Toilet Paper, My Vulva, and the #StrawBan

Image is blue background with four text
blocks. Middle text block reads:
"How to react when a disabled person discloses
their access needs to you: (Explained by narwhals)

a small circular text block/bubble underneath is next to a bright pink cartoon narwhal and reads:

"I need a specific accommodation so that this space is accessible to me!"

The large left side text box has large red letters that say "YES!" on top of black text that reads:

"I am sorry that this space is not accessible!
Everyone deserves to be included, so thank you for bringing this to my attention! You certainly know your needs best and it would be incredibly rude and ableist of me to assume that I know better!
Can you help me by telling me what I need to do or directing me to information so that I can find ways to solve this inaccessibility problem?
We can all enjoy this space together!"

A smiling cartoon orange narwhal is under the text.

The large text box to the right has large red text that reads "NO!" on top of black text that reads:

"But why?
Have you tried doing it this way?
You don't look that disabled.
Why didn't you stay at home if you need so much help?
Are you sure you can't do this instead?
What kind of disability do you have?
That is rude.
How much will this cost ?
Just because you're disabled, that doesn't mean the world has to bend to your will.
You are being very selfish.
Do you have any proof that you need this?
Everyone else is doing it this way.
My brother's co-worker's second cousin once removed has the same disability that you have and they do not need this accommodation.
Wow, it really hurt my feelings that you think this is not
accessible. "

A frowning green cartoon narwhal is under that text.

neurodiversitylibrary.org watermark is on the bottom left of image.Someone made a choice (without consulting me) about my access to necessary equipment I rely upon for my health, independence, and well-being this week, and I'm not talking about the Seattle Straw Ban, although I've spent a great deal of time discussing it on my personal Facebook page and elsewhere, recently.

No, I'm talking about the Great Toilet Paper Swap of 2018, which shall henceforth evoke visuals of little pilled rolls of fiber, and friction burns in delicate places.

Here's the thing... When Mr. Wright went to the grocery store and saw that my preferred brand wasn't available in the multi-roll package with the roll count he preferred (for savings), he thought it was No Big Deal (NBD) to get a different brand, and save a few dollars in the process.

Saving money was his primary goal, for the good of the family, and he felt accomplished in being so conscientious. I think a lot of us can relate. Being responsible and conscientious makes us feel good about ourselves.

So, what does this have to do with the straw ban?

Plenty.

The first time I tried using the bargain toilet paper, it fell apart. It rolled up into little wads that separated from the sheet, and... clung... to my skin. It was a firetrucking disaster, hygienically speaking.

Access to good hygiene is -- at best -- a health concern, and -- at worst -- a matter of life and death. I think we can all agree on that.

But for many people with disabilities, going without plastic straws isn't a question of how much they care about dolphins or sea turtles; it can be a matter of life or death.

Maybe I'd changed my technique? Maybe I needed a bikini wax? I couldn't figure out what was causing the structural failure of the paper, and I really tried to make it work. I tried dabbing, instead of wiping. I tried drip-drying before patting dry, instead of wiping.

Nothing improved the performance, and it fell apart when I helped my toddler post-potty.

Clearly, THIS SUBSTITUTE for my usual toilet paper wasn't compatible with MY INDIVIDUAL NEEDS, or those of other family members, even though I tried everything I could think of to make it work, because I like to save money, too. I like to feel accomplished and conscientious, just as much as my husband does.

Maybe this paper works for other people. Maybe it works for people without sensory issues, or who have different skin, or who only use it to groom butterflies, or whatever. But it doesn't work for my family.

While reusable straws and redesigned cups may be a great solution for most people, they are not an option for many people with disabilities. For example, paper straws, which are most often cited as the best alternative, are not temperature safe, often dissolve in water and can become a choking hazard. As for lids designed to be used without a straw, they require the cup to be lifted by the user, which many people cannot do.

So, I went to Mr. Wright, and I said, "Hey. I know you don't have a vulva, so your experience is going be different than mine, I know. You don't have all the extra folds and bits that come with vulva ownership, so you might not understand, but this new toilet paper really doesn't work. It keeps self-destructing. It's kind of gross, and could we get rid of it, and replace it with the stuff we normally use and rely upon? Could we donate it to someone who might be able to use it without tissue issues?"

And he said, "Wow! I didn't know that was happening! As the only male in the house, I didn't that about how changing our toilet paper might affect the rest of you. I just thought about the savings. Thank you for letting me know. Of course, I'll make sure you have toilet tissue that works for you. Your vulva is important to me!"

I know some of you are wondering why this exchange was, and is, significant.

I know some of you are thinking, Of COURSE he should get you the toilet paper you need. It's such a simple thing.

