so. here we are.

Here we are. Old friends since the craziness of Bush 2.

And now I think I might need to take a break. Oh, not permanently, but a bit of one.

Screed will not die, but it's not going to be the main place for me to be online anymore.

If you want the short and shallow me, find me on Twitter @DeliaChristina or @DeliaC.

If you want something more than shallow but less than long-form, and more social, find me on Facebook.

If you're a hip chick, there's always Google +.

When the inspiration hits me, I'll post some long things here, but that inspiration is competing with an awful lot of other stuff. Catch y'all later!

Easter Back in the Day

When I was a kid, Easter was the holiday you had to work for.

The hunt for the perfect Easter dress would heat up a few weeks in advance of Easter Sunday. This was a process that would almost always end in tears as mom would make her choice, I or my sister would pout, and so on, until a dress was chosen in exasperation that made none of us happy. (This was later rectified when Mom decided to sew our Easter dresses - which established a whole other interminable, labor-intensive and emotionally draining process.)

The rehearsals for the Easter program would begin in earnest at least 2 months ahead, as every kid in church was handed a part of the Easter Story (from the Triumphant Entry, through the Last Supper, Betrayal, Trial, to the Cross Carrying, Crucifixion and then Resurrection/Ascension + Various Eyewitness Accounts) and expected to memorize ALL of the King James verses and recite them dully into a microphone to beaming parents. I was usually given something about Peter's denial, or the stone being rolled away. My sister managed to always get the short verses.  Typical. 

Oh, lord. The flashback I'm having!

Then there was the hair preparation -- oh, the hair preparation! All day Saturday watching my mom get redder and redder in the face as I tipped back in the kitchen chair, all my hair poured into the kitchen sink, and my mom labored to shampoo, condition and then detangle and roller set my thick curly hair in giant pink rubber tubes. And then watching her do the same thing with my sister.  Spending the rest of the day dyeing dozens of hardboiled eggs with rollers in our heads so tight they pulled our eyes upwards into little slants and we could barely blink.

And then the next day, waking up early on Sunday - new shoes, new dress, new tights, new exhortations not to mess up our hair which hung in long, perfect ringlets, thick like bratwurst. Rushing to church, taking care not to crush our hair, our dresses, our Easter baskets, our eggs for the hunt after church, not to scuff our shoes. Watching my hair grow bigger and bigger with the day's humidity. And really cognizant that my little sister looked cuter than I.

(Poofy on a tiny person looks cute; poofy on a person who's already shaped like a poof looks POOFY.)

Fidgeting through a sonorous Baptist sermon on Christ's rising, sweating in the gold sunlight of the sanctuary. Hair still getting bigger while the ribbons are limper. Watching the clock tick past noon, past one...and now the Easter program. Lining up in the foyer of the church, desperately trying to remember my single piece of scripture (without which Christ isn't truly risen), loudly reciting my part, painfully watching a girl struggle through her piece which she forgot, balefully staring at my sister as she squeaks out her piece and runs back to Mom's lap. Typical.

And then, somehow, oblivious as a group of church men leave the sanctuary to walk across the street, to the janky abandoned lot, to hide Easter eggs. Did we ever clean this lot? I don't think so. It was filled with the detritus of the South Central neighborhood around our church - broken bottles, cigarette butts, beer cans.  Did we care? No. As soon as Christ was risen, ascended into heaven and various eye witness accounts were shared, we were dismissed. We ran across the street, crashing through weeds, old tires and wires, to hunt eggs. It was really a wonder none of us ever needed a tetanus shot afterward or fell over a dead prostitute.

But I also remember how upset we all were when, years later and Easter egg hunts were well in my past, the lot's owner decided to build an ugly stucco apartment building on it. The unjust-ness of it almost made me cry.

After such a long day, my sister and I would change out of our dresses and into our play-clothes; but we kept our fancy hair and we'd lay on our stomachs on the livingroom floor, peeling eggs, eating chocolate and watching Star Trek while the grownups talked after dinner.

