Things My Mother has Said Today Which Make me Wonder if She is Ok

   I love my mother dearly. She is intelligent and witty and really nice (if she likes you.) But sometimes she has days where she says the strangest things. Today, for example.


1. "No, there is East Germany and West Germany, they are two separate countries.

Germany has been a single country for over twenty years.

2. "So what is the difference between LSD and meth, anyway?

on a similar note:

"I don't think I've ever met anyone who has tried cannabis."

You lived in Queenstown during the seventies. You probably have.

3. "So America has Republicans and Democrats, and one is right wing and one is left wing, right?"

Yes! She gets it!

"And Obama is right wing, so he must be a Democrat."

So close.

4. "The hippies never had much of a drug culture. They were too busy having free love to have time to try drugs."

This is the closest to an accurate statement she has made today. That and "I saved you some pizza because I thought you would be hungry."

5. "I don't think there's ever any reason for anyone to get divorced. Oh god, you're father's put the dishes away wrongly again, I swear one of these days I'll get a divorce..."

Abuse, cheating... and putting away the dishes incorrectly. I'll keep it mind for future relationships.

6. "Are you addicted to P?" (Ice, crystal meth, whatever you prefer to call it.)

The strongest stimulant I have ever tried is caffeine. So no, not a raging P addict. Sorry mum.

7. "What are you addicted to?"

Ok mum, I'm sorry. I should have told you this before. I'm totally addicted to cheese. And maybe Reddit.


   Hopefully she will be better after a nap.

(For all those concerned, I'm not sure where this addiction obsession has originated. Maybe she heard something about addictive personalities on the radio. Maybe she read an article in the Listener. Who knows. She went through this phase a few years ago where she was convinced I had coeliacs disease, and that was less than pleasant.)

A Quick Adoption Update

   So I've recently had the best week in Dunedin.

Even though I was ill most of the time.

   Anyway, seeing as whenever I get serious on this blog, I'm talking about adoption, I thought I'd update you on some cool things that have happened as far as having more contact with my birthfamily goes.

   I've made progress.

   My birthmother and I are now on talking terms- I went to see my little brother and her and I just started hanging out and talking. It was fantastic. It makes me really grateful for the fact that I'm able to have contact with my birthfamily because even if it took time, things are starting to get better. I think that's definitely the lesson to take away from what I've learnt with having contact with my birthfamily, especially now most of them are taking more of an interest in my life. It hasn't always been this way, but persistence has helped. Don't give up, yo. Anything's possible.

   Also ended up hanging out with my birthfather and my little brother Kaleb on the same day that I saw my mother. I'd felt a little guilty for not having spent as much time with Kaleb as I had with my other brothers but we made up for lost time and did some finger painting together and he got me to help him paint his face.

Not quite sure what the look he was going for here was.

   And finally, one evening while hanging out in the gardens with Scott and waiting for a friend, we met some people who knew William. This isn't surprising because its Dunedin and as it turns out everyone knows my brother, but these people knew him enthusiastically. One of them used to be his flatmate, who I remember meeting briefly. He gave me skittles to cheer me up because I'd been dumped that morning. His friend was far far more excited about meeting Will's sister though because she thought he was amazing and by extension, I am amazing too and we were super best friends.

Super duper best friends

   Though he's not a role model in many regards, I can't ever hope to be as sociable or respected as William, it was pretty cool hearing people go on (and on) about how he is amazing and has done so much for them. Also I like skittles.

   Anyway, gaining more of a family has been fantastic and I'm in a pretty good mood as a result.

   Y'all should give your mums a hug from Bellez.

Mother's Day Special

   Look, I don't generally do mother's day. Longtime readers of my blog will know this is because I'm adopted and well. It's awkward. I appreciate the people who have brought me up, but I don't feel comfortable calling them "parents" as such. I don't really know what to call them. Someone suggested "caregivers" but, as my lovely adoptive mother said, "I don't give and I don't care."

   I love her. Really.

   For that reason, I thought I'd do a lovely mother's day post about her.

Here she is! And me,  of course.

   I also thought I'd share a lovely story about her from the other day.

   We have had a problem lately with the plug for the kitchen sink. You know that little metal ring at the top that assists in the removal of the plug? Well, it had snapped clean off, and every time one of us went to wash the dishes, It would take about half an hour of persistence and swearing to get the plug back out again.

   Time for a shopping trip at Mitre 10.

   Now, as a pensioner, Liz has a gold card, which allows her to get free bus rides between 9am and 3pm. This is very convenient as it requires two buses to get to where Mitre 10 is, and being Queenstown, none of these come cheap. This becomes a crucial fact later on.

   She had purchased a plug which she assumed would fit the sink, however, she wanted to get back home, test it to make sure it would fit, then leave enough time to bus back to Mitre 10 should a replacement be required, all before 3pm so she wouldn't have to pay for the bus, because if I were to describe her in a single word, I would choose "economical." Being economical, she had also decided to do some grocery shopping while she was there because the supermarket near Mitre 10 had cheaper prices than the one closer to where we live.

   This was how my adoptive mother ended up in the carpark with a shopping trolley she was about to return when she saw the bus coming. Realising that she had to catch this bus in order to make it home in time, she ran towards it, taking the shopping trolley with her. I cannot tell you why she still had the trolley or what she planned to do with it once she reached the bus, but I can tell you that she would rather die than be one of those people that do not return the trolley to its allocated area of the carpark. Perhaps she would have tried to hold the bus while she went to return it. I do not know.

   Her rather hastily thought out plan involved taking one of those wheelchair ramps (as opposed to the stairs, as she still has this massive shopping trolley with her at this stage) towards the bus stop. Sprinting. Anyway, she was there. She had made it, just as the bus arrived. Or would have, had she not tripped on the curb.

