7 Reasons Why We Don’t Do Santa at Our House

Even back then, I knew Santa was creepy AF.

(Image is of the author, as a toddler girl. She sits
on the lap of a man dressed as Santa, with a white
beard and red holiday hat. The toddler has dark
blonde hair with a white barrette in it. She wears
blue pants with a floral-patterned top featuring
a blue bow. The child looks frightened, and
is crying.)

I’ve come across an increasing number of folks who literally can’t believe that Santa never makes an appearance at my house, and that we don’t lead our children to believe that Santa is real.

Sure... they can’t believe that, but expect their kids to believe that a jolly old elf makes a trip around the world in about twelve hours, and sneaks into children’s homes.

Here’s the thing. There are a number of reasons why Santa isn’t a “thing” at my house:

1. I DON’T LIE TO MY CHILDREN.

Let me just get that out of the way, first. I don’t lie to my children.

I need my children to trust me. I need them to believe I’ll always tell them the truth, when they come to me with questions.

Maybe telling the truth is paramount in my house because of my children’s history (most of my children come from hard places), but there it is.

They have questions about their history, and that's expected. I want them to know that they can ask me anything -- absolutely anything -- and I will tell them the truth, at an age-appropriate level.

I also want them to know and understand that the truth is the expectation in our home. I want and need them to be honest with me, too.

Lying to children for fun, or to create a sense of “magic,” or out of a need for tradition is still lying.

We create our own magic. We create our own traditions. And that magic, those traditions, come from a place of trust.



2. SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE, IS GOING TO TELL THEM.

It’s inevitable that any secret I would try to keep from my kids is going to come out, at some time.

I’d much rather have them learn the truth from me, than for them to feel like I’ve lied to them, and that they can’t trust me.

Funnily enough, we had the opposite happen, when a teacher told Curlytop that Santa was real, and that her parents were lying to her when we said he’s not.

Let me tell you, stern words were had. A lot of them.

I had to explain to the school that when adults tell children that their parents are liars, it grooms the child for abuse, because it conveys that the child can’t trust their parent.

Yes, I just mentioned abuse in a discussion about Santa. I sure did.

Because when children are told “secrets” by adults they can’t share with their parents — no matter how small, it opens the door for adults with ill intent to isolate children, and ask them to keep bigger “secrets.”



3. MY KIDS ARE SUPER LITERAL.

Taking things literally sort of comes with the territory in a house where autism rules supreme, but let me just say that the idea of someone seeing me when I’m sleeping is pretty firetrucking creepy.

A lot of the whole Santa sham is about covert surveillance and someone coming into your home without getting caught.

I mean, really.

As an adult, that scares the hell out of me, and I don't even care about getting presents.

4. I WANT MY KIDS TO EXPRESS THEIR EMOTIONS.

“You’d better not cry; you’d better not pout.”

You can’t lay out the Santa ruse without admitting that a lot of songs and stories have already been written, chronicling how the whole Santa gig works.

And this song? This one tells kids they need to stuff their emotions, because Santa is watching.

If my kids are having big feelings, I’m much more interested in learning what is causing them than having kids stuff their feelings for the sake of the creepy old guy who is spying on them.

I mean, let them worry about Google snooping, and their tablets tracking their location, and Amazon feeding them ads based upon their browsing history. Those are REAL things to be worried about.

Am I right?

5. I DON’T NEED TO LEVERAGE GIFT-RECEIVING TO ENFORCE BEHAVIOR EXPECTATIONS.

I give my children gifts because I love them. It’s not conditional upon them being “nice” instead of “naughty.”

Love isn’t conditional. I don’t only love them when they’re being “good.” I love them because they’re my children.



6. DISAPPOINTMENT SHOULD NOT BE PARALLEL TO BEING “NAUGHTY.”

When kids believe that writing a letter to Santa and being “good” will score them whatever they’ve requested, it sets them up to think they just weren’t “good” enough when it doesn’t materialize.

That year when we were losing our house? That year? No amount of “goodness” would have made an Xbox materialize on Christmas morning, and it had nothing to do with behavior. It was all about finances.



7. SANTA PLAYS FAVORITES, AND IT’S ALL ABOUT SOCIOECONOMIC PRIVILEGE.

How do we explain — if Santa brings toys to “all the good girls and boys” — that children who don’t get gifts from Santa are still good?