There was no better feeling than this - the luxury, excess, indulgence, naughtiness and prettiness all mixed in together. All marked with a smear of chocolate across our lips. Heaven. Thank you, Jesus.

May your Easter festivities be as randomly joyful.

Know what cures work rage?
Frolics, barbecue and lots of sleep.

MY labor. MINE.

I won't go into the minute details of my work rage right now.

But I'll just give some sage advice to budding sr. managers out there:

* If you have never put together an effective presentation, don't question how many hours go into creating one.
* And if all you have to do is open your mouth and speak the words that other people write, do NOT expect an open attitude about your revisions. You want to do it? You do it.
* If you aren't the one lining up the panel, confirming the speakers, prepping the panel, creating the content, writing the talking points, herding the participants, testing the A/V, editing the presentations, collecting all the materials, calling the hotel and reviewing catering, room set up, registration capacity and so on, don't ask why someone wants to end the day in blessed silence on the train (in the bar car) rather than inside a car with you back to the city.
* And if you haven't done all those things you BETTER let the person who did roll in at 10 am the next day because she's effing exhausted and brain-drained.

That is all. Carry on.

fat baby. that's me.

I have gained a pound for every month of relationship happiness over the past 18 months.

Apparently, I'm so happy my ass is busting my pants!

I discovered this yesterday during my annual visit to my OB/Gyn. The nurse kept nudging the scale weight farther and farther to the right until it rested on 243.

I knew those jeans were a little tighter.

So that means tomorrow I'm dragging my 243 pound ass out of bed, at 5.30 am, to walk. Every day.
And it means I can't order takeout for dinner when I'm too tired to cook after I come home from work.
And it means my portions are going to be the size of my fist.

In good news, my doctor didn't balk when I said I'd like to start thinking about more permanent birth control solutions. Essure, here I come? Let's hope so!

Here's a picture of a fat baby because that's what I feel like (and this is kind of what my baby pictures look like):

stupid, small world!

Scene: Reproductive justice organization board meeting

CEO: Ok, new board members. I have two candidates and we need someone to interview them. One is Blah-Blah and the other is Professor Bleep Bleep.
DeliaChristina: Huh. Professor Bleep Bleep. Why is that name familiar...?

(blah blah interview schedule conversation continues)

DeliaChristina: Wait. What's her name again? The professor?
CEO: Professor Bleep Bleep. She's with the University of X and she also did work in California with Boop Boop. Why?
DeliaChristina: Um, I think I vomited in her face once. Technically, on her head, but her face is on her head so...

(stunned silence)

Board Member: What?? Are you sure?
DeliaChristina: I think so. I mean, it was grad school and I wasn't used to drinking and I didn't have dinner. But, you know?! It could totally be someone else. I mean, it's a common enough name and as long as she didn't do her doctorate in Michigan...
CEO: That's where she got her degree!

DeliaChristina: Ohmygod. I vomited in her face. Our friendship ended that night.
Board Member 2: But how long ago was that? Maybe she forgot.
DeliaChristina: In. Her. FACE. Copiously.
CEO: Ok, then. You are *not* interviewing her.

I ask you! What are the odds?!?

saturday morning pillow talk

M- : i had a dream that i was waiting for you somewhere with some of your friends - i had never met before - and they were giving me a political ideology test.
DeliaChristina: oh, no! i'm sorry your subconscious is making my friends quiz you.
M- : no, it was ok. one of the friends was a guy, and he was on my side.

Ouch. Sigh.

M-: i had another dream that i sent snoop dogg back in time to the 18th century because he was being a dick.
DeliaChristina: (laughing) that's so mean! i'll teach you a lesson, snoop dog - i'm taking you back to slavery! see if you get sassy then!
M-: hey, he was being a dick. but i had another time travel dream a while ago when i went back to the 80s for an italian beef.
DeliaChristina: you wasted time travel on food? you can't do that!
M-: hey, i'm not changing history. i'm just eating pizza.

The 10 year plan

"It's you and me, or it's nothing."

