This is a
somewhat progressive blog. Feel FREE to begin by clicking to my first post: Boologging Begins
CONGRATULATIONS to all of the Obama campaigners and supporters, including family and dear friends! 2012’s two capable candidates provided a nail-biting race.
I must admit, my dreams are dashed. My Dad was always a spirited Republican and I followed in his footsteps. Dad was a campaigner for Barry Goldwater, and I helped distribute flyers from the back of our red station wagon. My Red Republican dreams feel a bit like my 3.3-year-old Beta fish “Red” who died Saturday morning. I took a picture of him just in case it became appropriate for today’s blog. Oddly enough, my red laptop is also dying.
I was going to save today’s post until later because it shares sensitive information. The only reason I share any of my personal stories is to eventually segue to my topic of personal freedom. But today’s post-Election Day atmosphere is ripe for recalling October’s first, feisty and spirited town hall Presidential debate and transitions into family matters.
It was exhilarating to view the two candidates sparring over the 4-year decline of U.S. oil drilling. I’ve heard it described as a muscular debate. I admire the candidates’ use of skillful words and powerful postures. Maybe if the possibility of a fist fight loomed, I wouldn’t have enjoyed it, but it never occurred to me that they could potentially engage in fisticuffs. Could that happen in pricey, silk suits?
Facebook Friend Kara posted her thoughts on the debate’s heated political bantering. It reminded her of childhood visits to her friends’ homes, hearing parental arguments. She felt like she was eavesdropping; hearing things she shouldn’t and invading their privacy.
I recall my first pre-teen visit to fiery, hormonal “Diandra’s” house, sitting in her small living room waiting for her to change clothes, and overhearing Diandra's loud outburst: Mother!!! Donna wore my red shirt without my permission. I can’t find it!!!
Whoa, I never spoke to my Mom like that! Immediately I hear Mother scream back: Diandra, your shirt is probably in the laundry. Quit fighting with your sister!!
Whoa, Mom never spoke to me like that! The cat fight continued, loudly. Both sisters FREELY hissed at each other as Diandra screamed at the top of her lungs. Mother and her two daughters ranted and raved back and forth as I waited. Their high-pitched voices actually shook the walls of their small, Cracker-Jack-Box home. I felt like I was experiencing a private family moment, like they were running around naked.
Even though my family home was rambunctious with six energetic children, Diandra’s home felt distressing. My donnybrook home chose to embrace the sober, cold-shoulder tactic. All seemed Leave It To Beaver-like until alcohol loosened my striving, highly-educated Father’s tongue.
Warning!! This Reader's Digest, mini-condensed version of pscho-babble comes from 3 months of almost full-time, intensive, soul-searching research into family-history to figure out what the wingo created my dyscombobulated childhood; so, it might help to take a sip or two of bold coffee before reading this complex paragraph. Liquor helped my responsible Dad cope with busy days and unwind. He too-internalized many stresses: 1) Dad felt his work partner was taking advantage of his kind nature; 2) he had six children to feed, clothe and strive to raise well; 3) he passively and stubbornly bristled his glorybunned, widowed Mother's (my grandmother's) persistent advice to sanctify his life; and 4) he was suspicious of his quietly-enchanting, ethereal housewife’s daily activities. Liquor opened his "Evil-Twin" relational “voice.” If he was anxious, lonely, or suspicious he anesthetized. Dad numbed himself for FREEFALL, slurred outbursts and false allegations toward Mom. Dad mega-internalized everything and lacked the sober skills to calmy negotiate with his close relationships. My amiable, middle-class, naive parents were co-dependent, nurtured by Mom's helplessness and her subconscious father-abandonment issues.
Whew! That IS a mouth full! I love my (years-departed) parents, but Dad really did have addictive genetics and Mom had unhealthy coping skills that paralyzed me. If sharing glimpses of their story prevents anyone from following their footsteps, I believe my parents are whole-heartedly cheering.
Enough of that complex sludge for now... back to the Presidential debates, which on one hand were beneficial. On the other hand, random debaters are paid to disagree, so they find disagreeable things on which to disagree; I’m not fond of that. I do admire purposeful debates where people are fairly obedient to ground rules and use skillful words rather than decibels; and use logical arguments rather than manipulative sucker-punches and cold-cocks. The Presidential debates were at least somewhat informative, demonstrating how well the candidates did their homework as well as their response under pressure. Well wishes to President Obama as he leads our country!