And, I know others of you are thinking, What's the big firetrucking deal? It's TOILET PAPER! Just go get some, yourself, or use what's available, and deal with it. WHY IS THIS SO HARD?

The toilet paper doesn't work for me. It doesn't work for my daughters. He loves us. He wants us to know we're important. He's headed out to get toilet paper we can use.

He's showing us his respect and understanding, by making what we need available. He's showing us we're important to him, and our needs matter, even though they aren't the same as his.

It was so simple, and so easy to resolve. I communicated a need. I explained why the conscientious, money-saving solution didn't work for me, personally (or the other females in our home), and what was needed, instead.

And he responded by acknowledging my need, understanding that his experience is not the same as mine, and offering a solution that ensured I have access to what I need.

That's how it should be.

Unfortunately, I've watched the disabled community get marginalized time and again since news of the straw ban hit.

Many disabled people rely on single-use plastic straws, as a matter of survival. My grandfather, who was paralyzed in his final years, was simply one of many, many people who rely upon single-use plastic straws as a matter of access, independence, or literally life-versus-death.

Although there are numerous alternatives to plastic straws, such as metal, acrylic, glass, wheat- or corn-based compostable, paper, and more, some of those alternatives don't work for some disabled folks.

For my grandfather, metal, acrylic, glass, or other rigid designs not only posed a choking hazard, but also posed an elevated risk for cuts, tooth damage, and more, since he had tremors and diminished jaw control.

For folks who have allergies to corn or wheat, or celiac disease, bioplastics or straws made from those materials pose a definite health risk.

Paper straws tend to break down and can pose a choking hazard, especially for those who may need more time to consume fluids.

Some of the alternatives don't work for thickened liquids required for the nutrition of some disabled people.

I could go on, but suffice it to say that for some people, alternatives to single-use plastic straws don't work.

Naturally, for the good of the planet, we should all do as much as we can to reduce our planet's reliance on petroleum products, and reduce our waste and consumption of single-use packaging and utensils as much as possible. HOWEVER, it's simply not possible, for some of the disabled community.

Further, some of the discourse on the subject has been particularly disturbing, as disabled folks are being openly ignored, talked over, or shamed for their needs when they try to explain to the abled community what their specific needs are, and why an outright ban doesn't make for good policy.

(Image is a pink cartoon narwhal under a white bubble with question marks, an image of the earth and a plastic straw. Black text to the left reads: 
"How do plastic straw bans hurt disabled people?
Many disabled people need plastic straws to eat and drink. It provides access and they are literally keeping some of us alive! We don't hate the earth, but we really like being alive and able to access our communities!
-Paper and biodegradable straws break down faster than many of us can use them.
-Metal straws can cause injury if they are too hot or cold and also if the person has a disability that affects movement and motor skills.
-Reusable straws are great if you have the ability to wash, store and bring them with you every time you leave your house. Many disabled people do not.
-If you don't need a plastic straw, then don't use one, but you don't need to hurt disabled people to show that you love the earth.
-Punishing disabled people who need plastic straws to live will have very little impact on the environment but looking into creating a more viable and ACCESSIBLE alternative to single use plastic and placing greater regulations on businesses that are polluting the earth on a much larger, much more dangerous scale sure would!"
neurodiversitylibrary.org)

I've seen commenters say that the disabled should use reusable straws. When the disabled say they can't wash them, the abled say they should hire or recruit someone to come to their house to scrub their straws for them -- as if everyone has a budget to hire staff, or neighbors who are willing to sacrifice their time and effort on a regular and reliable basis, without compensation.

While the above might be, at best, attributed to the abled being out of touch, some of the backlash against the disabled has been worse:

"If you're too disabled to scrub a straw or use paper straws, you should have a feeding tube." Which, by the way, use single-use plastics, too. Ha.

"If you're too disabled to go without a straw, you shouldn't be visiting restaurants."

"We should only have flexible plastic straws in hospitals, convalescence centers, and nursing homes, because that's where disabled people belong."

"Disabled people are just making excuses!"

"Our planet is more important than their needs. Survival of the fittest!"

Readers, you may or may not know that Mr. Wright is a Norwex consultant. We use stainless straws at home. We use reusable, washable produce bags. Reusable shopping bags. Phosphate-free, natural cleaners, soaps, detergents, and more. We use dryer balls instead of dryer sheets. (Shameless plug... we get all these from Norwex, and you can, too, at the link I've provided.)

Our family -- while having disabled members -- remains incredibly privileged. We do our part to reduce/reuse/recycle, to offset the needs of those who can't.

