I'd like to see someone shit on the terminator.

I used to be pretty mean.

Then I saw a lot of ridiculous people who acted like me.

And I was all, whoa, dude, do I look like that?

So I went all Mother Teresa and shit.

Turns out, people shit all over Mother Teresa.

I mean, I don't know if they did or not.

In that metaphor, I was mother Teresa.

And everyone else was shitting mean.

Anyhow.

People have been shitting mean all over me.

They also have been ignoring me.

Which, sometimes, is the meanest shit of all.

So now when I see people act all nice and get shit on all the while,

I think whoa, dude, do I look all pathetic like that?

So I'm gonna turn all terminator and shit.

I'd like to see someone shit on the terminator.

Like Stealing Candi from a Baby

Today on TMZ, I came across this article penned by Candi Spelling, mother of 90210-er Tori Spelling. She wrote and submitted this memo specifically for TMZ (classy), where she publicly eviscerates her daughter. Take a peek:

I Know many middle-aged people have issues about their parents and their upbringing. I did. My memories didn't match all those of my mother, and, funny thing, it's the same way with my daughter.

Life has consequences. What you say is on the record. Other people have feelings.

I have a vested interest in this subject. My daughter, Tori's, two-part season finale revolves around my granddaughter's first birthday party
and how she has made what seems like an agonizing decision to invite me.

Cue music. Cue sideways glances. Cue Lights.

I did get an invitation just in time for the RSVP deadline. I'm sure its delivery will be on next week's episode with some comment about my house or driveway or street or something they won't like. I wonder if that will be spread out over one part or two. Sigh.

A big party wasn't how I envisioned meeting my granddaughter for the first time; but, hey, this is Hollywood, and my grandchildren have become reality show props, too. At the time I emailed "yes," I didn't realize I was being set up for a two-parter, even though it was clear I was being invited to be part of a segment for my daughter's reality show.

Spoiler alert. Don't read this if you plan to sit through an hour of people looking at their watches and saying "she's late." I decided my first meeting with my granddaughter should be on home video, not primetime cable; so I emailed that I would not be attending.

Back to other reality stars. My husband taught me that the plots have to be fresh and updated. The same old whining gets tired after a while. Enough complaining about what may or may not have happened during first grade
or YMCA camp, or what vegetable you were forced to endure, especially when you are privileged enough to be on TV and get paid for it.

For all the reality show personalities, please remember that real life doesn't get edited to make things better or worse or get better ratings. You're responsible for what you do. Life isn't just a show. And your families can't just be props. Make your own season finale without creating conflicts you will regret later.

On Friday I attended a baby shower in honor of one of my knocked-up coworkers. Mostly I went for the food because I didn’t contribute to the gift pool for her. I really have no idea why people get rewarded for being porked by some man, but it’s a cultural phenomenon that I’d like to see die a slow death.

Despite my obvious feelings against having children, (As Brian puts it, most people just want to see a mini version of themselves because they think it’s cute) I couldn’t help but feel good for my coworker. She is wholeheartedly kind and pure-hearted, and I believe that if anyone would dedicate her life to raising a happy child, she would. Even her husband seems fundamentally wonderful, and I think that they chose to have children because they really do want to nurture and love a human life. It was almost enough to make me want to have children. Almost.

First and foremost in my reasons against having a child is this one: I wouldn’t be a good mother. I’m selfish and manipulative, greedy and vain, with a short temper… and manic depression to boot. I would try to love the kid, but something tells me I’d fall short—especially if it were any way ugly or heterosexual.

But here’s the thing. If I DID mistakenly have some sort of imp, I don’t think that I could vilify it via TMC. Even if the thing was Phyllis Schlafly reborn. Even if it was a murderer. Even if it hated my guts and everything that I stand for. I think that I’d still try and find a way to make peace with it, at any cost.

I don’t think that Tori Spelling or Candi Spelling are blameless, because I’m sure that there’s been a fair amount of hurt on both sides. But I have to wonder, to what degree do parents hold the responsibility of maintaining a parent/child relationship? Is it really 50/50? Is it the child’s job as much as it is the parents to keep the family afloat? When did it become the job of the child to assuage the parents for hurt feelings?

It used to be that having a child was for utility purposes. You needed someone to help on the farm or assistance gathering food, and there was also the whole propagation of the species thing. I think the thing that has happened, though, is that there’s no need for children anymore. The population is skyrocketing, and we all live until we’re about 175 these days. We don’t need help pulling in the fall crops and we can recruit nurses to aid us in our ailing older years.

As far as I can tell, about 25% of people have children because they like the idea of caring for, loving, and sharing life with another human being. For the other 75% it seems like they’ve taken on children like I’ve taken on dogs—something cute that loves me and keeps me company no matter what. It’s just something to do.

