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.

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A Grown-Ass Man Catcalled My 11-Year Old

Photo is of a smiling 11-year old girl named Snugglebug,
with shoulder-length brown hair and sunglasses,
standing on a balcony with a pond, green lawn,
and trees visible in the background.

***The events of this story are shared with Snugglebug's permission.***

Monday afternoon, the girls and I took a walk to the nearby grocery store. Snugglebug and Curlytop took turns pushing Pumpkin in the stroller, and we caught Pokemon along the way.

As we transitioned from the sidewalk to the parking lot, a truck slowed down. The thirtysomething driver rolled down his window, and said, "Hey, baby..." while making eye contact with Snugglebug.

She's 11, y'all.

She plays with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and plays Minecraft and Animal Jam.

She doesn't want to wear makeup, even though some of her peers do, and if I can get her to brush her hair in the morning, I consider it a victory.

This is not a kid who has been sexualized, or pushes the boundaries of age-appropriate behavior or appearance.

And... she was pissed.

"THAT GUY JUST CALLED ME 'BABY.' HE TALKED TO ME LIKE I WAS HIS GIRLFRIEND. THAT IS NOT OKAY!"

I hadn't heard the exchange. I was talking to Curlytop when it occurred. I'd seen the truck slow down, but assumed it was slowing because the driver was being cautious of us pedestrians.

If I'd heard it, I would have lost my Jesus with that man.

I agreed with her, and I told her that sometimes, "putting up the middle finger" at someone is an acceptable response.

Yeah. I gave my kid permission to flip off an adult.

She mentioned the offense several times during our shopping, and several more times on the walk back home.

"What was I even doing? Why did he do that?"

"I think he was looking at my butt." (She was wearing sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt. She didn't even feel her butt was safe from his violating gaze in sweatpants, y'all.)

"That made me really uncomfortable."

"No adult man should talk to a kid like that."

She's right, you know.

And, as furious as I was at the grown-ass man who took it upon himself to sexualize my baby, I was dedicated to letting her speak her mind, and to process it, with me as a sounding board. 

As she did so, I realized something: 

• At her age, my two best friends and I had already been molested by my sixth grade teacher. When we told the principal, our teacher was forced to apologize for any "misunderstanding," and we were sent back into his classroom every single day for more abuse, until the end of the school year. 

• At her age, those catcalls from grown men in my community were commonplace. We girls were told to ignore it, and we learned to giggle and roll our eyes.

• At her age, one time when I was riding my bike, a grown man yelled out, "Life would be so sweet if my face was that bicycle seat!" I didn't know what he meant until years later, and when I realized, I was retroactively grossed out, ashamed, and embarrassed. There were several other men standing with him, and they all laughed. No one admonished him.

• At her age, I'd already had one man expose his erect penis to me when I got separated from my mom in Kmart. After I found my mom and we reported it to store security, we were told that the man had mental health issues, and probably didn't know what he was doing.

• At her age, I'd been told so many times to change behaviors that weren't "ladylike," I was already self-conscious of everything I did in view of adults and peers.

• At her age, I'd already learned that being objectified was part of my female life, and the sooner I learned to accept it, the less painful life would be.

• At her age, I lived in a strange, dichotomous world where I played with Cabbage Patch Dolls, read Laura Ingalls Wilder books, and climbed trees, but also had my breasts and thighs stroked by a grown man. 

• At her age, I learned that anger and outrage weren't feminine, but silence and submission were.

• At her age, I learned that the attention of grown men was something I couldn't escape, so I had to learn to accept it.

And you know what? 

I renewed my vow that my daughters will never be 11-year old me.

No one will ever tell my daughters they're overreacting to the bad actions of grown men.

No one will ever tell them to "get over it," or "just ignore it."

No one will ever tell them that being objectified is part of female life, and the sooner they accept it, the less painful life will be.

My daughters are the owners of their bodies, and they get to protect those bodies.

Snugglebug was outraged because she knows her body is hers, and when someone objectifies her, they are the one in the wrong.

She was outraged because that man treated her with a level of familiarity she had not given him permission to use.

She was outraged because she had not done anything to call attention to herself, yet received it, anyway.

She was angry because she knows she is a child, and she knows that adults who sexualize children are gross, and capable of criminal sexual violence. (She reminded me that her plan -- if any adult man ever tried to touch her body without permission -- was to "kick him in the balls, as hard as I can, and get away while he's on the ground in pain," and I applauded.)

