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PLEASE BLOW SMOKE UP MY KEISTER

Do you know what I discovered?  Trump taught me something recently.  (I know!  Aren’t you amazed!)  He taught me how a person can get people to blow smoke up his or her behind, and it can sometimes be a good thing.  I’m sure you all saw it or read about it.  He called his first cabinet meeting and after touting his royal greatness, he had his cabinet sound off one-by-one about what a fabulous job he’s been doing and what an incredible leader he is.

Trump Cabinet Steve Sack The Minneapolis Star Tribune

Cartoon used by permission: Steve Sack, The Minneapolis Star-Tribune

BINGO, I thought.  This is sheer genius!  Trumpee has taught me something I can use.  Why don’t I apply this methodology to getting reviews for my new book, I thought?  You see, I just learned from my publicist that if I can get 50 reviews from people who have read my new book, The Fetus Chronicles: Podcasts from my Miseducated Self, Amazon will list my book in its newsletters and other promotions.  Isn’t that cool?

BMProof-FetusChronicles

“The Fetus Chronicles” Book Mark Proof: Su from Earthly Charms

 

I bet you’re saying to yourself, “I’d love to write a review for you Eleanor, but if the truth be known, the thought of typing something into Amazon cares me to death.  How do I go about it, and what if I get tongue tied, or in this case, finger tied?”  Don’t be afraid.  It is quite simple.  You don’t have to be Hemingway; you can say as little as, “I liked this book,” and all you have to do is follow these very simple instructions:

How to Write a Review

In the meantime, while you are thinking about how to “blow smoke up my ass” on Amazon (if you hate my book, remember that my name is “Smeegle Klondonovich”), please enjoy a redo of my first published writing that started it all.  I got beaten by the writing bug, so to speak, after I wrote this.  This story will hopefully remind you what a “brilliant, talented, outstanding, deeply profound writer I am”—don’t you agree?

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WILL HIGH SCHOOL EVER END?

(Repurposed post from 2013)

Why is it in real life, as in high school, we exert so much energy trying to impress people we don’t know, won’t ever see again after our season of random internment, and who have no financial or emotional investment in our future?

I have beautiful, White girlfriends who won’t go to a swimming pool while on vacation because they don’t have the figures they had in college anymore, and the strangers across the pool from them, who they don’t know and couldn’t care a rat’s ass about, might become scornful of their cellulite or less than perky boobs. When in reality, they should be embracing Joy Behar’s classic observation of things that shouldn’t matter one iota:  “So what – who cares?”

All my baby boomer girlfriends have better bodies than I, but even though I’m at least 50 pounds heavier (when I’m telling the truth), I have a black woman’s sensibility about this issue: accent the positive, suck in the negative, and skirt the thunderous. Then bedazzle the shit out of your goddess self with a rhinestone cover-up and rhinestone flip-flops, and “drop it like it’s hot, baby”!

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Author Doing Her Bedazzled Thing: Photo Credit–J. Tomczyk

Not too long ago, my husband and I took an extended cruise in the Mediterranean.  It was the trip of a lifetime. Everything was better than we had fantasized: the weather was picture perfect, the people were warm and accepting, the 3,000 passenger ship was outstanding, the food was superb, and we were like newlyweds reveling in each other’s company. The only thing that seemed to cause just a tiny bit of consternation was the very aggressive touring itinerary (4 days of excursions, 1 day at sea, 3 days of excursion, 1 day at sea, 2 days of excursion, 1 day at sea) that we had been given. But I wasn’t overly concerned because even though I’m a “fat-bottom girl,” it doesn’t mean I’m not in good health. I’m a daily exerciser and had trained for this trip for 8 months.  I added strenuous hills to my daily, treadmill workout, climbed the stairs at work in the afternoons, and special ordered shoes a triathlon athlete would use.

What I didn’t expect and what my research never revealed was that all of our 10 touring sites were perched on the top of ancient hills or mountains with steep inclines to protect the antiquity inhabitants from marauders.  Most accesses were like scaling a wall.