When it comes to the needs of an already marginalized and disenfranchised population, can't we feel good about the choices we make, while ALSO providing access for those who don't have a choice?

Bottom line: If you don't need a single-use plastic straw, don't use one. The planet thanks you. But don't shame, degrade, or devalue those who do need them. Access and independence are for everyone.

"Like" The Gonzo Mama on Facebook, and don't forget to see what's cooking with Sexy Vegan Mama today!

When "Happy" People Battle Depression

Someone this disgustingly happy can't be depressed...
Or, can she?

Photo by Mary Brownlee

This is, I know, not going to be an easy post to write. For many, it won't be an easy post to read. However, it needs to be written, because it's going to force all of us to look deeper into the issue of depression, and change our ideas of how it "looks."

At least, I hope.

Most people in my world view me as a relatively happy, if not over-zealous at times, fierce mama who kicks ass, takes names, and works hard on making an impact on the world around me. I mean, just check out my Facebook feed! All sorts of rah-rah advocacy, sunny posts, occasional outrage, and "you can do it!" encouragement lives there, on a regular basis.

What you don't see is how I've battled depression since adolescence. You don't see how, after a tumultuous series of medication changes several years ago, I had a psychotic break. You don't see how, at times, I feel hopeless, ineffective, and like maybe -- just maybe -- life is too hard to live.

To many people out there, I'm among the least likely to be battling depression, either publicly or privately.

 In spite of that assumption, I told my husband this week, "I don't want to live anymore." What I meant was, I don't want to live like THIS anymore.

I told him, "Our children deserve a better mother than I can be." What I meant was, My children may not be getting the best care and advocacy I can provide, because an invisible illness is stealing me away from my family, and myself.

I told him, "I feel like I am falling apart, and I don't know how to put myself back together." What I meant was exactly that.

And then, I yelled at him for saying he felt "neglected." What I imagine he meant was, I miss you... Where are you? I need you, and I don't know how to help.

Really, I can't blame him for not knowing what's going on in my head, especially when I struggle to understand it, myself.

We might think depression looks like someone who suddenly isn't interested in their usual activities; who withdraws from the people she cares about (I know men suffer depression, as well, but women are more likely than men to do so); who maybe spends her days in bed, lethargic, and unable to accomplish the most simple self-care or other tasks; or perhaps is overly emotional, and commits a great deal of her time to crying.

Here's what depression looks like for me:

• Ensuring my kids get to (currently) six therapy appointments per week, but dropping the ball on at-home therapy supplements
• Having my home and office look like a demilitarized zone, but not having the energy to care
• Dragging myself out of bed most days to do a lot of nothing, because the things which are most necessary, and bring the greatest return, seem unmanageable 
• Neglecting my business, clients, and team, but somehow, by grace and luck, receiving awards for my "achievements" during my most massive bouts of depression
• Mentally "rallying" before answering the phone, so I can have a conversation with someone which focuses on them, and deflects attention away from myself
• Always answering, "Great! How are YOU?" when someone asks how I am, because I would much rather hear about and worry about someone else, rather than myself
• Appearing and feeling numb most of the time when I'm alone or with my husband (because even tears require too much energy), but really knocking it out of the park as a "social butterfly" in public or at work
• Ignoring deadlines for things I really do want to accomplish, because meeting that deadline will mean new, different labor or work, which I can't even begin to think about right now
• Failing to dial the phone, but always hoping it will ring, and someone, anyone, will notice things just aren't right with me... and then assuring them I'm "fine... great, even!" when they ask
• Feeling constantly overwhelmed, and at the same time, being unable to feel good about the things I actually am doing well ("You navigated that IEP meeting like a boss today!" is met with, "Yeah, but I didn't cure world hunger, so... what's the point of even trying?")

But here's what you probably see:

• A super-active mom, who advocates for her kids daily, and tries to make the world a better place by spreading awareness
• A creative genius, or someone too busy for housework? Actually, no... you'll still see a demilitarized zone. I'm not even going to try to kid myself.
• A woman who enjoys her "free time," because she's designed her life to provide "self care" and "downtime"
• A small business owner who is killing it!
• Someone who greets each social interaction with enthusiasm and positive energy
• The "social butterfly" you are meant to see
• Someone who has a lot on her plate, because her talents are so varied... Surely, it's reasonable that some deadlines will need to be adjusted?
• Someone who simply doesn't give herself enough credit for all the awesome she brings into the world
• A woman who is -- depending on how much you like me -- either adorably or annoyingly distracted

Some days, I see that, too.

Some days, it's not so bad. Some days, I am the warrior woman, on a mission, and I succeed in conquering a lot of villainous things, and rescuing a lot of people -- metaphorically, of course. SOME days, I really am "fine... great, even!"