M- said this to me the other night and it's not as scary and stalkerish as it sounds. I forget the context for the conversation, but suddenly we were talking about What If we hadn't met. Maybe the conversation was prompted by my long trip in DC and the distance between us.

He said, 'Meeting you was..my chance. Before meeting you, I was fine with the idea of being alone; I had pretty much decided that finding someone wasn't going to happen for me.'

I said, 'Aww. I don't know if I was exactly there but if I hadn't met you, I think I would have stopped dating in any serious way. It was getting too gross and pathetic.'

Yay, me and M- found each other, but it made me think about how getting older perhaps means a closing of the fan of possibility. Not that getting old means love is dead but that the willingness, the hunger, for the whole process of seeking out and falling in love just peters out. It's exhausting.

Finding the One Right Now took 39 years; I don't have the stamina or optimism to go through finding The Next One. It's not like my relationship skill-building would be that much better. (And frankly I won't have the hormonal urge to, anyway.)

M- recently found another job and it has us thinking, and talking, about cohabitation again. It's another step toward permanence and I am more receptive to things becoming more...settled. The idea of melding our households doesn't fill me with immediate panic; it's a logistical problem to be worked out between now and Fall. I think I'm also taking my cue from M-; he's in a much better thinking space. Because he rid himself of a toxic work environment, he's much less depressed and sad about where he is, and that makes me more comfortable with the idea of living with him. I think we'll be looking at neighborhoods this summer.

This increased comfort with the idea of permanence has also been prompted by thoughts of my aging father who is going through a period of not being able to pee because of typical old guy problems; of my sister, who is now more interesting to me; of my work (which might change in a few years); and of M-'s new job which has an office in Los Angeles.

He said to his new boss, 'Me and the girlfriend might get married and relocate out there since her family lives in LA.'

When he told me the story, for once I didn't get all huffed up and defensive ('How dare you make plans for me!'); the thought made sense.  I could imagine myself back in LA with my family, taking care of my dad, being reunited with my friends from the Old Delia, driving badly across all the freeways. For the first time, the idea of returning home made me think of the possibility of long-term happiness.

Being One of Two is an act of will; I've said so before and I believe it more firmly than ever. I don't think I'd have the will again for this path I'm walking with M-. Rather than making me afraid of what I want, this relationship is making me more sure of it. I want permanence. (I still don't want children. And I could take or leave a wedding.) But it's making me work for it, man. None of these decisions about my future, or our future together, come easy.  All sorts of negotiations need to be considered.

(For instance, my relationship with Girl Island. Unfortunately, I don't think M- or certain of my friends will ever be comfortable around each other; this might be a necessary price to pay for what I have with him. Or it's karmic payback for being a raging bitch toward my gay best friend's partner for a few years.)

But this is me putting it on the record: there's a vague 10 year plan moving forward and I might be ok with that.

God I'm getting old. What's next? Sensible DKNY walking shoes?

Miz D goes to Washington

I have so many pet peeves about trips like this I can't even go into it.

But mainly it's one thing: learn how to use technology!

All these folks with their smartphones and not one way to use them smartly to navigate the city (i.e., search the metra system, map a route from airport to hotel, look up congressmen, etc.)

This is the first moment I've had to get my thoughts together.
The rest of the day I've been up since 5 am, remotely steering my boss through DC's public transportation system, trying to find my delegation, going on appts and moving the earth behind the scenes to make sure folks have a productive time. Barely ate lunch, gulped down every glass of water on my table and I think my Instead cup flipped over. SIGH.

The last thing I want to do is go to dinner tonight. But I must.

(What would I rather be doing? Sitting in my room, in my pjs, studying for tomorrow and ordering room service.)

The room is very cute, though.

It has been an age, hasn't it?

Tonight, I'm in Washington, DC for a business trip. I'm trying to cram information about the foundation excise tax into my brain but I really want some sleep. I think I may cram before coffee tomorrow.

