Last night was the first “deputy in distress” code I’ve experienced since working at the jail. When the call came out over the radio, I looked at the other nurse I worked with and we were both thinking the same thing: BETTER NOT BE FUCKING WITH OUR OFFICERS! OH NO YOU DIDN’T!

The deputies don’t always like or respect the nurses at the jail. Sometimes we make more work for them, like insisting that the person blowing a 0.425 gets a medical clearance from an ER doc before we accept them. That’s when they try to tell us that the firefighters have already cleared them medically.

Excuse me, but firefighters don’t work here, are not bound by the standing orders written by our chief medical officer physician, and aren’t the ones who have to take care of the inmate. Also, just because they have penises does not mean that their medical wisdom is above mine. I respect EMTs, because I started out as one. I respect paramedics, because I was one. But then I went on and became an RN, and I now have 15 years medical experience. Don’t make me fucking discuss my resume and credentials with you just because I have a uterus, K?

ANYWAY, back to my point. The deputy being “acted upon” by the inmate ended up being OK.

But it reminded me that my old code of “any officer in uniform is MY officer, and ya don’t fuck with them” that I had from my EMS days is still alive and well. Even though, as an RN, the officers don’t have the respect for me and the comaraderie with me that they had way back when I was a paramedic.

After the incident, the other nurse and I were talking with the sargeant about how pissed off we would have been if the inmate had actually hurt an officer.

In conversation, both myself and the other nurse relayed to the (male) sargeant that we felt that way despite the fact that we had been let down by/had reason to be mistrustful of police agencies in the past.

As our stories spilled out, I was shocked at the sheer number of times that both of us have been let down by select few officers (in other states).

Once, she had called the cops because she had a restraining order against her soon-to-be ex-husband. They showed up and stood around and watched him beat her. Then, after he had broken two of her ribs and her nose, they put HER in handcuffs. Why did this happen? Her husband was a police officer.

I didn’t even try to call the cops when my (now ex) husband turned from emotionally abusive to physically abusive. He was a firefighter, and even though the cops in my hometown were awesome for the most part, I knew from my EMS days they have no sympathy for battered wives, and they have a lot of allegiance to firefighters.

Also, once I was in an accident where a man tried to make a left turn from the far right lane and crashed into me. The officer that responded FROM THE DERBY, KANSAS POLICE DEPARTMENT (yeah, I’m talkin to you!) tried everything to frame me for the accident. Let me make it clear: I was driving straight down the road when someone TURNED THEIR CAR AND SLAMMED INTO MINE. It was very clear that I was 0% at fault. The cop even went so far as to say that it was my fault the guy hit the right side of my car, because my front driver-side tire was 8 inches over the double yellow line on the left side of the car (where my car was pushed when the other guy crashed into me). The guy even told the officer repeatedly, “Hey, it was MY fault! Why are you trying to blame her?” (Even though he later “caught on” to the officer’s intentions and told his insurance agency that it was my fault. I was still found blameless in the accident.)

Ya know, I still can’t believe that happened. It was fucking UNREAL. Power in the wrong hands can be a frightening thing.

But despite these bad experiences, and some other bad experiences since, I will always have the utmost love and respect for law enforcement officers. Every profession has its assholes. But if push came to shove, even the asshole cops out there are willing to DIE for STRANGERS.

How can you not be loyal to that?

I still hope the cop that tried to blame me for the car wreck gets infected hemorrhoids and chronic explosive diarrhea. Rot in hell, ya woman-hating bastard!

But for the rest of you in uniform out there — you may or may not treat me very kindly if we ever cross paths (I’m not a cute, thin young thing in a miniskirt any more), but I still send you much love and pray you stay safe. Thanks for everything that you do for all of us.

I don’t understand the advertisements about “Summer’s Here!” like it’s a big whoop-dee-doo. Who likes it? It’s hot. Gas prices go up. Kids are out of school and on my lawn (geddoff my lawn, ya damn kids!).

I want fall, and sweatshirts. I want winter and snow. I want the end of my deodorant failure.

Oh April in Colorado. How I miss you!

Inmate, to me: “YOU get your fucking FAT ASS down those stairs and get me some tylenol, NOW!”

What I said (calmly): “We’re done here.” I shut the cell door pass-thru and walk away, as the deputy locks up and the inmate continues screaming for my death and throwing things in her cell.

What I wanted to say: “I may be fat, but I can lose weight, and you’ll never lose your chronic and debilitating case of ‘crazy scumbag whore’. Not only is my fat ass going to be sleeping in its own bed tonight, but I think I’ll take some tylenol right now, just because I can. Bitch.”

* Events written about in this entry are fictional, and are not at all based upon what I may or may not have seen at work last night. Any resemblance to real-life morons and true cluster-fuck events is purely coincidental.

