. Not breastfeeding in public, not breastfeeding photos on Facebook, not breastfeeding as a concept, but, specifically, one woman breastfeeding another woman’s child.

I am not going to name names, since anyone genuinely invested in the battle already knows the players. I am not going to defend either party, since I see both sides and respect both of their opinions (Opinions, not judgments or back-biting behaviors – if you are a mama engaging in back-biting behavior, STOP. Motherhood should be a sisterhood, not a junior high clique war.). As a writer and publisher, I defend the rights of these women to speak their minds, even if their respective opinions do not prove to be popular.

I have deliberately intended to put a child that was not biologically mine to my breast. Before my husband and I took in our two youngest daughters, we had looked into private adoption. As a true believer in the slogan “Breast is Best,” I studied up on adoptive nursing. I fully intended to nurse the newborn child we thought we’d be adopting. Things didn’t work out that way, but I was prepared. The purpose of my intent was not just to nourish, but to soothe, comfort, and bond. All of these are gifts of motherhood.

That being said, I can’t definitively state how I would feel about another woman nursing “my” child. Nursing is, at its core, a very intimate act. However, does that preclude my husband from intimately bonding with our child as he feeds her a bottle? Certainly not. I’m still emotionally muddled about how I might react to another woman putting my child to her breast.

In the same vein (so to speak), I can’t imagine another woman handling my husband’s member. If he ended up in the emergency room with an injured member (I don’t know how; it’s for the sake of argument, okay?), and the ER doc was a woman, I’d tell her to handle with care and get to work. It’s all about circumstance, I suppose.

Enough about all that, though. What I’m really amazed at is how these sparring women, who previously enjoyed a respectable degree of noteriety, have literally overnight lit up the Internet, made it next to impossible for me to access my mobile Twitter account, and garnered a plethora of new commenters, subscribers and followers while conducting their girl-war online.

It seems that nursing someone else’s baby (or observing the borrowed boob spectacle) and blogging about it is a sure-fire way to increase blog traffic.

So… who’s got a hungry baby? My 34Ds are here and waiting!

Or, I just need one mommy blogger to virtually bitch-slap me so that I can Tweet about it and crash the Twitterverse!

Any takers?



P.S. – Unlike the popular girls, my comments are ALWAYS enabled. Have at it.
P.P.S. – Just don’t be a pansy and comment as “Anonymous.” That’s lame.