It's lovely here - the weather is soft - and I'm sure this trip will be moderately successful (having already addressed one snafu) but I really think Lobby Days need to be restructured. It's a lot of expense for very little payoff unless one has a really firm idea of what you're going to do with these contacts once you've made them.  Do orgs have a sense of a 'sales cycle' for these things? I doubt it.  And that cycle is the only thing that makes 'sales/pitch' meetings like this useful.

Anyway, I'm staying with a girl friend, we've had a lovely gossip and now I have to put on my big girl panties and act professional for two days.  Sure I can do it.  (Thankfully, I have the most comfy DKNY shoes to help me along.)

I miss M- (I'm here for most of the week).
And my bestie (we have a Kung Fu Panda game to conquer!)

But mainly M-.

for the WIN!

My sister's long ordeal is almost over. Her judgment went her way and it seems she will enjoy full joint custody of her children. Yes, despite MABIL's efforts to reshape the world to fit his 18th century Mexico worldview, it seems the rest of the world has moved on.

But she still needs to rebuild her relationship with her kids (to undo all that has been done - and said, and reassert her maternal authority), and she is now officially a single mom. Things will be tougher; everything will be a negotiation with her ex and there's always the risk that he just won't face reality, turning this into 'Not Without My Daughter, Mexico edition.'  But for now, she is free!

Her strength has been phenomenal and even when tiny wavers shook her spine, she stood through a lot -- threats to her livelihood, her reputation, her family and my long distance, outraged haranguing -- and came through.  Yay, sis!

More importantly, now I don't have to wage a stealth campaign against MABIL.

(maybe when it's not this late, I'll write about what my sister's divorce case has shown me about the inherent sexism of the Nice Guy Who Thinks He's Nice But He's Only Nice As Long as You Do Everything He Says.)

Funny how real life intrudes on what used to be soo important a few years ago. When I first started this blog I was filled with so much outrage, this was the only place I could let it out without breaking down. 9/11, and my mom's passing, made me feel impotent. This blog was something I could control - and something I could share. I'm happy that this space has been one where I can be smart (occasionally), funny (unintentionally) and downright bitchy and scabrous (hey! new word!).

More than a few years later (actually, eight), this blog has slowed down a little but that doesn't mean I'm giving it up. It's just that other things have been happening;but despite all the real-life stuff going on, I still have a finger on the pulse on what's happening in the outside world.

So here's all my political blogging smooshed together:

On the plan to defund Planned Parenthood and the GOP effort to balance the federal budget on a woman's uterus - no; if you were really serious about our deficit, you'd do something about defense and Medicaid.

On the Chicago mayoral race and candidates deliberately ignoring what a structural deficit is and playing word games with the electorate - you suck and you're dishonest.

On the revolution in Egypt - congrats, but democracy is harder than it looks.

On the abortion provider being targeted by anti-abortion activists in Wichita - i think it's time we all learned how to provide abortions; they can't put us all in jail. (That's my official Crazy Thought of the Day.)

On Illinois' frakked budget situation and the continued misunderstanding of what gov't is for: gov't is not our  personal retail location where we are entitled to a product; it is an entity that delivers services that prevents us from living in caves like animals - services that need to be paid for. make the tax increase permanent, for god's sake, and stop fooling around.

Carry on.

snow day!

This is my neighborhood. Yesterday, I scoffed at how bad the weather was but after LSD shut down and all those folks were trapped, and watching how the wind had blown snow to basically block off my street, I take it all back. Blizzaster 2011 is no joke.

However, just one block away, the street is clear, businesses are open and people are going about their way. So my snowbound world is very small. In fact, it's just this one block. Weird.

So I'm at home, 'working' remotely, and catching up on news of Egypt with Charlie Rose. And getting hungry. Dreading going outside for a taco.

How's the Blizzaster treating you?

asshat of the day: MABIL

He didn't show at his and my sister's divorce hearing today. They waited THREE hours for his drag-ass to show up. So now she has to remain married to his janky ass another month and a half! I bet he's trying to find another lawyer to help him recoup from the mediator last month.

Guess who I could kick in the balls right now?