And then, there are the other days. The days when, as my friend Anna puts it, depression is "...like the boogie man hiding around the corner, ready to kick you down if you're not on guard." These days seem to come when I least expect them -- when things are going pretty well, thank you very much, and I really do feel like I have it all together.

As it turns out, I am not alone. 

I wrote the majority of this post based upon my own experiences and feelings, but I wanted to know if anyone else had similar thoughts, or even vastly different thoughts, on depression. I tossed up a couple posts, asking for folks to tell me what they wish others knew about depression. 

Overwhelmingly, I found that a lot of people had similar knowledge about how depression can strike even the "happy" people, and the deep feelings of confusion, helplessness and fear that accompany it. People shared with me their experiences, and really helped to sum up a lot of what I didn't think to say. Take a look:

Siena: It's frustrating when people ask me why I'm depressed, and then don't understand when I say, "I don't know." 

It's not as easy as "getting on something." (medication)

Lei: I hate when people think it's as simple as being sad about something. "what do you have to be sad about?" That just makes me feel more ashamed and guilty about having depression.

Audi:  ...it is real and it happens to the best of us. Especially Post partum, which is a time where you are "supposed" to be happy, by the definition of other people.

Kristin: Depression is heavy.

(NOTE: I found this simple statement so profound, I couldn't improve upon it. So much, in those three words. It goes along with the next quote.)

Anna:  It feels like having 1000 lbs of weight crushing you from every angle. And all people can say is "why don't you just take the weight off!?" I had a Bible study leader tell me that I must not have faith in God because if I did, I wouldn't have such a problem. Because God is JOY and if I don't have that then I am not "in-Christ."

(This last part hurt my heart SO MUCH! The church needs to better understand depression and other mental health disorders, and lead those suffering to hope, not condemnation over a perceived lack of faith.)

Cera: On the outside I look like I have everything together, while on the inside I'm battling years of hidden depression and making it up as I go along. 

The monsters don't live under my bed; they live in my brain. 

No matter how much sleep I get I'm still tired, no matter how tired I am I can't sleep!

Chelsie: I wish people didn't say "it could be worse." Everyone's situation is different and it is belittling to be told that "you don't have it that bad."

Kasmira: That sometimes it presents itself as anger, not sadness. Every single person is different, but it is no less real.

A parent with an adult child who battles depression: When you repeatedly feel something is wrong with your child/loved one, speak up. Don't be afraid to ask "Do you think you might be depressed" (I was afraid to ask) If you observe upbeat, 'appropriate' emotional responses when around others but experience negative emotions or worse, lack of emotions one on one, you need to pay attention.

A friend who chose to remain anonymous: Sometimes a depressed person is the funniest, happiest and most outgoing guy or girl that you know. (DING! DING! DING! We have a winner! This is what I was trying to say, at the beginning of this piece.)

So, today, I agonize over how to tell my mother that I'm not really feeling well enough, mentally and emotionally, to get together for Thanksgiving. (Mom, if you're reading, call me to discuss. I don't seem capable of picking up the phone, lately.) 

I think about the to-do list I should write (first on the list: MAKE A LIST). 

I hope my friends, my family, my team, and my clients somehow get the telepathic message that I care about them, and love them, and to please not hesitate to connect with me -- some days, it really is the fuel that keeps me going -- because I'm not always well enough to reach out and say so.

I spend all day blogging about everything I think I should say, when, really, all I want to say to those who love me is:

I'm still here. I'm surviving. I'm a little lost, a little hopeless, and a little mixed up, but I love you, even if I can't precisely show it.

Be tender with me. Understand I am rather fragile right now.

Be tough with me. Don't let me withdraw, or retreat, even when I say it's what I need. It isn't. What I need is to know I have a wall of love and safety around me -- even if I'm not brushing against it, it will be there when I try to run.

Mostly? Please... don't give up on me.

Can you ALL help me to change the way we think depression "looks?" Reach out to someone you haven't heard from in a while. Invite a friend out to coffee. Write a letter to someone you care about. Love on your loved ones a little harder. And, of course, don't forget to share this post. Let's change the world, friends. 

"Like" The Gonzo Mama on Facebook, and don't forget to see what's cooking with Sexy Vegan Mama today!

“My Dad has a Yacht of Girls”

Curlytop and Snugglebug have made great strides in their language development since we first consulted with a speech therapist over three years ago. Still, there are some words they use which can only be understood by family; and Curlytop still serves as a Snugglebug-to-English translator all too often.