How do we explain that Jimmy, who got gum and an orange from Santa, is just as “good” and worthy as Joey, who got a new iPad from Santa?


So... there it is. Seven of the reasons why we don't do Santa at our house.

What do you do at your house? Are you about Santa, or nah? Why, or why not?


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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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Get Out of My Face with Your "Quiet Hands"

In case you're out of the loop, we have two amazing kiddos staying with us through kinship care right now. That's right -- two bonus boys: Alpha, 8, and Bravo, 5 (almost 6).

Anyway, I had to take Bravo into the school today to meet with the school psychologist for some cognitive testing, as his IEP review is due before his birthday next month. I haven't worked with this psychologist before, and he seems like a nice enough guy, but I'm pretty sure he hates me now, because... you know... I can never seem to hold my firetrucking tongue when it comes to the treatment and education of the kiddos in my care.

So, I'm filling out the ABAS-3 (Adaptive Behavior Assessment System, Third Edition) while Mr. Psychologist gets out some puzzle pieces to begin testing. He's working in tandem with the SLP (Speech & Language Pathologist), and they're tag-teaming... Mr. Psychologist performs one part of his test, and then Ms. SLP performs one part of hers, and so on.

Everything is going fine -- I'm working on one side of the table on the ABAS, Mr. Psychologist, Bravo, and Ms. SLP are working on the other side. Mr. Psychologist has killed the fan in the room because the noise is distracting to me, and it's all good, until I hear it: Bravo, "quiet hands," please.

They were in the middle of testing, and Mr. Psychologist had asked me not to intervene with the testing process, so I lifted my head, gave the psych a look (he was too engrossed in the testing to notice), and went back to the ABAS.

When he finished the test portion, I butted in before Ms. SLP could begin her portion.

"Is this a stopping point?" I asked.

"Sort of," he said.

"May I speak, frankly?" I asked.

"Errrr... of course..." he ventured.

"Okay. So, we're a house full of neurodiversity and neurodivergence. We don't subscribe to ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) therapy, its tactics, its goals, or its dictionary. We don't use phrases like, 'quiet hands.' We believe physical stimming is healthy and productive, and we don't force children to refrain from it, hide it, or minimize it."

There was a brief moment of uncomfortable silence, and Mr. Psychologist cleared his throat. "I understand that. That's great. I actually didn't even know that 'quiet hands' was an ABA thing."

Like, this guy wanted me to believe that he pursued an education in psychology -- presumably, with an emphasis on child development, at some point? -- to the point of receiving a degree, but had NEVER HEARD THE PHRASE "QUIET HANDS," IN THE CONTEXT OF ABA? I gave him the benefit of the doubt, in any event.

"Gentle redirection to return focus to the task at hand is fine," I said, "but I don't endorse attempts to restrict physical stims."

I let it go at that, but I wanted to scream, "BUT IT SERVES THE SAME PURPOSE, DOESN'T IT?! Does it even MATTER where you heard it, when what you want the child to do is stop his physical stimming?!""

Let me explain.

Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) is compliance-based "therapy" popular with parents of autistic children, which includes goals such as "reducing inappropriate behavior," "increasing socially acceptable behaviors," and "increasing appropriate and effective communication." Its primary goal? To "fix" autistic children, "correcting" their behaviors, so they appear more neurotypical ("less autistic"), drawing less attention to themselves and their caregivers, so those caregivers and society at large can feel more comfortable around them.

If you're not grasping why ABA is harmful to autistics, try reading "Quiet Hands," by Julia Bascom.

Is that too artsy for you? Try this one from Amy Sequenzia, of the Autistic Women's Network.

Want to see what this compliance-based indoctrination looks like as it carries into adulthood? Read this post from Neurodivergent K.

Anyway, so I was trying to explain to Mr. Wright that the new school psychologist hates me, now, and I started telling him the story, and when I got to the part about hearing "quiet hands," he fell out of his chair, laughing.

Not because he thinks ABA is funny, but because he's been in IEP meetings with me, before.

He said, "Ohhhhhhhhhh, hell... QUIET HANDS? Did you lose your ever loving shit? Were you standing on your toes? Were you doing that? I can just see you, standing on your toes! You do that, you know!"

Well, no. I was sitting down, actually. Mostly, anyway. I may have been slightly out of my seat. Reaching across the table. With my hands ready to snap the guy's neck.

But mostly, I was sitting. Technically. Pretty much, anyway.