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Port of Malta: Photo Credit–E. Tomczyk

Every evening we were given an overview of the activities for the next day.  In between the instructions for the cake decorating class and the marzipan demonstrations was listed the information the cruise director felt we needed in order to survive our shore excursions.

Ship Brochure: It takes 600 steps to reach the top of your fabulous destination.  There is a cable car if you prefer or you can employ a donkey to transport you up and down the ancient stone stairs.  Wear comfortable shoes. Cost: $100 – $400/person. The ship departs at 5:30 – if you miss the departure, you will have to make your own way to the next port to meet the ship.

Translation: The 600 steps are straight up the face of a mountain; the cable car often has a two-hour wait, and you will miss your ship utilizing that mode of transportation. The stairs are shared by donkeys that slip constantly on the descent and leave slippery “pooh” all over the staircase from Hell. No manner of footwear is capable of keeping you upright once you lose your footing going down – you might as well kiss your sorry ass goodbye. Before you leave this beautiful island, the tour guide will make sure she dumps you in the shopping area that has only one way in and out to the stairs or the unreliable, overly-crowded cable car system. The shopkeepers will try to help you by relieving you of as many Benjamins as possible to lighten the load of your descent. Trying to balance yourself on a donkey while your hands are stuffed with chotzkies however will be proof-positive that you have lost your ever-loving mind – once and for all. Good luck, silly over-weight Americans!

DAY THREE TOUR:  On day three, my husband (the Energizer Bunny), a gay couple (the extremely handsome, not-one-ounce-of-fat-on-their-bones Neil Patrick Harris and his partner David Burtka look-alikes), a lesbian couple (50’ish with similar body frames as mine whose bodies had each born children in their former lives), an octogenarian grandmother from Iowa sporting a recent double-knee replacement, and an old dude of an age somewhere between 90 and Methuselah began our shore excursion.

Because I temporarily lost consciousness, I can’t remember at what point I lost my mind and reverted back to high school.  I do remember approaching a sky-high escalator in a museum with hundreds of other people in sweltering heat and watching the escalator break down right before my group got on.  Because there was a wall of people behind us, we were forced to go forward and mount a circular ramp that seemed like twenty flights of stairs that shot straight up to the heavens. The lesbian mothers, the grandmother from Iowa, the Methuselah dude, and I stared at each other in total horror! Hadn’t we just climbed 300 steps the day before and 200 steps the day before that, as well as an unexpected 100 steps in a museum that wasn’t listed?  Didn’t the brochure assure us there would be no more steps to climb on this tour? I could have sworn someone said we’d catch a break today.

Carnival Dave Granlund Politicalcartoons com

Cartoon used by permission: Dave Granlund, Politicalcartoons.com

All I know is that my husband, who has the ability to walk faster than most people can run, took off up the ramp to find the tour guide who was nowhere to be seen.  As the rest of our group began to ascend the inevitable, the gay boys began telling us about a rather large, fat-bottomed woman (whose ass was the size of Cleveland) who couldn’t make it up the last ramp in the previous city, and they just couldn’t understand why people didn’t read the ship instructions about the strenuous nature of the excursions.

(Had they seen my ass, I wondered?  Was this a veiled hint about moi?)

“I mean, really now, why can’t these people ‘just say no’ if they’re too fat to complete the course without looking like they’re going to die,” said our Neil Patrick Harris look-alike cruise mate. “Personally, I feel like making an announcement tonight at dinner over the PA system.  ‘Really people – know your limitations; because you need to cut the rest of us some freakin’ slack!  We’re having heart attacks here just wondering if you’re gonna have a heart attack right in front of us’”!