   I don't know how much the average shopping trolley weighs, but it all fell down on top of her.

   One would suspect this situation was bad enough. There would be the pain, the humiliation, and still the possibility of missing the bus. But she had not suffered enough yet, it seemed, because she discovered that she was in fact trapped underneath the upturned trolley, and required assistance to get out.

   My readers, you will be relieved to know that after this, she made it home safely to test the plug.

   It appeared to fit correctly, but upon testing in a sink full of water, we found a leak, so it may yet require a second trip to Mitre 10. No trolleys this time though. Poor woman.

Putting the "troll" in "shopping trolley."

AWWW YEAHHH

   So guess what. I'm going to Auckland next month!

   What with living in a small town in the south of the south island and all, this is cause for celebration enough. But guess what else?

   I'm going to go see Dom and William!

Dom is this babe right here, in case you're wondering.

   As exciting as it is to see William and the next winner of New Zealand's Next Top Model (Male Edition), that is not what I'm showing off about here. (Though I totally should.)

   No kiddies. This is what I'm showing off about here.

I've got three of these sexy, sexy tickets.

   Keep in mind that I am entirely entitled to show off here. I've been wanting to see the Foo Fighters since I was twelve years old. I've got childhood dreams to fulfill. And I'm also very, very excited. Also, David's super-duper jealous at the moment. I'll buy him a t shirt or something. If they're not too pricey. Because I'm a financially responsible sister.

   Anyway, there'll probably be another blog post when I come back from Auckland (sooooo 16th December) about all my adventures there. Because dammit, it's always adventures with me.

FUN TIMES.

:DDDDD

In other news, I've finished all my exams and probably just scraped through with university entrance. It's been a long year.

Mid-Year Resolutions

   Ok, so it’s almost September, but it’s never too late to make mid-year resolutions, which are kind of like New Year resolutions, but considerably more realistic.

For example:

·         New Year resolution: Eat healthier to lose more weight

·         Mid-Year resolution: Stop hanging out with my gorgeous fun friends who also turn up at my house with a 10 pack of donuts, a three litre bottle of coke, duck noodles, and a packet of Doritos because they were on special at Alpine Supermarket. Except for when seeing said friend means dancing really badly/highly inappropriately because at least that’s exercise. And that wasn’t a very fair statement, considering I’m the one who asks Hannah to turn up with all the food, so I owe her HEAPS, but if it balances it out, health wise, I’m the one who encourages her to dance, so it may just be ok, as long as I buy her fuckloads of food next time.

   Now that I’m salivating at the thought of duck noodles (don’t judge man, they’re amazing. And so affordable, 49c a packet!) I shall try to distract myself with my list of mid-year resolutions, which I can’t guarantee I’ll stick to.

·         New Year’s resolution: Get to know my birthfamily more

·         Mid-year resolution: Stop bullying David (and occasionally probably getting on William’s nerves)

   I’ve actually been doing pretty well with this New Year’s resolution, considering I managed to get back in contact with my brother who I hadn’t seen in forever, plus David came to stay a few weeks ago, and you know he had the time of his life.

It snowed.

This is us Skyping his girlfriend. If you look closely, you can see him using a pair of pink fluffy handcuffs as glasses. How he got a girlfriend, I don't know.

    But seriously, there’s now a page on Facebook, thanks to me and David’s girlfriend, called Tagging David Solin in Everything because he’s so rarely on that we like to bully him so that when he does go on, he’s got fifty notifications or so. Funnily enough he liked the page.

   I also give him shit about looking like a goat. This isn’t even mean, really. I mean, look at him.

He's even got the freaky rectangular pupils like goats have.

   But David’s actually a really awesome brother and I feel really bad that I’m mean to him so often when he’s always really nice to me and idolises me for reasons I don’t quite understand (No David, that’s sweet, but I’m really not cool at all) and freaking got me the Owl City album for my 18th birthday. (To be fair, that was September last year, and he only got it to me in April this year, but you got to give the kid some credit for trying.)

I fucking love my brother. And Owl City.

   Plus when Simon broke up with me immediately after the formal (who does that?) and I turned up at William’s doorstep with all my bags, bawling my eyes out because I was still upset, he made me pasta (he understands that pasta cures everything! Just kidding, it was the only food he had at the time I think. Which kind of makes it an even nicer thing that he did that for me. Even though I couldn’t eat it all and insisted he have at least half of mine. He didn’t need telling twice) handed me a beer, watched shitty movies with me and let me bitch about Simon for hours until I felt better. Then when I went to catch the bus home and missed it by five minutes, he let me stay at his that night, even though when he went out to work, I found a bottle of red wine in his room and shared it with my cousin who’d come to see me, and all he could do in the morning was laugh at me for managing to find alcohol he’d completely forgotten about. (God knows what it was doing there. William doesn’t even drink red wine.)

   And despite me being probably annoying and stealing his awesome ring, or at least the only one that fitted me (I wear it on my index finger, and it’s still kinda loose. It barely squeezed onto his pinky) he still talks to me. Who does this? The other coolest brother in the world, that’s who. Which is why I ought to be a bit better to him too. To be fair, I wrote him a pretty awesome birthday letter, though as he’s moved and I don’t actually know his address, I haven’t sent it yet, and he turned twenty four weeks ago. On the other hand, it has rainbows and stuff, so you know he’ll be stoked when he eventually gets it.

It may contain narwhals, too.

I told you it was awesome.

·         New Year’s resolution: Blog more

·         Mid-Year resolution: Blog at all

Yeah.  Sorry. I’ve been shit this year. I think I’ve developed a social life or something, plus there’s been school etc. The only reason I’m taking the time to make this a decent blog post is because I have a free Sunday in which to do this, and I felt bad that I hadn’t blogged in ages. Here, have this pretty apology picture to make up for it:

You're welcome.