Work release is a pretty sweet deal. You keep your day job, get to eat anything you want all day, wear normal clothes, and do whatever. You only have to return to jail at night to serve your sentence.

TIPS FOR PEOPLE ON WORK RELEASE:

1. If your girlfriend (who is married to someone else) is the one picking you up and dropping you off every day, have her stay in the car. Don’t have her greet you warmly in the very-public courthouse.

2. Do not choose the parking lot of the jail — which has police officers, sheriff’s officers, and surveillance cameras everywhere — as the place to beat up said girlfriend just after she gave you a ride back to jail for the night. Not only will charges be pressed, but officer eyewitness testimony and video presented in court is pretty strong evidence against you. Also, you’ll lose your sweet work release deal which included keeping your job, keeping your income, and obviously some stolen nookie-time with said girlfriend.

BONUS TIP FOR THE LADIES!

When filling out a police report after having the shit kicked out of you by your significant other, the phrase “I love him so much!” is really not relevant.

I’m a Cancer with an Aquarius rising. Although I didn’t write this letter to Elsa’s advice column, Elsa’s answer certainly explains why I act the way I do with my family. For example, the Cancer in me will invite my uber-Catholic parents to visit, then the Aquarius in me greets them at the door wearing this t-shirt (link not work safe).

And yes, I really did that. You should have seen the look on my parents’ faces. They looked like they had just smelled stale cheese made of foot fungus with rotavirus baby-diaper sauce.

So last night I dreamt I went to the movies. I never dream about going to the movies.

This morning, I sit down to my computer. Having just joined Blingo a few days ago, I thought I’d try searching for something, but really didn’t have anything to search for.

So I type in “will to live”.

And I win a free movie ticket!

Since I signed up as a friend of Busy Mom, I think she gets a movie ticket too. But she’s on vacation so it may be a while before I know that for sure.

So I am not only a psychic dreamer, but apparently my reason to live is to go by myself to see a movie sometime.

Sign up to Blingo as my friend please. Maybe you too will find a will to live. Plus, if you win an ipod, then I win an ipod.

Please read these entries first (or just scroll down ) Clicking opens the posts in a new window:
Adoption Part 1
Adoption Part 2
Adoption Part 3
Adoption Part 4
Adoption Part 4.5
Adoption Part 5

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Last story!

I was adopted in Missouri, which is a closed adoption state. Basically, that means that I would have never known I was adopted if my parents hadn’t told me, because the birth certificate has their names on it. It also means I have no right to any information concerning my adoption.

It’s a controversial issue. I recognize this. So please save your comments regarding the rightness or wrongness of my decision to search for my biological relatives. My business, my choice. Not for anyone else to judge.

I found information in a variety of ways. Things the adoption agency told my mother at the time of my adoption proved useful later in my search to verify I was on the right track. I bribed a state employee to get the name and birthdates of my mother (Natalie) and my older half brother. ($45 — an odd amount, but I paid it.) I verified the last name this worker gave me against a last name I “uncovered” on a document, and they matched.

It is interesting how I “uncovered” the last name on a document. My parents had some letters and such from my adoption. One of them was an old Xerox copy of a form. One blank of this form had a line that said “Baby Girl Drunken Lagomorph”. The name was written in pen on top of a thick layer of white correction fluid. Remember how old xerox copies used to be made on paper with a shiny surface? I carefully erased off the white correction fluid and could see my birth name. The last name of my biological mother.

However, I could not find my biomom through searches. She was obviously using a different last name now, decades later.

I had researched information on and off for 15 years. Through an adult adoptee support group’s connections, I found out my grandfather’s name. Using Ancestry.com, I got his social security number and date and place of death.

I called the library in the town and state where he died to get his obituary, which would list his surviving relatives. I was so excited because I knew this could be it: the breakthrough I’d been waiting for!

The librarian was nice but said I’d have to go to my library and give them a cashiers check and they’d fax the request for the obituary to them, then they’d fax the obituary (after the check had cleared) back to my library and blah blah blah. Then, after approval from the Poop and a resolution by Congress, I could have a copy of the obituary.

For the first time in 15 years, I was actually close to finding my biomom, and to have this thrown in my path was a bit too much. On the verge of tears, I explained why it was important and asked her if she could just read it over the phone to me. And she did! God bless that librarian!

Out of the list of survivors, the only one I could find a number for (yay interweb!) was a step-aunt half a continent away. I called her immediately. She was suspicious of my phone call. I told her that I was Natalie’s daughter who was given up for adoption. (Natalie was her stepsister). She said she didn’t know Natalie had given a baby up for adoption. Then she said:

“You know that Natalie is dead, don’t you?”

Um, no I didn’t.

For some reason, I wasn’t surprised by the news. Disappointed, but not surprised. Weird.