Music Store Bob’s wife, Brenda, watched the girls one night while Waterdog, the band featuring Bob and Mr. Wright, played a local venue. She commented on the girls’ speech patterns, likening it to “twin speak.” Even though Curlytop and Snugglebug are thirteen months apart, they function pretty much like twins, and they do appear to have words that they use exclusively with one another. This phenomenon of secret or made-up language is called “idioglossia.” When it occurs in twins, it’s known as “cryptophasia.”

Some of their speech, though, is just difficult to understand. They’re speaking English, but the average listener can’t decipher it. Since I’m their mom, I consider myself to be an above average listener, and I’m often able to simultaneously translate for the listener as the words come out of my girls’ mouths.

For example, “chex monks” are not cereal friars, but chipmunks. “Hizzards” are scissors, but the singular form, “hizzard” is a lizard. A “jam witch” is a sandwich, whether or not it’s made with jam (which is actually “jwelly”); though it’s often made with “pea gut bunner.”

Toward the end of the month, the girls eat a lot of pea gut bunner jam witches, but when payday comes around, they’re living high on the hog with pea gut bunner and jwelly jam witches.

A “cow; oaty” is obviously a coyote, and “a yacht” is simply a phrase meaning many; a lot. Therefore, the statement “My dad has a yacht of girls” really just refers to his five daughters, who don’t even come close to filling up a yacht – not that we have one to fill, anyway.

Then, too, are the words that are spoken plainly, but signify something other than their original meaning. A “princess” is a dress, no matter the royal status or title of the young lady wearing it. “Cow,” not to be confused with “cow; oaty,” refers to beef or anything resembling it and intended for consumption. A “wiggle” is any skirt that provides a beautiful swish when the wearer wiggles her groove thang, and “break-uh-ull” (breakable) refers to anything they aren’t allowed to touch.

Okay, maybe that last one is my fault.

I’ve provided my little ones with many terms that have become commonplace in their language, such as “coffee,” which indicates any beverage Mommy is allowed to drink but they aren’t (I thought “Southern Comfort” a little too formal) and “working,” which is anything Mommy is doing at the computer that she doesn’t want interrupted.

Because, you know, “Facebook” is a pretty complex concept to explain to a preschooler.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kygp/2868456244

There's a Reason Agents Get 15 Percent

So, you’ve written a book. Congratulations! That’s the easy part.

Now, get ready to find an agent. I like to think there are three primary methods of securing an agent:

1. The Set-Up. You know someone who knows someone who met someone who had the business card of an agent. Or, you are fortunate enough to know an author who has an agent and is willing to recommend your manuscript to his agent.
2. The Blind Date. You perform Internet searches into the wee hours of the morning, reading agent profiles and sending queries to those you feel a connection to. After a few rejections, you lower your standards. Your new mandate becomes the ability to fog a mirror.
3. The Destined Deal. By luck, you’re seated next to an agent on an airplane or an agent trips over your laptop cord as you pound the keys in a coffee shop. A conversation about your manuscript ensues, and the agent produces a contract from his briefcase, ready for your signature.

Your agent’s job is finding a publisher for your book, and getting you the best advance and royalties possible. The agent takes a hefty chunk, but you don’t care. She’s worked hard, pimping your manuscript. You’re a grateful little book hooker, and your book gets published.

If you can’t find a book pimp of your very own, there are other ways to get your tome off your hard drive and into the hands of your adoring fans:

1. Compete for Publication. Some publishing houses run contests which award winners with publication. Contests may or may not charge entrants a reading fee, and may or may not offer a cash advance upon acceptance of the winner’s manuscript. Publishers don’t like to take chances; they want to print books that will sell. If your book is atypical in genre, length or style, you’re not likely to find yourself among the finalists.
2. Go to the Source. Most large publishing houses don’t accept queries from writers. Instead, they rely on agents to prescreen manuscripts and submit only the best. Remember, in publishing, “best” means most marketable with highest sales potential. Some smaller presses will entertain queries from authors and negotiate contracts directly with writers. Since small presses have small budgets, an author may get little to no advance and a small royalty per book sold.
3. Do-It-Your-Damn-Self. The stigma of self-publishing is actually relatively new, and already fading. Margaret Atwood, Zane Grey, Benjamin Franklin, Ernest Hemingway, Mark Twain and Edgar Allan Poe are just a few authors who self-published. For a modern-day self-publishing success story, one need only look as far as The Shack by William P. Young, which has sold millions of copies and spent over 100 weeks on the New York Times best-seller list.

I chose Publishing Option 3 for my first book, Everything I Need to Know About Motherhood I Learned from Animal House. That means I have no publisher to market my book, plan a book tour, or provide promotional materials. I know absolutely nothing about any of those tasks. I’m learning as I go.