·         New Year’s resolution: Get a boyfriend

·         Mid-Year resolution: Remain single

   Did I mention Simon broke up with me immediately after the formal? He even gave me a rose beforehand (William reckons his mum put him up to that) which I still have, mostly because it’s dead, and clearly so is our relationship. At least he never tried to convince me that “alot” was an actual word.

And this, folks, is why you never have a relationship tree, either. You will forget about it, and it will die, and it will be a really bad look and an incident you don’t feel comfortable discussing with your significant other. Which is worrying considering how important communication is in a relationship.

   Well that was an epic caption. You’re welcome. I’m going to have my third coffee today and listen to Nirvana. Fuck yeah.

Why Disney's The Lion King is the Greatest Movie Ever

   Look, I grew up on this stuff since before I can remember. Actually I can remember some things about when I first saw Lion King. I was rather young, so I cannot accurately recall what I thought of the plot, the characterisation or the fact that the actor who voices Mufasa is so perfectly cast that if anyone else had done so, I may have not even liked the movie at all (and I love Lion King) but I do remember the day I first went to see it in the cinema. Because that’s how you saw movies back in the day before you just downloaded them off the internet and watched them when you were bored.

   I went to the movie with a girl called Lasmai, who was my best friend at the time. I remember we had a popcorn fight throughout the entire advertisement section at the beginning and getting severely reprimanded by my mother. Or her mother. Or whoever’s mother was burdened with the task of looking after us while we were at the movies. I remember little else except thinking the songs were cool, and crying once (oh no, spoiler alert!) Mufasa died in the stampede. I can’t think of a single child that does not cry during that scene. I can think of a few adults who still cry when they watch that bit. (Well, William and I do. But it’s so sad.)

I'm not even taking the piss now. I still cry in that scene. He just lost his dad, fuck you Scar!

    From that moment on in my young life, I was obsessed with lions. They were my favourite animal ever, the first exhibit I had to go see when I went to the zoo, I could recite a million and one facts about lions, and for my seventh birthday, I remember one girl giving me a present wrapped in lion wrapping paper, and I cannot even remember what she gave me, I just remember the lions.

   At the same time, I developed an obsession with all things Lion King. Our neighbours had the soundtrack on cassette tape (yes, cassette tape) and we made a copy of it. Every single car trip as a child, we were damn well listening to The Lion King, when my mum took me to the video store to hire a movie, we were hiring The Lion King, whenever I played with my toys we were re-enacting the opening scene where Rafiki is presenting the young cub Simba to the kingdom. I played Rafiki, if you want to know.

   My parents even ordered a custom-made Lion King book, with my name printed in it, for Christmas one year. I was stoked.

   While I was belting out more Elton John hits than a gay Idol-contestant, I still refused to watch that one scene where Mufasa dies. I would run out of the room and yell at my mum to come and get me once the hyenas come back in to chase Simba away from the pridelands. She called me silly every time, but I still couldn’t watch it without crying. Poor Simba, all alone in the world, having to leave behind his family even though he was still so young.

   Yeah, I can see a link between The Lion King and adoption. Perhaps that is why it affected me so profoundly from such a young age. It actually came up the other weekend when I was staying at my brother’s.
   We were watching The Lion King 1.5 which is pretty much the same thing as the first one, but from Timon and Pumbaa’s point of view. (Hey, why not milk the cash cow, the original is still a quality movie.) When Simba comes to them, there’s a particular line of Timon’s:

It does sound rather daunting.

   Then suddenly, William and I had a moment of revelation- Timon and Pumbaa are gay! Our other small discovery was that Simba was pretty much adopted by them. This is actually pretty cute. I didn’t pay much attention to the rest of Lion King 1.5 as William and I were too busy making adoption jokes to pay much notice.


   PS- Just so you know- I get to make adoption jokes. It’s one of the few advantages that come with being adopted.

William is the Shiz

   I may have written about William a few times on here. Like the time he was saved by a multi-coloured elephant. But there was very little to write about when I hadn’t seen him in years.


   This changed recently.

   Let’s thank the cheap wine at the afterparty. I forget what we ended up drunk texting about (I do remember, I’d just rather not explain in excruciating detail. It may have been about a guy. He may have encouraged me to flirt with said guy. I was barely forming a coherent sentence by then though, thankfully) but at some stage, he suggested I come to see him sometime.

   A week later and I was on a bus to Dunedin.

   Look, I’m fucking stoked, ok? I’ve idolised my brother since I was old enough to figure out who he was (adoption tends to cloud the issue somewhat) and I’ve resented him for the past few years for his lack of contact with me. Didn’t make me idolise him any less, of course. It just upset me, was all.

   He hadn’t changed much. I lie. He’s a considerably more functional (and hygienic) person now. Multiple jobs tend to force you to be so. He’s still wonderfully sarcastic and somewhat opinionated, though. It reassured me.

   I know that anything I write on here is never going to do it justice, the way it felt finally seeing him again. A year ago I would have given up anything, literally anything, to see him again. The thing is, adoption leaves you with a few after effects, one of which being a fear of abandonment by family members. You rationalise that it is entirely possible that they could just never see you again, because… well. You feel abandoned. You start to think of all the ways things could have been different, and that if only you were good enough, then you would have deserved a family, and they’d welcome you back with open arms.

   I got past the fear of abandonment phase by replacing this fear with stoic acceptance that I was probably never going to see William again, and to prepare myself for a life without an older brother. It was bearable at first. I lie. I was horribly hurt by that acceptance. I’m glad David started talking to me, that helped me cope, a little. I’ve hinted somewhat at William about how hurt I was by the ordeal, but now we’re talking again, I don’t need to explain anything. He gets it. Besides, I think he had his own stuff to deal with.