She was angry because she was just trying to enjoy a walk with her mom and sisters, and some grown-ass man had to ruin it for her.

She was angry because she has every right to be.

My daughters will never be 11-year old me.

Anger and outrage, today, to me, are no longer anti-feminine.

Appropriately applied, they are the epitome of feminine power, and I won't allow my girls to be silenced into submission.

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Your Fake Service Dog is Ruining It for Legit Ones

This is Teddy. Services he provides include: licking sticky
fingers, assertive snuggling, and eating
rejected crusts of toast.

Fourth of July Weekend is a big thing in my hometown. Like, ridiculously big. The locals in the town which, nine months out of the year, is a small, closely-knit community brace themselves for the onslaught of tourists who really do act as if they own the place.

We locals do our shopping on Wednesday, and stock up, because going to Safeway on the holiday weekend is the stuff of crazy-making. Standing in line behind an entitled doofus who is outraged over the lack of gluten-free beer selection is never high on my list of "good times."

Unfortunately, Curlytop needed a pair of sunglasses because hers went missing or got broken or were stolen by faeries, so I had to brave the variety store.

Standing at the spinning display of kids' shades while Curlytop tried on every... single... pair (because, you know, they have to feel right, and if they smell different than the others, that's noteworthy, too), we were nearly knocked over by a dog.

A big one.

A Great Dane.

I nearly lit into the handler, but then I noticed the vest.

The dog was wearing a blue vest which read, "Service Animal." It had pockets on it, and it was filthy. I could hardly make out the words, for all the dirt and grime on the vest.

I hesitated, thinking maybe the dog was just so big, it had a hard time getting through the narrow walkways between the display racks, but then I saw the dog was literally pulling its handler along, and bounding down the aisles, stopping to sniff at every passerby and end-cap.

I hope I don't have to tell you that this is not how service dogs behave.

I know, because I have clients who train service dogs. I have a daughter in vet school who occasionally fosters and works with service dogs in training. I have spent time around many a service dog, and this dog was doing it wrong.

See, it's become pretty easy to "authenticate" a fake service dog, and people are doing it in droves. Seriously, I can go to eBay right now, and get a "service dog" vest with authentic-looking information cards with an official-looking seal, telling all about the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) -- for less than twenty bucks for either Teddy or Kipper. Neither of them has had any training, save for learning to tolerate Curlytop and Snugglebug dressing them up in doll clothes and costume jewelry.

To be clear, I am not talking about Emotional Support Animals (ESAs), which have a much lower standard to meet, as regards a public access test. ESAs need generally only be able to follow simple commands, behave on-leash, and not show aggression toward other animals or humans. I have friends who gain comfort and assistance from ESAs, and that is not what I'm talking about, here. (ESAs are NOT protected under federal law, by the way.)

I'm talking about service animals, which, by definition, must have accessory training beyond standard obedience courses, and must provide particular assistance to their humans. The assistance might be seizure detection, boundary protection to an autistic individual, support for the hearing- or sight-impaired, carrying of medical equipment, or any other number of support duties performed by service animals.

These animals and their owners, rightly, are protected by federal law.

Having a legitimate service animal means the owner is saying, "I have a disability, and this animal is necessary for my day-to-day functioning." Of course, federal law prohibits asking what that disability is, but but it does allow establishments to ask two things:

• Is the dog required because of a disability? (Again, establishments cannot ask what the disability is)
• What specific service or task is the dog trained to provide?

But, here's the rub... Businesses are often afraid to ask, because they either aren't aware of what they can ask, or they aren't informed as what to ask. Some businesses aren't even aware that they can ask the animal to leave, if it becomes disruptive or a danger or threat to the health of others. If they ask the wrong thing, or ask the dog to be removed improperly, they can get sued. Further, they have to take the answers to the two allowed questions at face value, because even legitimate service dogs don't have to be certified, by law.

And so, we have an onslaught of fake "service dogs" jumping up on people, knocking things over in stores, sniffing crotches, toileting in public venues and acting like general -- well, animals. And not well-trained ones.

How does this hurt anyone? Well, the service animal owner in this article says she's questioned more and more about the status of her seeing eye dog. This article shares the many ways fake service dogs harm business, legitimate service dog handlers, the dogs themselves, and the owners. 