If you’re lucky enough to secure an agent, and that agent manages to place your book with a publisher, or if you find your way into a publisher’s heart on your own, it will be someone’s job to send copies of your book to important people in the world for reviews.

Should you choose Publishing Option 3, plan to go into the world to find important people on your own. Beg them to review your book. Offer to babysit their kids or weed their gardens. Get them drunk, take photos of them shaking their groove thangs, and promise not to post the pictures on Facebook if they’ll write a review.

Call any relatives within a 200-mile radius and ask if they know a local business owner willing to host a book signing. Ask how many people they can con into showing up at the local self-serve pet wash for an event titled, “Books, Bubbles and Bones.” Voila! A book tour.

Speaking of book tours, I’m hoping you’ll all show up at Riverwalk Books on Friday, June 18th, at 7:00 p.m. for my very first book signing. Can’t make it? You can still order signed copies right here, on my website. Did I mention they make great Father’s Day gifts?

Would you care to review the photos I’m preparing to upload to Facebook before deciding on your purchase?

Bad Gratitude Monday: Thanks for the Global Warming, Mr. Gore!

Last Monday, due to the holiday, both the school and the daycare were closed. Fortunately, the weather was glorious and most of the snow had melted. I took Curlytop and Snugglebug to the Japanese garden for a little run-around-a-lot-because-Mommy-wants-us-to-take-a-nap time.

For once in my life, I had my camera with me and planned on posing the girls for some sweet pics in the garden. They, on the other hand, had other ideas. Every time I got the perfect shot lined up, they took off running. As a result, I got a lot of pics of the backs of their heads and bodies.

When we got home, I uploaded our pics to Facebook with a toddler on each knee, and let them describe what was going on the photo. Instead of my boring commentary, I used the girls' words for the captions. Here are some of my favorites:

Snugglebug: Look! I silly, climbin' on a rock!

Curlytop: Snugglebug wearin' shoes, Mommy!

Snugglebug: I go on there, Curlytop. I go, one, two, three... I go on there!

Curlytop: A biddge [bridge]!

Snugglebug: I's running!

Curlytop: Is a car! It not Mommy's car...

Me: A car? Is that what you see?

Curlytop: Yes, Mommy. A car. It not you car, okay?

Curlytop: A yock [rock]. Is a big yock. A real big yock.

Curlytop: Heeeheeheehehah! Look, Mommy! Boots [pointing to Facebook ad for Uggs in sidebar]!

Me: *sigh*

Curlytop: I lookin' at songun [something] on the ground...

Today, we woke up to this:

What a difference a week makes.

This Monday, I'm grateful for:

• The warm weather that allowed us to play comfortably in the fresh air last week
• The snow we have this week, which is essential for our agriculture
• Friends and family

What are YOU grateful for today?

Virtual Girls' Night Out (VGNO): The Breakup Edition

Happy Virtual Girls' Night Out (VGNO)! If this is your first time, Welcome! Want to join in on the fun? Head over to Ann's to get on the VGNO Linky, and start bloghopping!

So, it's almost time for school to start. Most of our kids go back on September 2nd (a weird Wednesday commencement, because, why go back for just two days before the long weekend?). Princess, of course, is safely moved in at Washington State University. Her classes started on Monday. Curlytop and Snugglebug's special ed preschool doesn't start until nearly the end of September, but the rest will go back on the 2nd.

The Dude is a junior this year, feeling every bit the sixteen years old he is. Pockets is starting his sophomore year, and the middle schoolers, Pepper and GirlWonder, are starting eighth grade and sixth grade, respectively.

Having three teens who are extremely interested in the opposite sex has caused me to remember myself at their ages. Growing up in a resort community, the end of summer meant the end of summer "romance," loosely defined as anything from hanging out and holding hands with tourist boys to, in later years, making out on moonlit beaches and sneaking out for late-night rendezvous. If I haven't mentioned it before, I was an extremely ill-behaved teen.

A couple I know just "broke up" on Facebook. That is to say that "So-and-So is no longer listed as in a relationship." Genius! How convenient to be able to let everyone know, with just a click, that you and your not-so-true love have ended things! It saves the awkwardness of going to a cocktail party in six months, having someone ask, "Where is So-and-So?" and having to explain that it's been over for ages.

Some relationships die naturally, some get a little help. A friend shared this video with me today, a hilarious, must-see movie about how Facebook can put a strain on a couple's relationship:



(If you're seeing this via blog import to Facebook or in a reader, you may not be able to view the embedded video. No worries - just go directly to the link here.)

Anyway, enough about breaking up. It's hard to do, you know. How about a Girls' Night Out appetizer?