   I clearly remember around October last year, Ellie and I celebrated the end of school (just before exams) by going on a road trip to Dunedin, and seeing my brother David. We were casually walking through town together at night when I saw what I knew was William, walking in the opposite direction on the other side of the street. I asked David if it was him- to be fair, I hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, and David said he didn’t know. (David wears glasses. I don’t know if he’d appreciate me mentioning that on my blog, but as far as embarrassing stories go, there are worse ones I could tell, so he ought to be grateful!) I had every intention of yelling out to the man on the other side of the street- I know it was him- but then the “acceptance he will never talk to me again” kicked in and silenced me. I knew it was him, but I figured he wouldn’t want his little sister embarrassing him like that.

   For months afterward I hated myself for not talking to him that night.

   Recently we’ve been communicating via Facebook. Well. He commented on a few wall posts and statuses of mine, but look, after two years and me being all prepared to never hear from him again, that’s practically full-blown conversation. Anyway, I drunk texted him at some ridiculous hour before burning some pasta, and spent the weekend at his a week later.

   I had a fabulous time by the way. We watched The Lion King and The Lion King 1.5 (basically the same thing but from Timon and Pumbaa’s point of view) and caught up on what we’d missed over the past couple of years. It was awesome.

   As an aside, I know one of my friends from Summer Gathering, Rachel, has been dealing with her own similar issues with a foster brother. Just to let you know Rachel, don’t accept that you’ll never see him again, even if it’s been years. Anything, as I have learned, is possible in time.

Adoption Part III

   It’s time for another serious post I think. And by serious post, I mean adoption. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.


   I went to a play on Tuesday night, called Rita and Douglas. It was a play about the somewhat steamy love affair between the artist Rita Angus and the composer and pianist Douglas Lilburn. This is all entirely irrelevant, aside from the fact that I came home in a rather thoughtful mood. I grabbed myself some cheese and flicked the telly on to see if there was anything mindless and boring so I wouldn’t have to think so much that night. (I was tired.) Sadly, the only thing I found that was worth watching was Missing Pieces.

   Don’t get me wrong. I love the show. I really do. Sometimes I think about writing in to them to see if they can find long lost members of my extended birthfamily. I’m certainly curious. And I like how the commentary and their portrayal of the stories is refreshingly uncondescending. It’s not judgemental of the situations that have led to the absence of a family member, but it’s not overly soppy and emotional either. Also, they don’t use an excess of puns, which are well over-used on television at the moment. Especially by Mark Sainsbury. But I’m biased against him, mostly due to the fact that the “stories” he presents are not things that I would consider particularly note-worthy. For example, a woman that is working a job in what he would generally consider a male domain. Like anything to do with cars, for instance. Come on Sainsbury. Get with the times please.

However, Sainsbury and his endearing nose aside (Google it if you must), Missing Pieces is a damn good show. For those of you unaware of the concept, it’s a show that presents people looking for long lost relatives that they may have not seen due to adoption, divorce, or relationship breakdowns. They record a short video message for the relative, the Missing Pieces team try and find said relative, show them the video and ask if they want to get in contact. From what I’ve gathered, the answer is generally yes. Cue scenes of an emotional reunion. Or the first time two people have met, even. It’s quite touching, without being overly so.

On Tuesday evening, a man’s father said no about having contact with his son.

He was only a teenager when he discovered that his girlfriend was pregnant. However, her parents were about to immigrate to New Zealand with her (from Britain) and although the couple tried to stay in contact through letters, the girl’s parents wanted her to have nothing to do with the boy. When he was seventeen, it seems he had every intention of doing whatever he had to get to New Zealand and help her look after this baby, but he was only seventeen. She had a son. He was adopted out.

Thirty-something years later, the son is in contact with his birthmother, and through Missing Pieces, is interested in finding his father. They did find him, yes.

Things change, over time. People change. They grow up. They grow old. The boy who dreamed of following his girlfriend to New Zealand had become a man, with a wife now. Children. A job. Decades of responsibility.

“This is why it had to be put to rest all those years ago. I can’t do it. My wife knows. But my children don’t.”

I understand that, a little. I understand how situations change. My own birthmother is proof of that. I don’t really know what she was like when I came to be- it’s not something I’m ready to understand at this stage of my life. But at the moment, she’s just- normal. She’s married and has a normal job, and three sons and two houses, and she doesn’t look like the sort of woman to have had a secret, adopted daughter. A daughter who, in a sense, was also put to rest all those years ago. Of course she hasn’t forgotten- I know she can’t have. But she just continues, I think, like someone who has pretended to have forgotten. I imagine it must be easier that way. People ask questions. They’re curious. But people are also capable of being extremely insensitive in their curiosity. Sometimes it’s easier to just avoid that completely.

When the Pieces team explained to the son about why his father was choosing not to have contact, his reaction was nothing less than dignified. He said he wasn’t putting on an act, and that he wasn’t about to go home to have a cry (“I might have a few gins though,” he explained with a gentle chuckle) but that he understood and accepted that it could have happened. He’s not like me. I wish I could be more accepting of situations. But he’s an adult- well, so am I, but I’m not an adult adult yet. I’m still a teenager, too. But what watching it has made me realise that, although I have no idea where to start, I do want to find my birthgrandfather this year. Wish me luck.

In happier news, the next story was about a woman who found her birthfather, and he was keen to stay in contact. That cheered me up a lot.

Calici the Rabbit and Friends

So today, my dear mother decided to have a garage sale. And by that, I mean she decided a week ago and the thing was today, but anyway. So we’ve spent the past few days sorting through junk in the garage, deciding whether or not to sell it, and putting on the little yellow price stickers.



Pictured: a freaking pain in the behind. It's hard enough just trying to get them out of the little dispenser.