In the evolution of child-rearing over time, the purpose of giving life has become diluted and murky for many people—think that sorority girl who makes a baby her favorite accessory, or a frat daddy daddy who wants a son until that son turns out to be as gay, gay, gay as Liberace. No wonder people have negative feelings from their childhood…and no wonder parents hate their children with more frequency. If you’re not one of the 25%, the whole thing is just a charade.

Long live sterility.

In praise of you...

“This is in praise of the vulnerable man/why don’t you lead the rest of your cavalry home?….And I bow down, I bow down to you”

I saw Drew Barrymore on television marching in a gay rights parade, nearly brought to tears as she said “I owe my life to these people. Everything I’ve accomplished is because of them.” Her reference to “these people” notwithstanding, I immediately knew what she was talking about. Everything that I am, every good part of myself, every detail of the decent attributes I possess comes from the LGBT community and, outside of my sister, gay men.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve known plenty of beautiful heterosexual and gay women who have changed my life entirely and have made me a better person. But for the most part, those that have always been in my corner—defending me, loving me, boosting my self-esteem—have been gay men.

I don’t know what it is about this particular group of people, who are so drastically varied in personality, occupation, personal beliefs, appearance, ethnicity, etc, that I can identify with so. Maybe it’s that the gay men I’ve known are vulnerable and loving and gave me something my father didn’t. Perhaps it’s that almost every gay male friend I’ve had has given me joy immeasurable. But whatever the case, I owe my life to them.

To every gay man in my life: thank you for loving me even when I was fat and was invisible to the rest of the world. Thank you for understanding me and talking with me, and nursing me through the bad times in my life. Thank you for taking me under your wing and accepting me and telling me that I’m beautiful. Thank you for laughing with me and promoting me and reading my freelance and supporting me. Thank you for the kind way that you look at me, the lovely words that you give so freely, for the hand-holding when I was scared and the tissues when I needed to stuff my bra or have a good cry.

Let me say that gay men don’t need to be nice to me. I have nothing to offer them, nothing to give. They have friends and lives and partners and they don’t need to spend time giving charity to some whack-job straight woman. But they do. I don’t know why they do, but they give to me as if I were their sister, their mother, and their daughter….and they do it with no motivation other than that the gay men I’ve known are quite simply the Gods of this earth.

You beautiful men, you have given me so much and have been so much to me, and my debt to you could never be repaid.

There is a balm in Gilead

I miss singing hymns. They say that there is a release of endorphins that people experience when wrapped up in highly emotional rhetoric or song. This explains people who believe that they have been inhabited by the Holy Spirit, but I still miss the feeling all the same. If there’s one thing that the Church of Christ had right, it was the power of voices united, singing unapologetically and with purpose. I’ve often wished I could have Alanis Morrissette singalongs, but I haven’t had any takers thus far.

One of my favorite hymns was “There is a balm in Gilead”:

There is balm in Gilead,
To make the wounded whole ;
There's power enough in heaven,
To cure a sin-sick soul.

I particularly loved it because it was an old spiritual, derived from the Old Testament verse about a physical balm, an ancient panacea believed to cure all ills. It was later meant to describe the power of Jesus…that he was, in fact, the cure to everything that goes wrong in your life.

I keep looking for my balm. I certainly never found it in Jesus, or another person, or music, or reading, or any other distraction. I wonder what it is that will make me whole, no matter what the circumstance. Of course it’s obvious that there is no such cure. Life changes and evolves and sometimes leaves you out of the mix, and there’s not a damn thing that can be done about it.

But everyone picks something. Even when it fails, each individual on this earth relies on something or someone to make them whole. I have always relied on myself, and I have never let me down. I hate to take it from old school spirituals to Jay-Z, but I’ve always loved this line:

I drove by the fork in the road and went straight

Well said I think. I sometimes like to wallow in self-pity and sometimes that self-pity grows into depression, and I have been stuck there before. It’s a miserable mud-pit, where I’m weak and dependant and terribly not myself. I’m not empowered. I’m not bold. I’m nothing. Today a woman at work was discussing her relationship woes, and she said “You have to approach any situation, big or small, from a position of strength.”

And that’s when it hit me, my personal strength is my balm in Gilead. Me, abeaverhousen, I am my own savior. I am the most powerful woman on earth to myself. Whenever I reach down and find that strength, and quit believing the lie that I am worthless, ordinary, and leave-able, it always makes me feel better to think of everything I’ve been through and who I’ve become. It may sound corny, but as my brother says…nobody can please me like I can please me. If I were left alone with any one person in the world, I pick me. And oh that balm feels good to my sin-sick soul.