What Would Jesus Do? The Opposite of What You're Doing

So Obama called the Philadelphia Eagles owner to talk about two random things: greening the stadium and Michael Vick’s second chance. And, in the words of one blogger, all hell broke loose.

This is what I think about second chances: we all deserve them.

But he killed dogs!
Henry Kissinger was instrumental in the death of thousands of southeast Asians, and yet, he is considered an elder statesman of US diplomacy.

But he killed dogs!
This country voted for Geoge W. Bush (twice) and now he’s earning millions on his book and speaking tour - after starting two wars, crashing our economy and tanking civil rights in this country all in the name of fighting terror.

But he killed dogs!

Yeah, he did. So did this guy.

Because he killed dogs, now Michael Vick is a black man with a prison record. His nifty NFL contract is the only variable separating him from the fate of hundreds of thousands of other black men with prison records.  Perhaps it’s the rarity of second chances for these men that makes Obama’s recognition and commendation of second chances so startling and impolitic for the rest of us.

So who deserves a second chance? Who deserves an opportunity for redemption and repentance?

Unlike Tucker Carlson, whose grasp of the Golden Rule and Christian love/forbearance is rather shaky, my father shows me what it means to give someone a real second chance. As part of his ministry he has mentored black men from all paths: gangbangers, ex-cons, drug dealers, alcoholics, burnouts, and probably one or two men with pasts so violent and abhorrent we would run away from them. While it exasperates me (as it exasperated my mother) to watch him make such an exhausting effort for so little return, I have a feeling that I am missing the point.

The results may be few and far between to most of us but the effort is what matters; my father is doing something no one else in the world seems to want to do: love and help black men.

My sister and I came home from school one day to find some strange man washing dad’s car in the driveway. In the kitchen, mom was watching from a window and we asked her who that man was. She sighed.

‘It’s another of your father’s men,’ she said. ‘He came to bible study and now he won’t leave. He has a metal plate in his head where he was shot by police for drug dealing. What is the point?!’ Another big sigh. My mother could only see wasted effort.

My sister and I, however, were fascinated that a man could have a metal plate in his head.

I’m happy to say my mother was wrong. That man with the metal plate built a construction business, has a wife, three sons he’s fighting to keep alive, a house in the Valley, and is one of my father’s best friends. When my mother died, with his big construction hands, he lovingly wrapped all the little Christmas village houses my mother had collected and took them home because he said they reminded him of Lucy.

And right this very minute, my father is boarding a young man with obvious emotional and mental issues from Indiana. This man had heard my father’s sermons, contacted him and drove to California to escape whatever personal hell had been pursuing him in his hometown. Like a black Boo Radley, he lives in my father’s house and silently endures the squinty-eyed side-glances from me and my sister when we visit.

What does he want? Is he trying to take advantage of my dad? What if he’s crazy?

‘Lock your door, dad,’ I said to my father on the phone one night. ‘If he goes nuts, make it hard for him to kill you.’

‘Little girl, you need to stop. He’s just trying to get back on his feet.’

‘Well, when will he?? He’s been there for months! Why’s it taking him so damn long? Why can’t he find a roommate on Craigslist? Why does it have to be you?’ I know I sounded like my dead mother but I couldn’t help it.

My father sighed.

‘You girls have never understood this. Not even your mother. It has to be me because no one else will do it. You don’t understand. No one loves the black man. We’re beaten and ashamed and neglected and put away. No one loves us. No one. And so if I don’t, who will? Who will show this young man he’s a creature of God? If it’s not me, who will do it? The county? The welfare system? Who, dammit, who?’

(I am actually tearing up remembering this conversation.)

My father loves the black man and cares about what happens to him when it’s not politic to do so. His ministry to black men is not necessarily about finding someone a job or keeping him from the law. His effort, and hopefully Obama’s call, is about showing these men that they have a second opportunity to become, and be seen as, a full human being again.

It’s the point that everyone is missing – even the well-meaning dog lovers, feminists, Maddows, Ezra Kleins and asshats like Tucker Carlson.