While searching through the masses of junk and slowly getting covered in yellow stickers, I came across three toys of great significance in my childhood:

• A small, multicoloured elephant
• A blue magnadoodle
• A white rabbit (or, at least, it was white once. It was now a murky grey.)

Bam went the wave of nostalgia, and thus, I bring you more traumatising childhood memories…


The small, multicoloured elephant:

One of my earliest memories was of the day my birthmother and my brother William came to visit- David can’t have existed by this point, so I can’t have been that old. I remember him being a picky eater and refusing to eat the onions on his pizza. I also remember playing on the couch with him. I’m not sure exactly what we were playing. It appeared to be some sort of horrible murderous death game in which William kept dying. (This was nothing to do with me. He was, and still is considerably stronger than me.) Anyway, overprotective of him as ever, it was Super-Elephant to the rescue. I’m not entirely sure how Super-Elephant rescues dead Williams, but I do remember that Super-Elephant’s main form of transportation was using his ears like Dumbo to fly towards my brother, who miraculously came back to life, only to die again by launching himself of the couch like a lemming. Only it turns out lemmings are not suicidal and that the famous footage was created by throwing them off a cliff. Make that two Disney references thus far in my post.



No, I do not really know what lemmings look like. In every other regard, however, the scene looked exactly like this.




The Blue Magnadoodle


Magnadoodles were a little like Etch-a-Sketches back in the day, but with more scope for creative expression, mostly because rather than using little knobs, you were provided with a magnet pen which allowed you to create intriguing, thought-provoking artwork. For example:

It was the shiz.



The (formerly) white rabbit

It was a gift given to me when I was little, so little that I forget who gave it to me or the circumstances surrounding it. I do know that it was shortly after seeing Alice in Wonderland (Disney reference number three) on video, which I hadn't particularly enjoyed, that I received it, as I was originally going to name it "The White Rabbit." (Originality was not my strong point at that stage of my life.) Even then, however, I didn't like the name.

Shortly after, we went to stay with my Aunt Diana for a few days. Now, this was around '96 or '97, at any rate, during the heyday of the Calici virus. For those of you that are somewhat uneducated, it would pay to do a little googling. At any rate, it was a virus that caused bunnies to die somewhat horrible deaths, which was good news for the farmers, because rabbits are a pest. I'd heard it been talked about on the news a little, although I was far too young to comprehend what any of it meant. So when Diana suggested I name the toy bunny Calici, I thought it was a beautiful name for a rabbit. Which just goes to show what sort of a childhood I had.


   At any rate, the garage sale is over, and I made a total of $24, which I will probably blow on either cocaine, hookers, or cheese. Except I can't afford cocaine or hookers, nor do I have an interest in them very much, so cheese it shall be.

Hurrah!

2010

As today is the last day of 2010, its time to write an absurdly nostalgic overview of the past year...


• Homeless Friends = Best Friends

Me and Homeless Lee at the Bear Hands Wall- "We built this wall with our bare hands- our bear hands!"

In January, I befriended two freedom campers (I use the term "freedom campers" extremely loosely here, as they were basically backpackers who ran out of money after they spent it all on booze) from England (well, where else could it be but England!) named Matt and Lee. By the end of February, when they left, I was broke. Coincidence? I think not.

• All Scottish Men Are Named Euan

 Because I met three Euans-from-Scotland in the space of around two days, bringing me to the conclusion that in Scotland, it must be illegal to name your son anything but Euan. They did have lovely accents though.

• Making Love(ly Music)



Life is always cheerful when you're Rainbow Boots...

 Yes, I invented Rainbow Boots last year, but this year she got her very own cartoon, Making Love(ly Music), of which the first few cartoons are up here. I must put some more up in the new year.

• Sick Cookies Make Cool Brothers



My brother is awesome, basically.


My little brother David just started talking to me this year, which automatically makes him cool, if you haven't yet figured that out. He even got his own character in Making Love(ly Music) called The Sick Cookie. Because he is disgusting.

• I Managed To Remain Single For Nearly All of 2010

This is less of an achievement and more of a fact. I remained single nearly all year, until on Christmas Eve I got a boyfriend for an early Christmas present, basically. He is lovely. That is all I need to say.

• I Started A Blog

Mostly after being inspired by Allie Brosh of Hyperbole and a Half, who I am pretty much madly in love with. Her blog is a lot better than mine though.

• I (Legally, At Least) Became An Adult

I turned 18 this year, which is quite exciting, although it (as yet) hasn't impacted my life all that much because I don't really like going out all that often, and I haven't voted yet, and all that seems to have happened is that everything costs more now and I have to pay bank fees which is a bitch. Still. I feel old. I've almost learnt how to drink responsibly now too.

In other news...

• Nobody really likes BP anymore after a massive oil spill that made greenies of us all. Conveniently, we were learning about environmentalism in French class, and so learnt all sorts of exciting rude things to call BP.

• We discovered that a majority of New Zealanders are actually racists, sexists, and just generally not very tolerant people after Paul Henry got in trouble for making racist comments about the Governor General and his apparent lack of New Zealand-ness, as well as making fun of Sheila Dikshit's name (oh, GROW UP. Yes, I know it sounds like dick shit. Lets now move on please) and had already got a bit of a telling off for commenting on the facial hair of a woman he interviewed. Many New Zealanders rushed to Henry's defence, claiming that he was "just saying what we're all thinking" which just goes to show how terrible we are as a nation. Good job New Zealand!

• Haiti's really not the place to be at the moment.

• The All Whites didn't fail spectacularly at the World Cup, and we had something to be proud of, telling everyone that our football team was "unbeaten." We didn't lose a single game. Or win one either. We just drew. Pretty good effort though, for a country that is apparently obsessed with rugby. Is in unpatriotic if I say I really could not care less about the All Blacks?