The lesbian couple, the grandmother, the tremulous old man, and I gingerly laughed along with the boys, but we silently heard the “Rocky theme song” roaring in our ears (or was it the blood rushing to our heads before the onset of major strokes as we secretly wondered if they were ridiculing us?).  We took off up the incline like thoroughbreds at the Kentucky Derby trying to match the gait of the Adonis boys, leaning almost at a 45 degree angle to balance our bodies on the slope. As I passed the old man at my road-runner pace, his eyes widened in terror as his lips mouthed, “What the fuck?” but my team and I had to leave him in the dust.  Keeping up with the Adonis-looking critics was all that mattered, even if it meant moving at the speed of light and losing a soldier along the way.  These bodies had born children and nursed babies, goddamnit! The fat on our asses, our low-hanging breasts, and puff-n-stuff stomachs were badges of honor.  Maybe the gay boys had children, but they sure as hell hadn’t “had” children!

The octogenarian dropped out about two-thirds of the way (clutching her side) and gasping for air. My lesbian sisters and I made it to the top without dying, but I had a Charlie-horse in my ass that wouldn’t quit. As the girls and I high-fived each other (sisters, hangin’ tough!), I could see (being the chubbiest in the bunch) that I had impressed the boys. What they didn’t know was that I couldn’t say more than two words without gasping for air or I would keel over and die.  I didn’t dare speak without great measure.  I knew if I tried to articulate more than one five-word sentence without pausing, I’d be the gay boys’ prophecy come true: one fat-bottom woman careening into their perfectly fit, athletic bodies and knocking them back down the slope like a giant chocolate snowball from on high.  So I took out my Blackberry (remember those?), nonchalantly leaned against the museum wall, and pretended to check messages as if I were some high-muckety-muck at a Fortune 500 company and the business couldn’t live without me.

Uphills Meme

Runner Meme: Courtesy of @ Cook in Canuck

“Some hike, huh?” said one of the gorgeous boys.

 “Uh, huh. . . .” I whispered, while trying not to lose consciousness as my heart almost exploded in my chest from over-exertion.

“Great ship, isn’t it? said the other Adonis boy. “What’s on your agenda tomorrow?  We’re going rock climbing.  Isn’t that exciting?!”

 “G-r-e-a-t!” (tap) “Me doing” (tap) “pool” (tap) “water volley-ball tournament” (tap) “against a bunch of twenty-somethings” (tap)—”gonna make them eat my” (tap) “dust.”

“Excellent!  You go, girl with your bad self!”

Clearly, I had impressed the boys.

The next day found the quivering old man with both hands glued to a walker while arduously climbing into the hot tub (he was still there at dinner time with a smile on his face).  The lesbian couple, the grandmother, and I met up at the spa first, and then we subsequently waddled to our separate “quiet” corners around the adult pool (cellulite, thunderous thighs, and saggy tits on full display).  We spent the afternoon sipping rum punches and napping the day away in rockin’ bathing suits while our mental health applauded our goal-setting activity of just being ourselves and being proud of the hard-earned battles won by giving and sustaining life with our amazing bodies.

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ELEANOR’S SELAH (“AHA”) MOMENT

I’ve discovered that if my girlfriends (old and new) and I ever want to shake the specter of high school, we need to finally travel at the beat of our own drummers in our old age, because it’s the condition in which we arrive at the final destination, not the opinions of others, that really matters.  Joy Behar really is an oracle whose mantra we should adopt when the high school spirit tries to tear us down and make us forget the amazing women that we have become in our mature years: So what – who cares!

Write a Review FB

Writer’s Meme: Courtesy of LianaBrooks.com

WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR?  Check out her website at www.eleanortomczyk.com

HAVEN’T YET READ ANY OF THE AUTHOR’S DISCOVERY SERIES?  CHECK OUT HER AUTHOR’S PAGE ON AMAZON!

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 
2 Comments

Posted by on June 20, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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WHEN ELLIE MET JACKIE

Do you know what I discovered this week? This weekend I will be celebrating my 38th wedding anniversary and my sixty-ninth birthday. (When I say “weekend,” that is not a slip of the tongue—I plan to party for three days straight!) I am so thrilled to have something else to think about other than Donald Trump.  He is turning out to be such a consummate liar, grand manipulator, and narcissistic, racist muckraker that I can barely breathe.  I am convinced he is a very mentally unstable person, and I can’t help wondering if God has quit his day job because the more King Trump/Bannon reigns the more I feel as if we’re slip-sliding into Hell as a country.  One of the things I’m going to do during my birthday weekend is see Wonder Woman, and boy would I love to be her for just one day, and be left alone with Trump.  Me and my truth-telling lasso would do some serious damage against Herr Trump.