Mr. Wright asked what I hoped to gain from the exchange, and suggested that I simply wanted the guy to acknowledge that I am right about this issue. I thought about it, and replied, "No. I want people to earnestly consider the weight and implications of the ideals they hold dear, and I want them to come to the conclusion on their own that what they've learned or been taught may be wrong. I want them to realize they've got it all wrong, when it comes to the autistic community."

"In other words," he said, chuckling, "you want to be right?"

Well, yes. And, also, no.

See, I didn't come to enlightenment by nature. Nooooooo... I actually thought the "professionals" who were overseeing medical care for my children had all the knowledge, and I didn't really question their advice, until I hit a roadblock. ABA was one of many therapies suggested for Curlytop when she was diagnosed, and it wasn't available in our area for her. At first, I was devastated. Like, I didn't have the benefit of any type of interventions when I was growing up, so I wanted to make sure she had EVERYTHING that could possibly help her to succeed, so I went on a wild crusade to find an ABA provider, and did a ton of research to help find one.

It was that research that led to my enlightenment. I talked to actual autistics who had been subjected to ABA therapies as children, and learned that some of them had PTSD as a result of their experiences.

I thought about my own experiences, and my own struggles, and how difficult extended eye contact was -- and is -- for me, and how I always got poor grades in speech class because I couldn't look at my audience, and how I deal with that now (by simply saying to people, "Eye contact is really difficult for me. Please don't think I'm not listening to you if I'm not looking at you. I can actually listen better by NOT looking at you."), and how I'm actually existing pretty successfully in the world. I realized that if Curlytop doesn't get forced to initiate eye contact she doesn't feel comfortable with, it's going to be okay. She will be okay. She'll be better than okay... she'll feel safe, and comfortable, and accepted.

I thought about how I was always getting in trouble for having "fidgets" in class (my old-school favorite fidget was a retractable ballpoint pen with a button on top which I would click until my Spanish teacher took it away and gave me detention), and how we've come a long way in recognizing that fidget objects can be healthy devices which can help people concentrate.

I thought about how my fourth grade teacher called me out in front of the whole class for scrunching my nose like a rabbit, repeatedly, while I was silently reading, and how humiliated I was, and I was proud that my daughter felt safe enough to engage in her verbal "squawking" during times of stress and excitement, because we've never shamed her or tried to restrict it. It's just a really sweet, cute part of who she is.

And, just like that, ABA therapy was off the table for us, and for our children. We'd rather spend our time helping others to understand, accept, and embrace neurodiversity than spend it trying to mask the neurology and personalities of our children, who are amazing and perfect, as they are.

So, it's not so much that I want to be right about ABA as it is that I want others to consider that they may have it all wrong, when it comes to educating and serving autistic children. What if there's a better way? What if -- rather than trying to force them to be "less autistic" -- the best way to help them is to educate everyone else around them about neurodiversity? What if promoting autism ACCEPTANCE is superior to downplaying autism "SYMPTOMS/BEHAVIORS?"

Anywayyyyyyyyyy... I have to go back at 11am with Bravo tomorrow.

What do you want to bet that Mr. Psychologist will be all too keenly and freshly aware of my own personal hand-stimming (specifically, "clicking" my fingernails by placing my thumbnail under one fingernail, then pushing up and down, creating a satisfying series of  "clicks" as the nails pass over one another)?

Say "quiet hands" to me ONE firetrucking TIME... I dare you.



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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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RE: My R.S.V.P. to Your B.B.Q.

Photo source

God bless my well-meaning friends and family members, who make every effort to include my vegan-principled diet when planning their summer parties! Still, though I’ve been vegan for about 15 years, some of them still don’t quite “get” it.

So, this year, I’m writing an open letter, on behalf of myself and vegans everywhere, to help those who sincerely want to feed us.

Dear Loved One,

Thank you so much for the invitation to your party! I appreciate your thoughtfulness and your desire to include me, and after careful consideration, I’ve decided to accept. This year, however, I’ll be making some changes.

As much fun as I’m sure it will be to see an entire pig roasted on a spit, I think I’ll bring my own vegan Italian sausages to roast over the fire—the same variety I brought last year. Remember, the ones you said weren’t fit for your dog to eat? After watching your sweet canine choke down a pile of his own droppings, I consider your endorsement one of highest praise and quality.