• There was an earthquake in Christchurch on the same day as my 18th birthday, which was terrible, because it means my mother didn't realise I was an adult until about midday. No one was directly killed by the earthquake, and the Cantabrians coped with the situation remarkably well. I doubt the same could be said if it had occurred in Auckland.

• For those who have been living under a rock in the past few months, (pun not intended) some Chilean miners were rescued after being trapped underground. We hoped for a similar happy ending for the 29 men trapped in the Pike River Mine, but unfortunately it was not to be.

• Some royals (ok, William and Kate) got engaged, and the world went crazy discussing Kate's "breeding" like she was a pedigree bulldog.

Adoption Part II

I've been wanting to write another post on adoption ever since I wrote my first one, mostly because the whole thing is huge and there's so much more that I want to say. So, sorry. This will be a serious post.

   I guess my thoughts were triggered the other day when I was talking to an old friend of mine who recently, at the age of seventeen, became a father. He told me they'd planned an open adoption, even going so far as to have chosen a family, but then she suddenly changed her mind. I'm unsure as to what exactly happened next, but from what I gather, she consumed a large amount of alcohol with the intention of harming the baby, opted out of the adoption, wouldn't have anything to do with the father of her child, then had the little baby boy herself, kept him, and named him after someone she had cheated with. Charming. Of course, I've only heard the biased version of events. But it got me wondering. And talking to my friend about it.

   As much as I'm opposed to the idea of adoption on principle, an open adoption really might have been the best option. I don't know if he would be able to be much of a father at this stage and, judging by her meltdown, I wonder how she will cope as a mother. At least with an open adoption, contact is maintained. Like making the most of a difficult situation. I cannot stress enough how important it is to have contact with my birthfamily. Whether you like it or not, where you come from will always make up a part of your identity- even if you aren't aware of it. Even if I never met my birthfamily, I would still have aspects of myself that are similar to them. Not just physical ones, either. My point being that, in knowing my birthfamily, I am able to know myself.

   As it is, this child is unlikely to know his father as of yet. He as chosen to stay out of the kid's life for now, drawing on his own childhood, and telling me it's better for the kid to have an absent father than a childhood dominated by conflict between his parents.
"When he's older, if he wants to meet me, I'd absolutely let him get to know me," he said, which reassured me somewhat, because I could relate it to my own experiences.

   I met my birthfather when I was almost twelve years old. Heck, I didn't even know of his existence until I was eight. Which may sound pretty crazy, but I'd never had a birthfather before, so I'd never questioned why I didn't have one. I just never thought of it at that age, and had always assumed John, my birthmother's husband, must be my father. I took it all for granted until one night when my adoptive parents told me I had a father. Named Shane.

   My world changed.

   I was curious, desperate to know who he was. When you are young, and you don't know these things, your head fills with fantasies. That he's a rockstar, or famous for something, or, at the very least, rich and successful. That he's someone everyone will be jealous of when I tell them, "Oh, he's my dad."

  Shane is none of those, but I don't care.

   He's not a rockstar. He's not famous or rich or "successful"- whatever that word means anyway. He hasn't had a job in a while, and he's shy, and he lives in a small place in Corstophine with his son Kaleb, another of my half brothers. But when anyone hears me talk about them, I am proud.

   I think Kaleb must be nine or ten now, and he's a bright kid, even though sometimes he's got more energy than he can handle, and he can be a bit weird. Kind of how I was at his age, though. He loves to draw, and to read, so every time I come to visit, he draws me a picture and proudly shows me the latest book he's reading. He got through Charlie and the Chocolate Factory fairly quickly.

   Sorry, this has quickly turned from a serious discussion about adoption to me showing off about my little brother in an almost mum-blog way. Back on task, Bell-ez!

   Meeting my dad when I was twelve, and not growing up with him has given me a different perspective on him, and when we hang out, he's more like a friend than anything else. And I know parents aren't supposed to be your mates (cringe) but he never really got the opportunity to be my parent, either.

   I wonder if this will be the experience of my friend's kid in years to come, should he decide to meet his father. And I sure hope he does, purely for the reason that knowing family = knowing self.

    Blood is thicker than water, but you need both to survive.

Today was just awesome. As is my family.

   Today has, thus far, been the highlight of my holidays. I mean, yesterday was also amazing. I saw a friend, we hung out, and, well. Cam is just awesome. But today I got to see my family.

   I'd been looking forward to it for ages. I haven't seen David or my dad in ages, after all. My mum threatened to not let me see them, and I worried that maybe I wouldn't be able to. Nevertheless, I bought some cookies and prepared to see them.

How to make David feel special.

   So I saw my dad. Which was awesome. He is just... awesome. I didn't meet him until I was eleven or twelve, so when I see him, he acts more like a friend than a dad. Adoption tends to lead to these situations. I got to spend all of an hour with him, then I went to see my brother.

   I may have said this before, but David, also, is awesome. Like, really awesome. Like, I brought him cookies, awesome. So we walked up a hill and ate cookies, or rather he ate cookies and I got somewhat sick of them. We did some exploring. We found a bush track that wasn't, and a house with a gay pride flag that David has since gone to great efforts to avoid. I'm guessing I do not have a gay brother then.

   I only got to see David for an hour, and after then it was a four hour drive back home. But even after my short time with my family, it got me thinking about adoption and such things. Family. And identity. Perhaps another deep blog post is in order. But for now, I need some sleep.