In short, these fake "service dogs" are making the real ones look bad, and it's calling into question the legitimacy of much-needed companions for those with disabilities.

You may think your dog is well-behaved enough to pass a rigorous behavior test, and it may be. You may have the best-behaved dog, most well-trained dog on the planet. However, you devalue the legitimacy of disabilities suffered by real people when you fake a disability of your own.

My daughters are autistic. They may, someday, require a service dog. Currently, we are looking into how to appropriately and legally provide them with access to an ESA, which we know won't cover all the bases, but we are hoping it can help them to cope with certain high-stress situations which provide common triggers for them. I've discussed it with their therapist, and together, as a team, we are analyzing whether or not it would be appropriate for them, and how best to proceed.

When and if it does become necessary for us to seek service dog for them, I would hope that they and their service companions will not be subjected to doubt, disrespect, or denial of the legitimacy of their needs. 

There are plenty of businesses which are pet-friendly, and the list is growing. Rather than "faking it," I'm asking those of you who love your pets to please show support of those businesses in your area which have opened their doors to your pet, by shopping and enjoying those spaces with your buddy... without a "service animal" vest and fake "certification" from a sketchy website.

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Seeing Red

Photo credit

A few weeks ago at the dental office, Curlytop looked up from her book and said, “Mom, tomorrow is my last day of first grade… Do second graders get to eat Red Dye?”

“Not you, Sweetie – you’re allergic, and so is Snugglebug.”

The color drained from the dental assistant’s face. She’d just finished cleaning Snugglebug’s teeth, a small tub of RED cleansing paste still in hand. “You didn’t use that on my daughter, did you?” I asked, stupidly. Of course, she had.

At that moment, our dentist popped his head in. “How’s it going, here?” he asked.

“To tell you the truth, Doc, I’m a bit alarmed and concerned, since Snugglebug was just treated with red paste.”

He blinked. “But, she’s allergic to Red Dye.”

“Yeah. I know.” I’ve come to believe some medical professionals have hair-trigger backpedalling devices installed during their schooling which activate in response to potential liability, and our dentist didn’t disappoint.

“Well, I know you SAY she’s allergic to Red Dye, but – you know – is it REALLY an allergy? I mean, is it a documented allergy?”

“Well, it’s well-documented with our pediatrician, school nutritionist, neurologist, developmental specialist, five different therapists, and YOUR OWN RECORDS, as evidenced by the all-caps words on that screen.” I pointed to the screen next to him. “Do you need more documentation? I’m sure I can dig it up.”

I could tell our doc was getting a little nervous. “What sort of allergy is it? Do they break out in hives, or what?”

“It’s pretty much straight neurotoxicity. Curlytop has seizures.” I paused, letting that sink in a bit. “Oh, and they do this self-injurious behavior thing where they tear and bite their skin open. It’s a fairly awesome spectacle.”

“Uh-huh… Well, that sounds pretty serious, so, uh… well… erm…”

I took the time to text Mr. Wright: I think you’d better head to the dental office. I’m about to lose my sh*t with our dentist.

Then, I returned my attention to the stammering dentist. “I want a printout of the ingredients in that paste. Like, now.”

The dentist hustled off to find the data, and I was left with the wilting hygenist. “I actually don’t think it has Red Dye in it,” she said, hopefully.

“Really? What do you think makes it bright red?” As it turned out, there were two Red Dye ingredients, according to the emergency hotline for the manufacturer.

Most of the hubbub had died down by the time Mr. Wright arrived, and I informed him we had a rough night ahead of us, following Snugglebug’s exposure.

“I didn’t know whether to contact our attorney, or not,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sure we can document this and ensure it doesn’t happen again on our own,” I assured him.

“I meant for YOU. Where’s the bloodbath? I was looking forward to seeing you in action. I even have popcorn out in the car!”

Is it any wonder I love him so?

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You Know You're a Great Role Model When...

I've been trying to get across to the members of my family that Curlytop and Snugglebug are like over-sized camcorders these days. Anything we say or do is likely to be played back for us by one of our little cinematographers - most likely at the most humiliating or improper moment.

So far, this has included choice phrases uttered by adults and teens in the household (not terribly appropriate for either set, and definitely inappropriate coming out of the mouth of a kindergarten student). Sometimes, it includes an interesting pose or gesture.

Sometimes, it includes both.