Wonder Woman RJ Matson Roll Call

Cartoon used by permission: RJ Matson Roll Call

Of all the things that Trump has done that upsets me the most is how he has been like a pied piper to the racist elements in our culture.  I was feeling pretty sad this week about that until I ran across the most amazing article in the NY Times by Sheryll Cashin about how “interracial love is saving America.”* WHAT?  She has this premise that even though it looks as if our country is sinking into a racist quagmire, interracial couples are “chipping away at White supremacy” in a way that makes you want to stand up and cheer.  Cashin cites how Thomas Jefferson stressed with great emphasis that interracial sex and marriage should never be allowed because it would “stain” the White race since he considered the Negro to be “inferior in mind and form.”  (I have two words for you Thomas Jefferson—you hypocritical dog, you:  Sally Hemings—slave and mother of six of your children.)  Ms. Chashin states that it was love that overturned the miscegenation laws in America in 1967 (Loving vs. Virginia), and now at least “one quarter of Americans have a close relative in an interracial marriage,” and when polled, “91% of respondents said that interracial marriage was a change for the better or didn’t matter at all.”  Boy, we’ve come a long way, Baby, from our forefathers’ days!

INTERRACIAL COUPLE HOLDING HANDS ofcommonsense dot me

Interracial Hands: http://www.ofcommonsense.me

Suddenly it dawned on me: I am part of the “salvation” of our nation—me and my man (WW—“White and Wonderful”)!  Hot damn!  And since our 38th anniversary is coming up this weekend, I thought I’d meditate on our love story and share the hope I feel with my readers that no matter how things look now—the killing of innocent Blacks, Muslims, Hindis, Latinos, and Asians—we are never going back to the days of our ignorant forefathers.  Interracial love and understanding is here to stay, and it is growing.

Below is a snippet of our love story of hope.  Enjoy!

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“Ellie and Jackie”/Photo Credit: William Clarke

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WHEN ELLIE MET JACKIE

(A Story of Interracial Love)

Forty-five years ago, a Black girl from the inner city of Cleveland and a White boy from the sheltered suburb of a New England town bumped into each other in a hippie commune in the early 70’s.  Those were heady times and full of experimentation, but just because their paths crossed didn’t mean they should have been attracted to each other.   Most of the White people the girl had known (except for an occasional student in college and a couple of teachers along the way) were ones she feared or hated because of their cruel and horrid treatment to her.  In fact, the girl was often heard to say to anyone who would listen about her views on interracial dating that:  “There ain’t nothin’ no White man can do for me, Chil’!”  The boy grew up in an all-White neighborhood, and even though there were a couple of Black kids in his school, the only Black person who ever came to his house was the mailman, which the family dog continuously chased and tried to bite because the dog “didn’t like Black people,” or so the story goes.  (The dog never chased anybody else—just the poor Black postman.)

The girl belonged to a theater club in her hippie commune, and one day she snuck into the dark hallway of the balcony of the theater during auditions.  She wasn’t in a position to see the actors who were auditioning but she could hear their voices.  When a booming voice that sounded like the voice of God and resonated like James Earl Jones filled the auditorium, the girl’s heart skipped a beat.  She had never heard such a mellifluous voice.  The girl instantly knew that only a Black man could have a voice like that, and in a community that had no Black men but scores of White men, she scurried as fast as she could to see what fine Black male specimen encased that heavenly voice.

our skin color doesn't define us

Stock Photo: Google

The boy’s white skin wasn’t the only thing to surprise the girl.  When she introduced herself to him, she discovered that his name was “Jackie.”

“What kind of name is that?” she said.