Adoption

   I’ve been putting off writing this post for a while, for several reasons. The first is that it’s so personal, because I am adopted. And because my adoption has not only affected me, but my families as well. In some ways, I feel guilty for writing this, because perhaps it shows a lack of respect for them. But that is not the case. I do respect them. All of them. I might not get along with all of them, true. I have a cousin who ends up arguing with me every time I see her. Last time we hung out, she told me she wished that I had been a closed adoption- that is, no one would have known about it, least of all me- because maybe my brothers, William especially, would be better off not knowing. I will deal with that issue later. But as much as we anger each other, she is still my cousin, by blood. And nothing can ever change who you are biologically related to. Different families can bring you up and you can love them just as much. But blood is always thicker than water. As much as my cousin and I don’t get along, I love her. Because she is family- and although sometimes I don’t think she believes she is- she always will be.
   Family can be messed up, sure. All families fight. No relatives are perfect. The nuclear family is so rare nowadays. I don’t see that as a problem at all. Society is merely changing- just as it always does. But what doesn’t change is that you still love your families. Sure, they have their faults- but whether you realise it or not, you still love them, regardless. I think that applies to all families- whether you all grew up together with your white picket fence, or whether it’s more complicated, like mine.

   For that reason, I also think it’s time I stop hating birthmother for that decision she made all those years ago. But again, I will get to that later, because there’s a lot I want to say about that, and I’m trying to cut the rambling here.

   This will probably be a huge post, for the second reason I have delayed covering this topic. There is so much I want to say. Even trying to restrict what I am saying, I can promise you that this will be epically long. There are so many related issues surrounding adoption. And I know I can’t begin to cover them in this. But I will still try.

   Also, perhaps I ought not to talk about my birthfamily so honestly. Maybe they will be offended. Maybe they won’t like what I know about them. That’s ok, because I understand. I am not perfect. Neither are they. No one is. They’ve had their flaws, and sometimes they haven’t made the best decisions, but things like that cannot be changed. I still love them. Because I can’t have another birthfamily. I mean, I kind of do. There’s my birthdad’s side of the family, who I see separately to my birthmum’s side of the family, because that’s just the way the situation is. I don’t want my birthparents to live happily ever after, to be honest. I don’t really want them to even meet again. It would be a fairytale if they did- and by that, I mean it wouldn’t be realistic. To my knowledge, they weren’t even in a relationship, and I think they were both mature in choosing not to be together for my sake. I don’t think they’ve spoken since before I was born. And I don’t mind. They weren’t supposed to be together or anything like that. And this way, I get to be involved with both sides of my birthfamily. Perhaps if I wasn’t adopted, it would have been harder for me to contact my birthfather, because my birthmother… I don’t know. Knew him once. My adoptive parents never knew him. There weren’t the same emotional consequences for them helping me find him. But the point I was trying to make before about not having another birthfamily is that these are the people I am biologically related to. No one else can replace that link for me. So I better learn to love them, because they are the best I’m going to get.

   I think, perhaps, I ought to try to explain why I was adopted. Except I don’t know for sure. Different relatives- from both my birthfamily and my adoptive family- have offered various explanations- often the one that puts them in the best light. I haven’t a clue. Last year, after a traumatic incident I do not wish to discuss at this point, I realised I needed to ask my birthmother. I had never asked her before. I mean, I used to visit her once a year, and I don’t think we had much to say to each other. I mean, we did, we just didn’t have the guts to bring the sensitive topic up. I mean, how would you even begin to ask about that? “Oh hey, just wondering, um, why did you get rid of me instead of bringing me up yourself?” So I called her last year. And even after she explained to me, I still didn’t really know. The gist of it was, after William’s father (we share the same mum, but a different father) didn’t have anything to do with him, she realised that she wanted a father figure for me, but didn’t think my birthfather would want to fulfil that role. (His version is a little different, I’ll get to that later.) Plus she was suffering from what the doctors thought was depression (after my adoption and several children later, she later discovered it was a thyroid condition) and I don’t know. Maybe she was overwhelmed. I saw her once a year, but the more I think about it, I don’t even know my birthmother. Not at all.

   My dad’s version of events is different. He’s adopted himself, and so was never keen on the adoption idea. I don’t even think he knew I existed until I found him when I was twelve. I don’t know what the truth is- although I suspect that my birthmother may not have been entirely truthful. That does not matter for now though, because I exist. No matter how I came to be, I exist now.

   I’m glad I know my birthfamily, because a lot of adopted kids don’t. A lot of adopted kids don’t even know they’re adopted. But on their 18th birthday, someone has to tell them. Can you imagine that? Everything you thought you’ve known for the past eighteen years had been nothing but a lie. Those people that you thought were your family? Lie. You spend your days searching for people that resemble you. Just in case you may be related. I’m glad I haven’t had to go through that. If no one had ever told me- or the others- just like my cousin hopes, it would not have worked out for the best. The moment I found out, I’d be knocking on their door, demanding an explanation for everything. I’d make a point of trying to ruin their lives in the same way I’d feel that they ruined mine. But that was not the case. I know them. And I am grateful.

   I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive my birthmother for the choice she made. To this day, I still think she got it wrong. But it’s too late for that now. I will probably always be hurt by that. And I don’t want to admit that, because I don’t want to be weak about it. I’m not supposed to be. It’s been a part of my life forever, and nothing will change it. If I can’t be strong about it, and pretend I don’t care, then maybe I’m pathetic. But I’m just coming to terms with the fact that this is what happened, and I have to make the most of it now. I can’t change the past. I can’t change what happened before I was born. I can just live. But I want to live in a way that I don’t have to hate any of my family for the choices made. I won’t hate my birthmother for adopting me out. I won’t hate my cousin for wishing the family had never known me. Maybe they were wrong about me, but I still can’t change the fact that, whether we like it or not- I was born. And we are related. And anything more I have to say about adoption is irrelevant until I accept that.