Speaking of those vegan sausages, should you be compelled to insist upon cooking them yourself, may I ask, once again, that you not do so on the same burger-grease-dripping grill as last year? Also, if your children truly do prefer eight-for-a-dollar pig-part hot dogs, would you mind not feeding my two-dollar specialty sausages to them?

Are you planning any dishes this year which don’t include bacon? I’ve never actually seen crumbled bacon used as a staple ingredient, but maybe it’s a regional thing I don’t quite have a grasp on.

The “rabbit food” you pointed me to last year was actually a Caesar salad, filled with cheese and anchovy dressing (and bacon!). May I offer to bring a green salad this year, with almonds for protein?

That reminds me… I checked again, and chicken still isn’t vegetarian nor vegan this year, though you’re absolutely welcome to continue to suggest it is again, along with cheese, sour cream, and tuna fish.

Though the idea of digging in to your grandmother’s mayonnaise-based potato salad (with bacon!) is appealing, after it’s had a couple hours to “cure” in the sun, I believe I’ll bring a three-bean salad to share with those who may have an aversion to food poisoning.

It’s a mystery to me how flavored collagen from bones and hooves, tossed into a bowl with sugared fluid from bovine mammary glands, with a can of syrup-packed pineapple chunks passes for a “fruit salad,” but may I bring a fruit salad that is actually made entirely of fruit? I can’t promise that fabulous curdling effect after it warms up, but perhaps you’ll forgive my culinary ineptitude.

Is there really a good reason to slather butter on every vegetable before it’s served? Corn on the cob is delightful when served slippery, and it collects the gnats better that way, too, but could you set aside an unbuttered cob for the girl who clearly has no taste? I’d appreciate it, ever so much.

While I’m sure pork and beans (with a cube of bacon fat!) out of a can are top-notch picnic food, would you mind terribly if I brought some homemade baked beans, made with espresso and top-shelf bourbon to share? I’m sure you can pick some bacon out of the antipasto to throw in there, if your guests find it lacking.

I so look forward to your event, and hope to enjoy with much gusto and without gastrointestinal distress. Can’t wait to see you!

Your Vegan Friend,
Sexy Vegan Mama

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Ignorance is Dangerous. So is Standing Up Against It.

This is the second post in a row that I've started with a disclaimer. That seriously has to stop.

Nonetheless, here we go.

I'm going to post some photos in here that might be disturbing to some. If you don't think you can handle the image of a man's face that appears to have another (purple) face protruding from it, do not scroll down. Go read my entries on travel or politics or even general chaos, but do NOT scroll down.

My fellow Motherhood: From Egg to Zine mama, Tanya Ruckstuhl-Valenti, was in the middle of reading her piece at the Hugo House during our performance in January when she realized she had a major f-bomb (the dirty, dirty kind) in her essay... and someone had brought their kids to the show. "I'm going to edit this word," she explained, "because I see there are children in the room. Instead, I'll say 'FIRETRUCK.'"

Thank you for that substitution, Tanya. It will come in handy as I write this post. I have some very nice readers, and I wouldn't want to drive them off with my firetrucking language. I will be dropping that other, homophobic f-bomb again, as well. You've been warned.

If you are still reading, you are ready to see what Mr. Wright's face looked like this morning. Witness:

Oh, but the front view is even better!

What is that? What is that huge swelling on the side of his face? Is it another face? Has he morphed into the Elephant Man? He calls it a "mouse." I call it "firetrucking awful to look at."

Needless to say, I am not happy about this; especially since this post was supposed to be about the fabulous new shoes that Mr. Wright got me for our anniversary. Shoes, however, will have to wait.

I alluded to this drama in my last post, but I didn't want to write it all out until we talked with the police, lest it interfere with the investigation. The report has now been filed.

By the way, I hesitated to post this, because I was afraid of what YOU (#1) would do with it. However, I refuse to allow your presence to dictate my First Amendment rights. I can't dictate your behavior, and if you can't act like an adult by now, that's too bad.

Last night, Mr. Wright and I went to a place we'd never been for a drink and dancing. One drink, and a little dancing. I noticed, from the dancefloor, that there was a creepy Lurker Dude watching me from the DJ booth. He had a friend with him in the booth; a Ballcap Loser. They had another friend, Tattooed Necklace Punk.

Anyway, Lurker Dude just kept staring and staring at me while we were dancing. I mean, yucky staring. Leering. I finally just turned around and danced with my back to him.