Yesterday, Snugglebug walked up behind Curlytop, grabbed her sister's posterior and declared, "Ooooh... that's NICE!"

Pepper and I stared at Snuggle in disbelief, then looked at each other. "Did she just do what I think she did?" Pepper asked. I nodded. "Where did she learn THAT?" Pepper wondered aloud as I explained to Snugglebug we don't do that and it's not okay and her sister's bottom is her sister's bottom, and we don't touch it.

I knew the answer, of course, but Pepper confirmed it when her father came home, entered the kitchen, kissed my cheek and copped a squeeze. "Ooooh... that's NICE!" he announced to everyone within earshot and a decent line of vision.

Then, he scooped up the four-year old attached to my leg.

Where did she learn that, indeed?

A Little Privacy, Please!

The Gonzos have recently moved into a bigger home. With the exception of the additional space, my favorite feature is the locks on the bathroom doors.

Confession: I haven’t gone to the bathroom or taken a shower without someone coming in for at least ten years.

While I grew up with just one sibling in the house, Mr. Wright came from a large family and developed different ideas about privacy than I did. In fact, if I ever start to feel lonely, I know I can hop into the shower and Mr. Wright will appear in the bathroom within seconds, citing a pressing need to discuss matters so crucial they can’t wait until I’ve washed, rinsed and repeated.

The first few times it happened, all those years ago, I was startled. “Hey, I’m in the shower,” I said. “Oh,” he replied. “I’ll speak up so you can hear me!” In my sheltered pre-Wright world, taking a shower meant ten glorious minutes of selfish solitude. Now, it means having a conversation about which days Mr. Wright will be out of town while coincidentally standing under a running stream of water.

The toddlers have no concept of, nor desire for, separateness from Mom. My hips have grooves worn in them from toting kids. They’re like two built-in saddles at this point. I haven’t eaten a meal without someone sitting on my lap since Curlytop arrived. These days, I sneak bites in while refereeing shrieking matches over who gets to sit on which knee. Is it asking too much to feed myself without having contortionist abilities?

What’s more, Snugglebug and Curlytop are compelled to barge into the bathroom every time I sit down, and provide running commentary. “Are you going potty on the big girl potty, Mommy?” “You’re going to get a sticker, Mommy? ‘Cause you didn’t go potty in your pants?” “You need to get the paper, Mom, and don’t forget to wash your hands, okay?” I really hope they don’t write my biography.

I’ve trained the older kids to knock on any bathroom door that is closed, and they’ve learned compliance. They knock and wait for permission to come in. Mr. Wright has learned to knock, too, but he uses it as a warning system. Once I hear his distinctive knock, I know I have about half a second before the door opens. “I’m in here!” I cry. “I know,” he says. “I knocked.”

The locks on the new bathroom doors work like a charm. I go in, lock the door, and start my shower or do my business. I ignore all knocks on the door. The knocking party figures it out when they try the knob. By the time I finish, my entire family is standing outside the door. It’s a beautiful thing.

I know the day is coming – years from now – when I won’t be able to make it to the bathroom or shower by myself. At that point, I suppose, privacy ceases to be a reasonable expectation. Maybe I shouldn’t get too used to those locks, right?

I hate to cut this short, but someone is knocking…

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/ritman/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Dear Mr. Wright...

Someday, after I get around to having that flap of stretched-out skin (You know, the one that hides my rock-hard abs?) surgically removed, you may wake up and realize that you are the father of an insane number of children, and that I am not as young as I was when we met.

I'll understand if you want to get all Talking Heads on me: This is not my beautiful house! This is not my beautiful wife! You may ask yourself, Well... how did I get here?

However, I want to make it abundantly clear that I will not have a sense of humor about you taking up with my plastic surgeon's 22-year-old daughter, especially one as classy as Jon Gosselin's new, um, mistress. (I can't make myself say "girlfriend." He's still married.)

If your new plaything's friends feed the press photos like this:

...or this (Hmm. What's she holding?):


...or...

...for the entire world - and our children - to see, I will personally see to it that you have a new, eunuch unique respect for your old (but freshly tummy-tucked) wife.

Just so we understand each other.

A Crash Course in Satire and Why Sterilization Doesn’t Work

Someone named Judy Brezina of Carlton, Washington thinks I have no business calling myself a writer. She said as much in her May 14, 2009 letter to the editor of the Lake Chelan Mirror.