The Gonzo Mama's "Living" Ginger Zucchini Chips

If you know anyone with a garden, you're probably up to your ears in zucchini this time of year. A friend recently warned me not to leave my car door unlocked, lest I return to find it filled with zucchinis, left by gardeners, desperate to unload their surplus of squash. Terrifying, I know, but true.

My solution? Living zucchini chips!

You'll need:

a food dehydrator (I use the Ronco old-school model, 'cause that's how I roll, but you could use a nifty, modern one like this one.)

waxed paper

soy sauce, tamari or shoyu

ground ginger

all that zucchini you've had dumped off on you

Do this:

Line the dehydrator trays with waxed paper. Cut the zucchini into 1/8"-thick slices. Coat in shoyu or tamari, arrange on trays and sprinkle with ginger. Flip the slices over, sprinkle ginger over them, and turn on the dehydrator. Follow your dehydrator's instructions for drying (mine say to rotate trays every 12 hours, and the zucchini chips take about a day and a half to get crisp and brittle - yours may take longer or much, much less time).

Here are mine, preparing to dry:


Enjoy, and happy bloghopping!

Bless Me, Blogger, For I Have Sinned...

It has been ten days since my last blog post. I realize that I have committed one of the deadly sins of blogging by allowing more than a week to pass between posts.

During that time, I have been unfaithful to my blog by whoring myself out to write freelance pieces on topics that may or may not interest me.

I also failed to keep sacred the "Bad Gratitude Monday" posts and, in fact, did not post them at all. It doesn't mean I haven't been bad or grateful in my heart.

Blogger, I must confess that I have a longing for photos of hot mamas to show up in my inbox, so that I may shamelessly post them on my blog.

Finally, Blogger, forgive me for not glorifying you in all that I do, especially on Twitter and Facebook.

My Husband: Facebook Celebrity Stalker

People who know Mr. Wright will tell you, unequivocally, that he doesn’t do anything halfway. It is for that very reason that I went to such great lengths to hide the existence of Facebook from him. For some, Facebook is a social networking site where they log on, catch up with old friends and business contacts, log out and sleep peacefully through the night, knowing that they are a little better connected.

Not Mr. Wright. In less time than it takes to grow a Chia Pet, my husband has turned Facebook into an ongoing name-dropping opportunity of the highest order.

“One of my colleagues invited me to join Facebook,” he announced only a month ago. “I think I’m going to join. It will be a great way to promote my real estate listings, don’t you think? I think it’s a good idea.”


Perhaps you, like me, routinely hear sirens of the air-raid variety in your head when your loved one has a “good idea.” The only thing worse is a “great idea.”

To give some perspective, the last “great idea” my husband had involved a late night drive to a service station to blow up a queen-sized airbed, rather than inflate it with our foot-operated pump. The trip to the service station was uneventful, but after using the free compressor, the inflated bed wouldn’t fit inside our Suburban. Attempts to tether the airbed to the luggage rack failed, as the mattress was wider than the racks, and squishy to boot.

I won’t bore you with the minute details, but suffice it to say, I drove slowly through the dark back roads to our hotel with the airbed on top of the Suburban; and my husband, spread-eagle style, on top of the airbed.

Obviously, I’ve lived with my husband long enough to quickly calculate the most outrageous possible results of any good or great idea he cooks up. Somehow, I didn’t foresee the Facebook Celebrity Stalking of 2009.

“Someone wants me to join their mafia. Should I do it?” he asked. I checked my watch. He’d had a Facebook account for two hours. “No,” I responded. “You want to block those applications; otherwise you will spend a whole lot of unproductive time on Facebook. Plus, I, um… I think you can catch a bad case of spam from those things. And possibly gonorrhea.”

Okay, I lied. Seriously, though, I know how competitive Mr. Wright is, and the last thing I wanted him to spend hours each day assessing was whether he had more Pieces of Flair on his profile than his friends.

I thought I’d set pretty good boundaries: Use Facebook for networking only. Don’t say anything on Facebook that you wouldn’t say to your client or your mother. Don’t waste time playing games. Don’t try to make a career out of Facebook. Unfortunately, I forgot the all-important, golden rule of Facebook, as it applies to Mr. Wright: Do not spend hours searching Facebook for celebrities that might add you as a friend.

“Michael W. Smith added me as a Facebook friend!” My husband was elated when the contemporary Christian music legend accepted his friend request. Sadly, it was just the beginning. Mr. Wright, after a month of Facebook use, has over 750 “friends,” and an embarrassing number of them are celebrities. Our dinner conversations usually start with something like, “I was talking to Eddie Van Halen today… we’re Facebook friends, you know…”



Today, he came home and boasted, “Belinda Carlisle, Heather Locklear and Julianne Moore became my Facebook friends today!” He doesn’t even like Julianne Moore.