Mr. Wright looked hawt in his suit, as always, and I was looking pretty good in my funky retro dress. I must say, we were a little out of place among the ratty jeans and tattered t-shirts, but we got our groove thang on and tore up the dancefloor.

About an hour after we arrived, we made our way outside to the curb, where our rig was parked. A nice Asian guy followed us out and asked us where we were from. He showed us pictures of his kid and we chatted for a few moments. I fetched a copy of Gonzo Parenting for him to take home with him. About that time, Tattooed Necklace Guy came out. Nice Asian Guy stopped him and said, "Hey, you should take a look at this zine. She publishes it, and she has a website and stuff."

Tattooed Necklace Guy took the zine, saw the cover, and said, "Can I have this?"

"Well, I just gave it to Nice Asian Guy," I said. "It's his." Tattooed Necklace Guy took it anyway, and started to walk off.

Pay attention, now, because things moved really fast from here on out.

Lurker Dude came out, walking quickly to catch up with Tattooed Necklace Guy. As he passed me, he said, "I can't believe you're going home with that faggot."

"Hey!" I called after him. "Seriously. Dude. Don't use that word. That's not cool."

He stopped, turned, and headed toward me. "You got a problem with me calling this guy a firetrucking faggot?"

Honestly, I thought the guy was a douchebag. I didn't know he was dangerous. I just thought he was a drunken douchebag. "Don't talk to me like that," I said, "and don't use that word. It makes you sound like an ignorant firetrucking douchebag."

By this time, Mr. Wright was standing protectively by my side. Lurker Dude said, "What? Is your GUY going to do something about it?"

And then, he hit Mr. Wright. He hit Mr. Wright's beautiful face. As if that wasn't enough, Tattooed Necklace Guy grabbed Mr. Wright from behind, around his neck, and held him while Lurker Dude hit him again and again in the face.

Mr. Wright started to get away, and Ballcap Loser showed up from nowhere and beat him in the chest, hard. When Mr. Wright tried to get away again, Tattooed Necklace Guy hit him from behind.

I want to tell you this, readers: Mr. Wright is not a pussy. Mr. Wright is a strong, strong man; and I don't mean that in that Rick Astley kind of way. But, seriously? Three guys on one? Hitting from behind? Holding a guy so other guys can beat his face in?

WHY?

Why did Mr. Wright's neat, clean appearance so enrage these guys? Why did his professional dress qualify him, in the minds of the ignorant losers, as a "faggot" that needed to be beaten?

It's called HATE CRIME, people. Hurting someone because they are gay, because you think they are gay, or because you think they appear gay, is a HATE CRIME. It's illegal, and it's wrong.

The police officer assigned to our case is following up on the information he's received. The guys, it is believed, immediately after proving their masculinity by acting like firetrucking cowards in a three-on-one fight, went to a casino, where video survellience is used.

I sincerely hope that the prosecutor will push this forward as what it is - a hate crime - if the guys are located and arrested. Hate crimes in Washington State are a class C felony, and prosecuted as a crime separate from any other crime arising from the incident.

As I was writing this entry, I received a notice that one of my email subscribers unsubscribed after reading my last post. Meh. Some people are uncomfortable with seeing those who would take another's freedom or happiness confronted.

I get that. If you must leave, I wish you well.

In other news, did I mention I got new shoes?

File This Under "Insanity Defense"

I make no excuses for being a stickler for good and proper use of the English language.

I like to think I am pretty tolerant of strangers using words improperly or using "non-words" in what they think is an intelligent way, but hearing those close to me do the same is like driving four-inch nails into my skull.

Yesterday, someone close to me said, "irregardless." Can I just say that that "word," more than most, irritates me to no end? It's actually defined as NONSTANDARD. That is, not a proper word.

Someday, someone will be earnestly trying to make a point and spew, "...irregardless of the fact..." and I will go on an intercontinental grammar mercy killing spree.

I groused about the "irregardless" nonsense on Facebook, and found that my friends have similar peeves:

• People mispronouncing "superfluous"
• "Supposably" instead of "supposedly"
• "Freshly squozen orange juice"
• "Fusstrated" or "flustrated" instead of "frustrated"
• "Taunt" instead of "taut"
• "Bedroom suit" instead of "suite"
• "Window seal" instead of "sill" (okay, that one is mine)
• "Valentimes" instead of "Valentine's"

What's going to drive you to copping an insanity plea, grammatically speaking?