   Some things still hurt. Aforementioned cousin told me that all the grandchildren were given Peter Rabbit money boxes. Or I forget what. But some sentimental token, at any rate. That I didn’t get. It upset me when she told me, and to this day, she still doesn’t understand why. But I didn’t get the token. But I, so desperately at the time, wished I had. Because then I could feel like I was part of their family too. I still don’t feel like I’m part of any family. I’m not part of my birthfamily, because I didn’t grow up with them. I didn’t even meet them all until recently. I’m not part of my adoptive family because, genetically, at least, we have nothing in common. I feel like an outsider in both of my families, and yes. It hurts. And maybe that makes me pathetic. Fine. I. Am. Pathetic. But I still wish they could understand. And this is just my birthmother’s side of the family here. My birthfather’s side is a whole other thing altogether, and I don’t think I could write about them yet.
   Heck. I don’t think I’ve said half the things I wanted to say, but I never thought I would in this post, simply due to the nature of it. But I guess I feel a bit better, having written it, and perhaps you shall be enlightened by it.

My other brother (or one of them anyway)

   Today is my older brother William's birthday. He is 23 today, which I find odd, because the last time I saw him was January last year, though I doubt a lot has changed. Anyway, I thought I ought to write a post about him today.

   I don't know if I mentioned this in my post about David, but when my birthmother was pregnant with me, and William found out I was going to be adopted, apparently he asked her, "When are we going to have a baby we can keep?" I always remind myself of that when I don't hear from him for long periods of time. Sometimes I'd like to remind him of that, too, but I'm not that mean.

   I remember when I met my brother for the first time. My birthmum came to Queenstown and took him with her. I remember my adoptive mother made pizza, and it had onions on it. Then when William and Gillian, my birthmother (I've never really called anyone mum, out of sheer confusion) arrived, she informed us that actually William will not eat onions. So we had to make up a special onion-free pizza for him. To this day, I believe, he still won't eat onions. David told me a few weeks ago that apparently William does share my love of cheese though. I hope he has learned not to eat it before going to bed.

   I don't think he actually knows what a bed is. For years now he's been working multiple jobs and pretending he doesn't need sleep, which of course catches up to him eventually. Nearly every time he talked to me (back when he wasn't too tired to talk to anyone) he would always talk about sleep. Some things probably never change...

   It's weird writing about someone you haven't seen in well over a year, because without anything recent, I hardly know what to write about him, other than "he still doesn't talk to us". But in case you get the wrong idea from this, I don't hate him at all. He's still a pretty awesome (though distant) brother.

This is me and my brother the last time I saw him. Which was in January. Last year. Grrr.

My Brother (or one of them, anyway)

   He was the very first person to read my blog. With the help of some shameless self-promotion on Facebook, I might add. I didn't even have to threaten to push him in front of a bus to get him to read it, either. At any rate, that'd be killing the goose that lays the golden egg, or murdering the brother who reads my blog, at least.

   "I got a mention!" he excitedly told me on Facebook chat. "And so did the windows!" (He was the one who first tried to help me understand my fear of windows after I had a total freak out about them while on the phone to him.)

   Inspired by his enthusiasm (that's ridiculous, he's the most unenthusiastic person I know) at this, I decided to dedicate an entire post to David. Besides, it's another excuse to get him to read it, isn't it?

   Right. So. Let's get started, shall we?

   As I have mentioned, I have four half brothers- three on my mum's side, one on my dad's side. David is one of my younger brothers on my mum's side. So that's how he fits into all this.

   Being adopted, I used to go to visit my birthmother once a year, on what I later referred to as my "annual visits". I remember a few details about these visits. One is that my adoptive mum and my birthmum seemed to get along considerably better than I did with either- I mean, they were both adults, and both had similar interests. I was just a weird little kid with an overactive imagination and no clue as to why I was even adopted in the first place. So I didn't talk to her much. She has a husband, I don't ever remember a time when he wasn't in the picture. He is David's father. I don't think I really talked to him much, either, but this was years ago, so I barely remember what it was like with him back then. I haven't seen him in years either. Ditto my birthmum. The annual visits ceased a couple of years ago.

   I have an older brother, William. Sometimes he would talk to me. More than the others, anyway. So I guess on most of my annual visits, he was the one I hung out with most. He's 22 now, and has multiple jobs and a sleeping problem, so I don't hear from him all that often now. I'm taking a guess at the multiple jobs thing. He did have a few last time I heard from him. But I wouldn't really know now, aside from what David tells me.

   Anyway, I had two younger brothers there as well, David and Rory. On the annual visits, I never learned which was which- it was never really necessary to know, because neither really had all that much to do with me either. They usually just (as I remember) squealed and ran away. David now insists that it was only Rory who squealed, and that he at least stayed to say hello. That is a possibility.

   Anyway, around April-ish this year, my birthmum added me on Facebook. That was a bit of a shock. It was a relief to discover that she's never on anyway. Then he added me. Started talking to me. First thing I remember him saying was, "Um, awkward question, but are you like, my sister or something?" Had no one bothered to explain it to him, about who this weird girl who turned up every year? Well, yes and no. He knew only that I was a sister who didn't live with him. He didn't really know anything else, though to be fair, it was probably because he didn't ask.

  I feel guilty sometimes trying to explain these things to him, because I shouldn't be the one doing so. I mean shouldn't his our mum have told him this? I feel like she wouldn't be happy if she knew I was telling him what I know of it. But I guess someone has to tell him, and why the heck shouldn't I? Oh, I don't know.

   Since April he's racked up a pretty big phone bill trying to stay in touch, and he's still paying it off. But it's nice to have that connection to at least one of them. I mean, Will's busy, Rory's still pretty much at the squeal-and-run-away stage of it all, and it's awkward trying to talk to my birthmum about anything. (I tried to ask her last year about why I was adopted, and I think she tried to explain, but I still have no freaking clue why.)

   I guess this post hasn't been so much about David as it has about a whole lot of my birthfamily, but dammit. I tried. Perhaps I'll write him a better post another time.