Adding to my grateful list: #5 Painful 20s migraine headaches…I’ll explain why, on Sunday, November 11th... Deo Volente.
I must admit, my dreams are dashed. My Dad was always a spirited Republican and I followed in his footsteps. Dad was a campaigner for Barry Goldwater, and I helped distribute flyers from the back of our red station wagon. My Red Republican dreams feel a bit like my 3.3-year-old Beta fish “Red” who died Saturday morning. I took a picture of him just in case it became appropriate for today’s blog. Oddly enough, my red laptop is also dying.
I was going to save today’s post until later because it shares sensitive information. The only reason I share any of my personal stories is to eventually segue to my topic of personal freedom. But today’s post-Election Day atmosphere is ripe for recalling October’s first, feisty and spirited town hall Presidential debate and transitions into family matters.
It was exhilarating to view the two candidates sparring over the 4-year decline of U.S. oil drilling. I’ve heard it described as a muscular debate. I admire the candidates’ use of skillful words and powerful postures. Maybe if the possibility of a fist fight loomed, I wouldn’t have enjoyed it, but it never occurred to me that they could potentially engage in fisticuffs. Could that happen in pricey, silk suits?
Facebook Friend Kara posted her thoughts on the debate’s heated political bantering. It reminded her of childhood visits to her friends’ homes, hearing parental arguments. She felt like she was eavesdropping; hearing things she shouldn’t and invading their privacy.
I recall my first pre-teen visit to fiery, hormonal “Diandra’s” house, sitting in her small living room waiting for her to change clothes, and overhearing Diandra's loud outburst: Mother!!! Donna wore my red shirt without my permission. I can’t find it!!!
Whoa, I never spoke to my Mom like that! Immediately I hear Mother scream back: Diandra, your shirt is probably in the laundry. Quit fighting with your sister!!
Whoa, Mom never spoke to me like that! The cat fight continued, loudly. Both sisters FREELY hissed at each other as Diandra screamed at the top of her lungs. Mother and her two daughters ranted and raved back and forth as I waited. Their high-pitched voices actually shook the walls of their small, Cracker-Jack-Box home. I felt like I was experiencing a private family moment, like they were running around naked.
Even though my family home was rambunctious with six energetic children, Diandra’s home felt distressing. My donnybrook home chose to embrace the sober, cold-shoulder tactic. All seemed Leave It To Beaver-like until alcohol loosened my striving, highly-educated Father’s tongue.
Warning!! This Reader's Digest, mini-condensed version of pscho-babble comes from 3 months of almost full-time, intensive, soul-searching research into family-history to figure out what the wingo created my dyscombobulated childhood; so, it might help to take a sip or two of bold coffee before reading this complex paragraph. Liquor helped my responsible Dad cope with busy days and unwind. He too-internalized many stresses: 1) Dad felt his work partner was taking advantage of his kind nature; 2) he had six children to feed, clothe and strive to raise well; 3) he passively and stubbornly bristled his glorybunned, widowed Mother's (my grandmother's) persistent advice to sanctify his life; and 4) he was suspicious of his quietly-enchanting, ethereal housewife’s daily activities. Liquor opened his "Evil-Twin" relational “voice.” If he was anxious, lonely, or suspicious he anesthetized. Dad numbed himself for FREEFALL, slurred outbursts and false allegations toward Mom. Dad mega-internalized everything and lacked the sober skills to calmy negotiate with his close relationships. My amiable, middle-class, naive parents were co-dependent, nurtured by Mom's helplessness and her subconscious father-abandonment issues.
Whew! That IS a mouth full! I love my (years-departed) parents, but Dad really did have addictive genetics and Mom had unhealthy coping skills that paralyzed me. If sharing glimpses of their story prevents anyone from following their footsteps, I believe my parents are whole-heartedly cheering.
Enough of that complex sludge for now... back to the Presidential debates, which on one hand were beneficial. On the other hand, random debaters are paid to disagree, so they find disagreeable things on which to disagree; I’m not fond of that. I do admire purposeful debates where people are fairly obedient to ground rules and use skillful words rather than decibels; and use logical arguments rather than manipulative sucker-punches and cold-cocks. The Presidential debates were at least somewhat informative, demonstrating how well the candidates did their homework as well as their response under pressure. Well wishes to President Obama as he leads our country!
Adding to my grateful list: #5 Painful 20s migraine headaches…I’ll explain why, on Sunday, November 11th... Deo Volente.
Your writing is very vivid, descriptive, and engaging! Way to go, sister!
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