Photo by publik15

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

You've Got (Hate) Mail

As I mentioned on Bad Gratitude Monday, The Gonzo Mama received her very first hate mail, cementing her place in the world of real columnists.

For those not lucky enough to live in the distribution area of the Lake Chelan Mirror, I'm posting the letter, in all its glory. The letter came from Judy Brezina of Carlton, Washington, and was written in response to my piece, "Forget Gitmo... I've Been Bikini Shopping."

Wright is wrong

Dear Editor,

I just received my Mirror in the mail today. I came to the letters page fully expecting there to be at least several letters referring to Ms. Wright’s incredibly ignorant, insensitive article last week. I didn’t write because I felt the bases were covered. It seems the bases are open so I’ll step up to the plate.

I’m not sure who to blame on this one, Ms. Wright or the editor. That was the most imbecilic article I have ever read, bar none. How can any sane person compare being held prisoner against every right we hold dear and tortured on a daily basis to trying on swimsuits? I want to ask very clearly, what were you thinking? Or were either of the above mentioned people even thinking at all? The article that Ms. Wright tried to be ever so clever writing actually made me sick to my stomach. What on God’s green earth ever lead you to believe you were a writer? Why did the editor let it pass? The piece is unacceptable. Period.

I looked up the word Gonzo: 1. idiosyncratically subjective but engagé; 2. bizarre; 3. freewheeling or unconventional especially to the point of outrageousness.

So, let me understand this. Gonzo Mama? Well, at least the bizarre part fits. Oh, and since I’m here and fired up, there are many people, myself included, that believe 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.


Judy Brezina
Carlton


What do you think? Do you agree that I am a talentless imbecile? Should my editor be fired for printing my piece? Should I be sterilized? (Oops. Too late. She obviously doesn't read my column, or she'd know I only gave birth to one of my seven kids and can't have any more.)

You may respond to Ms. Brezina's letter online here or send an email to the clueless editor who posts my drivel, Les Bowen, at editor@lakechelanmirror.com.

Mommy is NOT a Jungle Gym

Just a note to my two beautiful toddlers: Mommy is not a jungle gym.

Oh, sure... Mommy's body may be solid and rail-thin, but let's not get her confused with the monkey bars.

While I'm at it, I'd like to clear up a few other misunderstandings...

To my pre-teen girls: Mommy is not a laundry service.

The fact that you did not put your clothes away and, instead, "stored" them on the floor does not mean Mommy is going to be sympathetic to the seven loads of laundry you toted to the laundry room. Laura Ingalls probably did her own laundry at age 11, and so can you.

To my teen boys: Mommy is not a rocket scientist, nor your personal secretary.

The fact that you failed to start your science project until 10:00 p.m. the night before it was due does not mean Mommy considers staying up until 1:30 a.m. to record the results of your experiment "quality time."

To my teen daughter: Mommy is not the Wicked Bitch of the West.

Enough said.

To my husband: Mommy is not going be your "naughty nurse."

Well... not again, anyway...

The Gonzo Mama Guest-Blogs at LipstickDaily.com!

I can't believe they asked me back!

Kate and Elaine, mamas extraordinaire, actually allowed me to wax poetic (pun intended) about my ongoing frustration with leg hair removal on their awesome site, LipstickDaily.com.

Read all about it, leave a comment, and tell 'em The Mama sent you! Go read my post, "Stubble Trouble," then click around on LipstickDaily... I promise you'll laugh!

The Dumbing Down of America

For those lucky enough to know The Gonzo Mama in real life, it comes as no surprise when she refuses to vote for a candidate whose campaign literature appears to be crafted by someone who failed to pass middle school English.

Routine, too, is the sight of her red-lining a direct mail piece and sending it back to the offensive junk mail monger with editorial notes... in his own postage-paid envelope, no less. That's right - the illiterate pile of moose droppings gets to pay for the pleasure of reading The Gonzo Mama's list of reasons why he sucks.

Call it a severe case of "grammarphilia," if you must. The fact remains that The Gonzo Mama has a very low tolerance for poorly-constructed written material and perfunctory use of the English language.

In her essay, Education Limbo: How Low Can You Go?, Mama clearly outlines why our nation's schools are to blame for this widespread and offensive epidemic.

It's the latest installment of her column over at Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between). Check it out, and rant along!