One lucky baby

I post this every year.

I couldn’t be happier that I’m reunited with my birth family and finally know my birth story.

So, here we go again. . .

IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!

I was born first to Paul and Sherri, two teenagers living in Sonoma. They accidentally conceived me in a treehouse during their eighth grade year in school.

Sherri was sent to live with her aunt and uncle in San Jose to await my birth.

I was born on November 2nd. I was a forceps baby and I came out with a banged up, scratched up head (see pic below) but no worse for wear.

Alice and “Mario”, my parents, got the word that I’d been born and I’d be joining my 5 month old sister Lisa. My dad got to the hospital and looked at his itty bitty newborn daughter and declared that I looked like a frog on account of my legs stuck out sideways.

Screen Shot 2015-10-26 at 4.19.46 PMI will forever be grateful to Sherri and Paul for putting me up for adoption. I was lucky enough to meet them when I was 22 and they have been a part of my life ever since.

IMG_7821Nothing pleases me more than explaining to people how lucky I am to have two sets of parents who love and adore me.

I am one lucky baby.

Happy Birthday to me!

Thin walls

In addition to meeting The Swede’s YOUNGEST daughter, I also got to meet his ELDEST daughter.

And his parents.

It was quite an experience, although if I think back, I did introduce him to my sons and my parents when we were going to UnSCruz together.

Of course, with the language barrier, there was only so much communicating we could do.

Most of our interactions consisted of them feeding me and me saying “tack” or “thank you” in Swedish.

His mother cooked THE MOST AMAZING PORK LOIN for dinner one night.

I’m used to pork turning out dry and in desperate need of gravy.

But this was OUTSTANDING.

I tried to communicate my appreciation.

“Thank you very much,” I said in Swedish.

His parents home was like something out of a dream – a fairytale cottage with an explosion of Christmas decorations inside.

I sneaked a picture of The Swede as a little boy.

And one of his youngest daughter in pigtails.

Too cute for words.

As we were going to bed (in a bed only SLIGHTLY LARGER than a twin bed), The Swede began to chat with his father in the room next door.

Through the walls.

All my plans for nookie disappeared.

When you can hear your neighbor that PERFECTLY, there’s no space for fooling around.

I may be horny but I’m not disrespectful.

Sex toy purge

I have a ton of sex toys.

Most of it is pretty tame stuff.

Stuff I’m okay admitting to on my blog – vibrators, dildos, magic wands, condoms, lubrication, blindfolds, etc.

However, there are a few things in my collection – such as a harness and nipple clamps – that should anything happen to me, my sister is UNDER STRICT INSTUCTIONS TO GET TO MY ROOM AND REMOVE THEM.

They’re all in a black bag on the top shelf on my center bookcase.

Basically, my mom and dad don’t know what a pervert I am and I want to keep it that way, especially when I get to the greater beyond.

My sister is mentally strong and capable of looking at these things, realize that I did in fact use them on other people (or myself) and THROW THAT SHIT AWAY.

I suspect, given my sister’s constitution, that she would actually just toss the entire bag into the garbage, sight unseen.

Because she’s SMART LIKE THAT.

Who needs to look at an enema bulb anyway?

Or a lube shooter?

Or, God forbid, a riding crop?

Oh wow, did I just say that out loud?

Lucky baby

“You’re so lucky, Michelle.  And that’s not the booze talking.  That’s me talking.”

My Aunt Xondra was laying in bed at her 50th birthday party, recovering from one too many tequila shots and I was just hanging out with her.

I know I’m one lucky lady.

I have TWO sets of parents.

And THREE sets of siblings.

In my life I’ve been blessed with lots of family.

Xondra, who is quite possibly the sweetest drunk woman I’ve ever known, was just pointing this out to me.

When I tell people I’m a reunited adoptee, usually they ask how my adoptive parents feel about that.

My response is always, “It was hard in the beginning.  But having more people who love you is never a bad thing.”

I see my birth mother about 4 – 6 times a year, but my birth father much less.

If you ask me why I’ll say it’s because he doesn’t seem to take an interest in me.

But this weekend, I got another picture of the three of us and came across a mug in his stash with my name on it along with my brothers’ names.

It was a small thing but felt SO big to me.

It’s as if that mug legitimized me.

And he had pictures of me and my boys around the house.

Like we matter to him and his wife, even though we don’t see each other.

And. . .

He kissed the top of my head when he said goodnight to me.

It was a very fatherly gesture and I got a little choked up.

Maybe, just maybe, he does care.

One Lucky Baby

IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!

I was born first to Paul and Sherri, two teenagers living in Sonoma. They accidentally conceived me in a treehouse during their eighth grade year in school.

Sherri was sent to live with her aunt and uncle in San Jose to await my birth.

I was born on November 2nd. I was a forceps baby and I came out with a banged up, scratched up head (see pic below) but no worse for wear.

FullSizeRender FullSizeRender(1)Alice and “Mario”, my parents, got the word that I’d been born and I’d be joining my 5 month old sister Lisa. My dad got to the hospital and looked at his itty bitty newborn daughter and declared that I looked like a frog on account of my legs stuck out sideways.

Screen Shot 2015-10-26 at 4.19.46 PMI will forever be grateful to Sherri and Paul for putting me up for adoption. I was lucky enough to meet them when I was 22 and they have been a part of my life ever since.

IMG_7821Nothing pleases me more than explaining to people how lucky I am to have two sets of parents who love and adore me.

I am one lucky baby.

Happy Birthday to me!

Gripe

The thing that DRIVES ME CRAZY about my parents is that they’re constantly trying to make me into something I am not.

Their vision of who I am.

Instead of just accepting me exactly as I come at them.

I have sex.

That doesn’t mean I’m a slut.

Although there are times I know being a little less discerning might be A LOT MORE FUN!

I wear low cut tops and dresses with plunging necklines.

Hey! I like my cleavage and I share it with the world.

If you seriously want to help me, ask me what areas of my life I’d like to improve, don’t just try to improve the ones you want to change.

I’ll tell anyone.

I’m bad with finances.

I need motivation to exercise.

I’m not the neatest person in the world.

THESE ARE THE THINGS I CAN USE YOUR HELP ON!

Not my sex life and my décolleté.

I know you wish I was a little less overtly sexual.

I know you wish I would tone down my outfits.

It’s in the back of my head.

And, you know, if I wear something I think you’ll find particularly disturbing (such as black vinyl or transparent lace) I have the decency to put a coat on over it so you don’t have to look at it and FREAK THE FUCK OUT.

Is it wrong of me to wish for parents that can just love me for who I am and stop trying to constantly meddle in life decisions I make that don’t require their input?

Yes, I’m wearing the dress.

Yes, it’s lowcut.

BUT I FUCKING LIKE IT THAT WAY!

That is all.