My step-aunt said she’d call my aunt (Natalie’s sister) and call me back.

Within 15 minutes, my phone rang. It was my very excited aunt. Her first words to me:

“We’ve been looking for you!”

It was the greatest feeling.

Over the next year and a half, my aunt and I spoke often. I never got to meet her because she lived so far away. Last time I talked to her was 10 days before she died.

She had some problems (bipolar with poor disease control), and it was at times difficult to maintain a relationship with her, but she ended every phone conversation with “I love you.” I said it back and meant it.

Because of her health and emotional problems, it was difficult to get information about my mother from her. She promised to send me pictures of herself, my mother, and their family, but she never did.

I got in touch with my half brother Michael, who is four years older than me. He was receptive, but we lost contact. I also got in touch with both of my mother’s ex-husbands, and a few close friends. Very interesting information. Every one of them said I had her laugh.

I am still in email and snail-mail contact with one cousin and my younger half brother. I have yet to meet any biological relative.

(How scientology killed my biological mother is written about in this post.)

Please read these entries first (or just scroll down ) Clicking opens the posts in a new window:
Adoption Part 1
Adoption Part 2
Adoption Part 3
Adoption Part 4
Adoption Part 4.5
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As mentioned before, over the years I’ve heard comments. You wouldn’t believe the crap some people say. Like my neighbor four years ago. I had just located my biological family and was telling her about it and she said, “Oh, I could never love an adopted kid like my own. In fact, my grandson is adopting a child, and I don’t even want the kid over here. I don’t consider it my grandchild.”

This from a lady who I knew for five years and considered “nice”. Hey, at least she admits her heart is closed to, um… “it”.

Sometimes, even well-meaning comments were over the top.

In the 5th grade, I was getting ready for a talent show. Me and my friend Laura were dressing up like cats and singing “We are Siamese.” I was in the bathroom applying my whiskers with eyebrow pencil when our teacher Mrs. Rush came bursting through the ladies room door. All the girls crowding around the mirrors stopped what they were doing, sensing something was horribly wrong due to Mrs. Rush’s demeanor.

Spying me, she hurried over and grabbed my shoulders. Wide-eyed and upset, she said, “I just heard you were adopted. Is this true?!”

Bewildered, I said, “Uh… yeah?”

With tears in her eyes, she pulled me to her bosom and held me tight. “That just means you were SPECIAL. You were CHOSEN!”

Poor, well-meaning Mrs. Rush. You could tell she felt sorry for me, an emotion I’m wholly uncomfortable with. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t FEEL “chosen”. Hell, I didn’t even remember the goddamn audition!

Besides, I wasn’t chosen. It was the throw of the dice, the luck of the draw. If I had been born a few days earlier or a few days later, I would have gone to a different family. In fact, if my adoptive parents had the ability to choose a baby, I would have been the LAST one they chose. As mentioned before, I was far from a perfect, pretty baby. And I was not a boy. Back then, it was an unspoken rule that if you asked to adopt a certain sex, or refuse to adopt a baby with cosmetic problems (which I had), then you probably would be turned down as a prospective adoptive parent. (Nowdays, you’re allowed to be much more specific on your “baby order” when adopting. People have become more open-minded about adopting different races, but they still want that baby to be a pretty and perfect one.) Bottom line: my parents had to agree to take what they were handed, or they wouldn’t make the list of suitable parents. And they certainly couldn’t take one look at me and say, “Uh, thanks but no thanks!” because they would have looked like assholes. They had already bragged to family, friends, and church members about the adoption process, and let everyone know when they got the call from the adoption agency that they had a baby for them. My parents had to take me; there was no backing out.

At the time of the fifth grade incident, we lived in a small town in Oklahoma. I used to walk home from school, since the bus took just as long, and I was getting bad headaches by then.

One day, my mother’s car was parked outside of my elementary school. I thought it was a treat; maybe she wanted to take me somewhere and do something, just the two of us. As she started driving, she threw a letter in my lap. It was a letter I had written to the advice lady of Seventeen magazine. I don’t recall what it said, but it spoke of trying to find my “real” mother. My mom had dug deep in my dresser drawers to find the hiding place I had for that letter.

I don’t remember what she told me, but I do remember she pretty much went off. It was basically a speech to burst my bubble about any romantic notions of replacing the mother I currently had. That if my bio mom had wanted me, she would have kept me, and she didn’t want me now, and I couldn’t find her, etc. She made me feel like a criminal for being curious.

She grudgingly told me as much as she could remember about what the adoption agency said about my biological mother. Hair color, etc. Apparently, she didn’t think the information was important enough to write down for me, so she was going off of memory. She talked as if every bit of information was doing me a favor, yet she was irritated about it like she had sand in her panties or something.