I'd better get a national syndication deal, so he'll add me to his list of friends

Ultimate Blog Party '09!

So... like so many other events in my life, I arrived to the party late, but signed up for Ultimate Blog Party '09. The awesome moms over at 5minutesformom.com arranged this awesome party to promote cross-networking for bloggers and the readers who love them. They've compiled a huge list of some of the coolest people in the blogosphere, on Facebook, and Twitter!



Go on over and give 'em some love, lovelies!

Vote Gonzo!

TheGonzoMama.com is collecting votes in three different catergories at Blogger's Choice Awards.

We still have a long way to go! Sign up, then vote for TheGonzoMama.com here.

Want to stay tuned and help spread the word? Join our cause on Facebook!

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.

2009's Hottest Mommy Blogger... The Gonzo Mama?

That's right... I want to be Blogger's Choice Awards' Hottest Mommy Blogger of 2009... and I'm not afraid to use my boobs to do it!

Wanna help?

Go sign up at the Blogger's Choice Awards site. They will send you a confirmation email, you gotta click the link they send you... you know the drill.

Then, come on back to TheGonzoMama.com and click your vote in on the left.

Easy!

For added fun, join the Facebook cause, Make The Gonzo Mama Blogger's Choice for Hottest Mommy Blogger! Jump in on the discussion about what makes a mommy a MILF, and more!

What Generation Gap?

Staying on the cutting edge of parental coolness is hard work, but I’m committed. In fact, I go out of my way to let my kids know how hip I am, and I’m dedicated to bridging the so-called Generation Gap. What is that, anyway?

Sure, there’s a world of difference between my parents’ generation and mine, but Princess and I shop together. Not only that, we borrow clothes from each other. I steal her t-shirts, she steals my gowns, and every once in a while I reflect on how cool it is that we have similar tastes in clothing. True, this shared style of dress has the public relations director of the Washington Association of REALTORS® muttering about how I need to “start dressing like a first lady,” since I am married to the president. Maybe so, but pillbox hats and Chanel suits aren’t for me, and layered skinny tees, Chuck Taylors and faded jeans are. What Generation Gap?

Mr. Wright had some hesitation about allowing our children to set up Myspace accounts online. After all, pedophiles and other predators are out there, just waiting to prey on trusting children. We discussed it and laid down the rules: the kids could have Myspace pages as long as they “friended” me so I could view their lists of friends. “YOU have a Myspace?” my kids cried in disbelief. Yeah, that’s right. I have a Myspace, and I’m so hip that I had one before my kids. I’m moving on to Facebook, and none of my kids have one of those yet, either. What Generation Gap?

I learned the latest hip-hop dance craze at B.B. King’s in Orlando. I enjoy a good punk concert, and even hang out in the mosh pit. The kids load my mp3 player with their favorite songs, and I can sing along with every one. Not one of my kids has ever told me that I dance like Elaine from Seinfeld, and I consider that a great accomplishment. What Generation Gap?

The Dude told me once that I couldn’t possibly understand the younger generation. “I mean, a lot of kids are Emo now!” he reasoned. “Emo?” I challenged. “I was a Goth! I was Emo before Emo was cool.” He was impressed. What Generation Gap?

There is one thing that’s bothering me, though. During a recent trip, I attended a Lionel Richie concert. Like the hip, cutting-edge mom that I am, I crashed the VIP seating area with my husband and friends. People were going crazy for Lionel, pushing and shoving to get closer, and I ended up being manhandled and thrust forward until I was up against the stage, in the front row. Lionel grabbed my hand and smiled at me, winning me the envy of every woman within an arm’s length. Suddenly, without warning, I was lifted from behind and onto the stage. For a moment, I was simply stunned. Then, realizing that I had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I danced a little with Lionel and his band before a security guard insisted that I get off the stage. Immediately.

I was so excited to tell my kids that their rebellious mama had rushed the stage at a concert and danced with a famous musician! “Oh, Mom, that’s SO rock and roll!” I imagined them saying. My bubble of exhilaration was rudely and immediately burst when the kids responded with blank looks and one question: “Who is Lionel Richie?”

Just like that, the Generation Gap appeared, and its broadening mouth threatened to swallow me whole.

Disappointed, I called my parents. I started to tell them about how I thought my kids would be excited that I danced onstage with Lionel Richie, and… “You danced onstage with Lionel Richie?” they interrupted. “That is SO rock and roll!”

Doesn’t it just figure?

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