So who deserves a chance to be regarded a full human being again? Michael Vick does. And every black man like him.

norridge rhymes with porridge - for a reason.

On Saturday, I stood on the corner of Cumberland and Lawrence, the freezing wind tearing through my leggings, making my thighs numb. Norridge, I thought. Frak you, Norridge!

I had arranged to meet M- at the comic book store he works at on the weekends for their holiday party and, apparently, I had not paid much attention to him the night before when he gave me directions.

Norridge is ugly. It is a placed cursed with squat homes and strip malls. Like LA but colder and uglier. So I wasn't in the best mood to start with. Not knowing where I was going, and unable to tell where I was on my GPS (frak you, GPS!), I walked all four corners of the intersection, even buttonholing old guys at the gas station. I walked up this block, up that block, down that street and back again. No frakking comic book store.

By this time, it was dark, the temperature had fallen to 16 (but the windchill made it feel like 8) and I stumbled to the McDonalds to nurse my frostbitten fingers and numb ass.

I texted M-:

'Dude. Your store apparently has an anti-girl force field covering it because I can't find it. So I'm at the McDonalds until my frostbite goes away. When you're done, you should come see me.'

I listened to the piped in Jesus music for a few minutes, grumbling about how I love this dude but man, the burbs suck, I can't feel my fingers, he better be glad I'm his girlfriend...grumble, grumble.

He called.
'Where are you? Did you just ignore everything I said last night?'
'Hey! No! Well, maybe. I got the intersection right!'
'You are right across the street from us!'

Pause.  I turned around to look out the window.
'I don't see you.'

In a very patient voice he said, 'Go back outside. Walk toward the gas station. Look for the Italian restaurant. Then Edible Arrangements. We are right there.'

'I'm not going back outside! It's 8 degrees!'
'Then you're ok hanging out at the McDonalds for over an hour?!'
 There went my thoughts about rescue.
'SIGH. NO. Fine. I'll finish my coffee and go outside.'

Grumbling all the while, I went back into the freezing Norridge night - and found it where he said I'd find it.  I had walked past this place THREE frakking times!

When I went inside, all the comic book boys cheered and I felt like an idiot but at least the story made them laugh. And I hope it showed how dedicated a girlfriend I fucking am.

Note: M- later revealed that after he hung up, he'd said to the shop owner, 'I'd go and rescue the damsel in distress but she's a feminist!!'

Note to dudes everywhere: Feminism is officially put on hold when it's effing 8 degrees outside.

I swear the holiday season is another war on women's self esteem.
I'm 10 days out from christmas and haven't done ANY of my shopping yet. For anyone. Not sis, dad, boyfriend, best friend or bitchy niece and nephew.

And don't even ask if I've gone to church for any advent services. Guh. I'm a bad person AND a bad church lady.

I need a break from Christmas, please.

My sister's mediation is tomorrow and I called her tonight to see how she was doing.

I'm so proud of my little sister. She finally called the lawyer my friend found for her and had a good consultation - but realized that she needed to be more proactive with her own case.

(Note to little sisters everywhere: Big sisters know what we're talking about!)

I also find myself giving her advice from my own professional field: if you're not framing the narrative then tell your story strategically to build will and get people engaged on your behalf.

Yeah, it sounds like PR and it is. MABIL has spent the whole year turning his friends and family against her (while hiding his tendency to treat marriage like a gilded cage) so now's the time to start turning that against him.

I thought she'd resist when I said that it's sometimes useful to strategically share some vulnerability to get people on your side but she got my point. MABIL's family and friends are a lost audience. Never message to an audience that you don't have.

But that still leaves teachers, other parents, old neighbors, and casual mutual acquantances to win over.

She said, "I don't like putting my business out there. It has nothing to do with them."

"True. But since your kid has said out loud that she hates you, and bursts into tears every time you come to pick her up, you really don't need her teacher looking at you like you're the bad guy. 