We didn’t speak of my biological background again until I was 18 and pushed her on it. Until then, I was left to fill in the blanks myself.

Thanks for all the positive comments guys! I just want to make it clear that I’m not posting all of this to feel sorry for myself or have others feel sorry for me. Really, I know very few people who had a perfect childhood, so I’m no different than anyone else in that respect.

I just wanted to let you know what adoption can be like for some kids.

I posted this on a popular internet message board, and I couldn’t believe how I got reply after reply where people said, “I’m adopted and was treated that way too.” It’s horrifying.

I think it’s so important to talk about because people who are thinking of adopting need to really search their souls about why they want to adopt, what would happen if they got a girl and not the boy that seems to be such the deep-down preference for so many parents (whether they admit it to themselves or not), and what they would do if the kid didn’t grow up to be perfect.

You’re not leasing a car. You’re taking responsibility for a child. And unless you can embrace this child as 100% yours, even if you have your own children in the future, then PLEASE DON’T ADOPT!

Two more stories to go.

Please read these entries first (or just scroll down ) Clicking opens the posts in a new window:
Adoption Part 1
Adoption Part 2
Adoption Part 3

___________________________

My parents adopted me when I was 9 days old. They had tried for four years to have children of their own, but couldn’t conceive. They adopted me, then within four years had two sons of their own.

Did you know adoption was a cure for infertility? It is sometimes.

Problem was, I was an ugly baby. Holy god! I’m talking strangers-smile-politely-then-turn-away ugly. As I mentioned before, my parents had to take whatever baby came up on the list. Even if it wasn’t a pretty baby. Even if it had medical problems (I needed eye surgery by the age of four). Even if it wasn’t a boy.

Here you can see the bloom is quickly coming off of the rose of this “adopted brat” thing. And these are the best of the best - my mother gave them to me to include in a slideshow to be shown at their 40th anniversary party. I can’t imagine what facial expressions of disgust are in the pics she decided to keep for herself. You can see in the pictures below that she is clearly contemplating roasting me, and my dad is thinking of tying me to the hood of his car. Just kidding!

My mother is Ms. Sorority. Everything is about her, and her getting attention and looking good to others. She got plenty of attention for adopting a “poor, unwanted” baby. (An unwanted baby that there was a 2 year waiting list for! ) After the adoption and the attention she got for it, she was in her element for a while, I would imagine.

But then she found out she could have her own. She had two beautiful baby boys born 13 months apart from each other, cute and perfect in every way.

But yet she still had me, and she had no way to change that.

Growing up, my brothers didn’t like me. At all. I’m not talking normal sibling rivalry, I’m talking hate and resentment that little children just don’t normally have. It was like I was living in a clubhouse, but I was never invited to join. My two brothers were their own club. My parents were a second club. All four of them together were a third club. By God, I was going to join their club!

My childhood was spent trying to win approval, and withdrawing in despair when I couldn’t get it. I shared my toys. Some days I’d spend all afternoon cleaning my brothers’ rooms (to try and get in good with them AND my mom). I remember sitting and thinking, “How will I get them to like me?” I’d follow them around, even spy on them, to try and figure it out.

Spying became my favorite game. Usually my brothers were the focus, but one day I overheard a conversation between my parents that I will never forget.

When I was in fifth or sixth grade, my younger brother Mark got sick with stomach pains. He even went to the hospital for it. The doctors couldn’t understand what was causing it. He ended up being fine, but for about a week we didn’t know.

One afternoon, I was in the living room while my parents were in the kitchen, talking about my brother’s condition. They must have not known I was home, and me being a super-awesome ninja spy, I was not going to alert them to this fact.

The spying game took an unfortunate “bummer!” turn when I overheard my mother saying to my father that it was my fault my brother was sick in the hospital. That I “kept the house in turmoil” and “made” my brother sick. (Yes, now you know my secret. I was the most powerful and evil sixth grader ever to exist. Bow down before me!) She spoke of me with such contempt, it made my blood run cold.

I don’t remember how she rationalized blaming me, nor do I remember the rest of the conversation. I do know it involved me, and regret that I was in their household. It was pretty ugly. I stayed in the living room and hid behind the piano until I could sneak away, feeling like the world had come to an end. I had made my brother sick, and I didn’t even understand how I did it. Also, it was the first time I had heard my mother confirm what I felt all along: that I was an unwelcome burden, an intruder.

I must emphasize that overall I was a good kid. Annoying yes, but I almost never got in trouble, I made good grades, I had plenty of friends. To this day I can’t see how my parents could blame me for making their house one of “turmoil”.

When I was about 21 or 22, I had it out with my mother about a lot of things. One of those things we discussed was why my brothers had hated me all my life. I told mom it was because they picked up on my parents feelings towards me, and imitated them. She acknowledged that my guess was probably true. It was a victory for me.