RedHead Confetti

My Grandparents are missionaries. I know, I've mentioned them before, and kept saying I'd explain and explore that one. I finally got around-to-it, and so, here it is. But of course, background first. My Grandmother (B) divorced my biological Grandfather (K) when I was about three or four years old. My mother cut him out of her life very quickly, and I was told that he was a horrible drunk who beat B and my mother and her siblings mercilessly. That clashed weirdly with the man I remembered in a handful of very early memories. My Grandpa K was a nice man, very sweet and gentle to me and always ready for a hug in that Grandpa way. I remember being told, when I was maybe 12 and asked about that difference, “Well, he loves you very much; he was just never much of a father.” I was also told many times, “He loves you in his own way,” but it wasn't until I was older that I understood what the hell that meant.* B moved to New Mexico a couple years later near my Gre...

I was working in my back yard Monday night. The coals were lit, and I was waiting for them to burn down far enough that I could put the chicken on for dinner. When it gets warm I love to grill out. The smokey flavour, the heat being outside instead of in, it's win-win! I'm still clearing out the stuff we cut down, and had a random memory pop up while I was putting thorn branches into the rubbish bin. I don't know why it popped up, but I felt the emotions all over again. It was a very strange sensation. I was in the third or fourth grade, so would have been 8 or 9. For a few years after my mother pulled us out of school to home school us, she still took us to Awana every Wednesday night; she was even a teacher (or whatever they were called, I can't remember) for the very little kids, like pre-K. Awana is like boy and girl scouts for church kids; at its most basic, you get badges for learning Bible verses and stuff like that. It's very much indoctrination, but wh...

Trigger Warning: This blog contains some body issue ranting and a vague discussion of vanity about looks. It's not as ranty as the last body issue blog, it's not very linear, either. It meanders a bit, and I'm sorry for that. I couldn't get the thoughts out in any kind of rational way, and edited extensively. Last week a woman named Samantha Brick wrote an article for the Daily Mail . The Daily Mail is Britain's version of the National Enquirer , or close to it anyway, it's a total rag. I admit, occasionally I get sucked into an article on it, mostly when I haven't realised it's the "Flail". However, this article, I went looking for, on purpose, after Jezebel did a short article on it. Brick (married to a Frenchman, and living in "the French countryside" which she told us a thousand times, and continues to do so every time she writes an article) wrote the cutest, most trite: "Why women hate because I'm beautiful...

Today is "Good Friday", the Friday that Christians believe their God-man Jesus was crucified first thing in the morning, died in the afternoon and was buried-- just in time for Passover to start tonight at dusk (Jewish holidays start the evening before). Today is also a banking holiday, and often a day off of school for American school kids. In Germany we didn't have school Good Friday or Easter Monday-- they were both banking holidays, although usually our spring break was called "Easter" break, and started Friday. My children are scattered through my house reading PC Gamer , a Horus Heresy book, or randomly torturing each other-- it's what kids do, or well, my kids anyway. They had spring break last week, school for four days this week, and now another long weekend. Their AIMs start next week-- those would be the standardised tests that prove the school has managed to teach them something this year. I'm not sure how I feel about those tests, but t...

Trigger Warning: This blog will touch on the Penn State child rape, again, as Jerry Sandusky is getting ready to get into court. Again, I'm sarcastic, and angry; again, I'm pissed off. Not so much profanity, though. These three numbers and URLs I'm including, again. I think it's important to keep these not just for ourselves, but for people we know who might need them. Someone always knows if abuse is going on, and it's up to us, to be that someone who helps.  If you've been hurt, are being abused, or know someone who is being abused, please, call SNAP (Survivors Network of those Abused by Priests) or 1.877.SNAPHEALS , or RAINN(Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network)   or 1.800.656.HOPE; The Trevor Project is also a beautiful resource for LGBTQI teens, 1.866.488.7386 Finally, here is a list of state, toll-free numbers (some have web pages, too) where you can call and report suspected child abuse. I got it from the national child protective service...

 "It's interesting, this question of the death penalty. In many ways, we've been taught to think that the real question is: do people deserve to die for the crimes they've committed? And that's a very sensible question. But there's another way of thinking about where we are in our identity. The other way of thinking about it is not do people deserve to die for the crimes they commit, but do we deserve to kill?" Bryan Stevenson in his TED speech. I've had a weird past week. Partly overwhelming, partly spring break for my children, partly the usual crud that seems to crop up occasionally, and so I haven't felt much like writing anything. That's not to say I wasn't thinking, though, and wondering, and watching. Just that I wasn't ready to write anything about it. I watch the Rachel Maddow Show on MSNBC online. I don't have cable, so I watch it the following morning on my computer. Yesterday she had a gentleman on named Bryan Steve...

You're not supposed to admit that being a parent isn't the bestest, most wonderfulest, awesome, beautiful, gorgeous, fulfilling thing that's ever happened to you. You're not supposed to admit that it's a pain in the ass, that it's tiresome, and tiring, it's horrible some times, that you want to scream, give them away, sell them, put them in mental hospital, or put yourself in mental hospital. Why is it, that mothers can't admit that it's hard being a parent, I don't know. I know part of it has to do with the obsession in the US with children. Raising children is some how seen as better than anything else you can do, more fulfilling, more perfect, more satisfying, more everything! If you aren't just orgasmic, over-the-moon-happy about it, then you're wrong! There's something terribly wrong with you, and we should call CPS, to make sure you're not abusing your kids. They're supposed to be the centre of your universe! You'r...