"All you need to say is something like 'Thanks so much for being patient with Sally lately. Her father and I are going through a difficult separation and divorce; the whole thing has been tough on her --on all of us. Thanks for being so understanding.'"

I said. "Just say it in that squinty parent voice people have and the teacher will be on your side -- or at least less likely to look at you like you're Mommy Dearest."

Ah, strategic communications. Good even for divorce.

it's only tuesday

Yesterday, we sang in the office. I hate singing in the office.

Then my boss asked me to go with her to a meeting with a GOP legislative leader - with my 'fro all poofed out and crazy looking, in leggings, boots and a big wooly peacoat, I looked like a crazy homeless woman sneaking into the Thompson Center.

And I discover certain black legislators are giving my org shade because they see philanthropy as keepers of the status quo and our policy agenda a threat to their communities. Shit. Guess how hard it's going to be to message through that??

And, to top it all off, it's freaking two degrees in Chicago and my face is cracking off.

Freaking love December. /sarcasm

a marriage only dimmesdale would love

I have to give a huge thumbs up for non traditional family holidays. No long hours cooking, overly crowded house, a formal dining table, a wrecked kitchen or screaming children.

The holiday I spent in Los Angeles was a lovely combination of brunches, lunches, pedicures, dim sum, cocktails and visits.

Of course it was painful hearing my sister call her soon to be ex-husband to tell her children Happy Thanksgiving and overhear the eldest girl snipe and bitch at my sister in the best imitation of a bitchy 10 year old.

"Why is she even calling at all," my niece said to her father. "I don't want to speak to her." It will probably take years for my sister and her daughter to repair their relationship.

But the conflict is nearing a close; my sister and MABIL have a court date in January. As predicted, he is seeking full custody of both children, and she is seeking joint. I am praying my sister succeeds and her lawyer will smash MABIL's petition into the dust.

When I hear of MABIL's particular stream of crazy, I feel sad, humored and angry all at once. I don't think I've ever really known a man who steadfastly refuses to recognize reality. (Other than my father.) While he tries to project the image of a wounded, caring father, he has told their children their mother is gay and is abandoing them to marry her lesbian girlfriend and have sex; he interviews them on tape while they cry and plead for their mother to come back; and he tells them that gay people are sinful and are going to hell.

In other words, 'Your mother is going to hell.'  Is it any wonder the kids are terrified about their mother?

Is this really what a good parent does? These kids are 8 and 10 years old! My stressed out nephew tells my sister, "I don't like it when daddy talks to me about this every day. I don't want to talk about this anymore." My niece is seeing a counselor but who knows what effect that's having since she practically boils with hate toward my sister. In the face of all this, my sister is quiet, calm and forbearing. I honestly don't know how she does it. I wouldn't have the patience to be so...strong-minded.

And a hilariously pathetic picture of MABIL's view of relationships is growing clearer.

According to MABIL, love is:
...Not about pleasing one another.
...Not about being in love with the other person (because love eventually dies) but about loving what the person represents. (Thereby erasing the agency and subjectivity of the partner completely.)
...Not about personal happiness, either for yourself or your partner.
...About structure and community. (Which sounds about as appealing as catechism.)
...Never talked about, reflected upon or tended to.  (It's apparently just a misshapen troll huddled in a corner you ignore for years.)

MABIL's picture of love is the opposite of any lesson found in Corinthians; it is a vision of repression, unhappiness, dissatisfaction, and duty to others at the expense of the individual. Despite his obvious anger, he even has the nerve to say that he will forgive my sister and 'take her back.' I shudder to think of being forced to live with someone for any extended period of time who believes these things.

(And don't get me started on MABIL's views about the body, sex and pleasure. Let's just say that he and Christine McDonnell have a lot in common. The man should have been a priest rather than a husband.)

My sister is one step closer to her liberation and I can see her sloughing off the remnants of her wrecked marriage; this weekend showed me a sister who wasn't tense, silent, cautious, or angry. She was her old self: funny, affectionate, present, smart and loving.

Is having my sister back an even trade for the past year? Perhaps.