I have more than enough publishing credits to claim otherwise, but to each her own opinion. Speaking of which, a Google for “Judy Brezina” revealed a pretty impressive list of publishing credits for her, as well. Of course, they were all enraged letters to the editors of various newspapers, but I’m no snob. They totally count! Perhaps Ms. Brezina should write her own column, although satire and humor are clearly not her strong points.

For those not possessing the extensive vocabulary that Brezina does (“imbecilic,” “ignorant” and “insensitive” are all pretty big words, and nicely alliterative, to boot), the word “satire” is defined by Merriam-Webster’s (Brezina’s dictionary of choice) as: 1: a literary work holding up human vices and follies to ridicule or scorn; 2: trenchant wit, irony, or sarcasm used to expose and discredit vice or folly.

Did my column on Guantanamo Bay and bikinis not hold up the human vice of vanity and the follies of the detainee situation to a high enough standard of ridicule, Ms. Brezina?

Let’s take a look at the “gonzo” definition Brezina plucked from Merriam-Webster’s: 1: idiosyncratically subjective but engagé; 2: bizarre; 3: freewheeling or unconventional especially to the point of outrageousness. Brezina asserts that The Gonzo Mama column fits only the “bizarre” definition. I say she’s not giving me enough credit for living up to my name.

1. “Engagé” sent my spell-check feature into fits. I went back to Merriam-Webster.com to make sure I’d spelled it correctly and—I must admit—to get a proper definition. Ironically, Merriam-Webster failed to locate a definition. Dictionary.com, however, gave me this: (adj.) actively committed, as to a political cause.

What’s my cause? Drawing attention to human rights issues. Denouncing the laissez faire attitude of those who think the activities at Gitmo are of no concern. Shining a spotlight on societal standards which pressure women to fit an unrealistic ideal. It’s all in my piece, and it’s too bad Brezina lacks an appreciation for the satirical delivery. Make no mistake – I am serious about human rights. I don’t wear diamonds. I seek out fair trade companies. I cried when Converse was acquired by Nike, and I’m holding on to my circa 1990 Chuck Taylors until they disintegrate.

2. “Bizarre?” I plead no contest.

3. “Freewheeling or unconventional… to the point of outrageousness.” Excuse me, Ms. Brezina—are you not outraged?

Perhaps it’s inaccurate to say Ms. Brezina suggested I should be sterilized, but that’s the implication I took from her statement “…we should be extremely careful about overpopulation. Ms. Wright seems to be very proud of her ability to procreate. Personally, I don't think it's such a hot commodity. That's why God gave us the brains to control ourselves.”

Of all the barbs contained in Ms. Brezina’s letter, that particular statement incited the fiercest responses from The Gonzo Mama’s fans. The supportive replies flooded my inbox, popped up on Facebook, and planted themselves on both TheGonzoMama.com and LakeChelanMirror.com.

Most leaving comments denouncing Brezina’s letter are people who actually read my column – a credential Brezina herself clearly cannot claim. That’s why my regular readers were able to cry foul on her statement: They know that I gave birth to only one child.

I am, in fact, very proud of my ability to “procreate.” That is, the ability that allowed me to birth my son almost fifteen years ago. I’m proud, too, of surviving cervical cancer and other health issues that make my birthing another child a medical improbability. Does Ms. Brezina mean to vilify me for producing a single child?

I am equally proud of my four stepchildren, to whom I have been the full-time mother for about nine years. Ms. Brezina, do you begrudge those four children the benefit of a consistent mother? Should I have refused to marry their father—who had a vasectomy even before we met—because it would make me the mother of five children and subject to snide comments about “overpopulation?”

Know what else I am proud of? I am proud of my two youngest children; two beautiful little girls with special needs that we are adopting through the Department of Social and Health Services (DSHS).

Come to think of it, a certain level of population control could arise from the abolition of DSHS. With DSHS no longer in the picture, children would remain in homes where they were subjected to abuse and neglect, and we’d see a rise in child death rates as a result. Is this what you were getting at, Ms. Brezina? Should I stop adopting children who have been removed from dangerous homes? Am I failing to do my part for population control because I provide a safe, loving home for children who don’t have one?

I suppose you’re right, though, Judy. God actually didn’t give me the brains to control myself. When a child needs a mother, I just can’t seem to say, “No.”

Frankly, I think striving to give children a better life IS a pretty hot commodity.

Photo art by Gonzo Jenny