“It’s a New England nickname for John,” he said.  The girl looked into his gorgeous blue eyes and almost lost her breath when he spoke to her.

“Well, my name is Eleanor although some people call me ‘Ellie’ which I really don’t like because REALLY—do I look like an ‘Ellie ‘cause seriously would anyone have called Eleanor Roosevelt ‘Ellie’ to her face and that is really who I’m named after at least that is what I’ve been told but then again my mother was crazy and my name could be Diana for all I know…” she said in one breathless run-on sentence.  (The girl was blushing but since she was a golden mocha color, the boy did not notice.  I don’t think the boy ever figured out when the girl was blushing.)

The boy laughed—a deep ground-swell of a laugh that the girl remembered thinking was of a timbre that Santa Claus would kill for.

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“Ellie and Jackie”/Photo Credit: E. Tomczyk

The boy won the audition into the theater club, but the girl was too petrified to talk to him after their initial meeting.  So she had her girlfriend invite him to a dinner party in which the girl would be present as well.

The girl thought the boy was arrogant as Hell.

The boy thought the girl was argumentative and pushy.

The girl said, “I hope we see each other again.”

The boy said, “Sure, I’ll give you a call.”

Weeks went by, but the boy never called the girl.

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“Ellie and Jackie”–14th Anniversary/Photo Credit: E. Tomczyk

The more the boy ignored the girl, the more she pined for him.

“I can’t believe he said he’d call, but I haven’t even heard a peep,” the girl said to her girlfriends one day.

“Do you like him?” asked one of the girlfriends.

“I don’t know… I just thought there was a spark there,” the girl mournfully replied.

“Then why don’t you call him and ask him out on a date.  This is the 70s, Girl!  You don’t have to wait for him.”

That is what the girl did.  She called the boy.  It turned out that his car was broken down and he had no money.  All he had was a beat-up company truck. He wanted to arrange a date where he picked her up in style and took her to a fancy restaurant.

The girl said, she didn’t give a damn about riding in a truck just so long as it didn’t leave them stranded on the road, and as to a fancy meal, if he could boil water, he could invite her over for dinner for a couple boiled eggs.

He made “Shrimp Wiggle.”  (Can of shrimp, can of Campbell’s mushroom soup, and a can of peas on toast.) All the girl could think was, “Oh, Lord Jesus, if this is how White people eat, then no wonder they don’t have any rhythm!”

The girl ate the Shrimp Wiggle and loved it because that night they talked for twelve straight hours.  As the girl’s roommates wondered whether they should file a missing person’s report, the boy and the girl spoke about their fears, their abuses, their rejections, their pain, their scars, their ambitions, their likes, their dreams, and their goals.  They looked into each other’s souls and they loved what they saw.

The next morning when the boy took the girl back to her apartment, they both knew they had met the love of their lives and that one day they would spend the rest of their lives together.  The End.

Anniversary Couple

“Ellie and Jackie”: Happily Married for 38 Years

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ELEANOR’S “SELAH” (“AHA”) MOMENT

I am discovering that my man and I are pushing back bigotry and racism one interracial love at a time.  There once was a time when neither of us could have imagined our life together.  Now that we have lived the reality, we know that “perfect love casts out all fears.”

Oh, and Happy Birthday to me.  (The girl and the boy married on the girl’s birthday in 1979.)  I gave myself the greatest birthday gift a girl could ever get:  the love of a very, very good man!

***

               QUOTES TO CHEW ON

“I have never had the least apprehension that I or my friends would marry Negroes if there was no law to keep them from it, but as Judge Douglas and his friends seem to be in great apprehension that they might, if there were no law to keep them from it, I give him the most solemn pledge that I will to the very last stand by the law of this State, which forbids the marrying of white people with Negroes.”Abraham Lincoln, The so-called “Great Emancipator” (1858)

“Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, Malay, and red, and placed them on separate continents, and but for the interference with his arrangement there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend the races to mix.”—Virginia trial court Judge Leon Bazile, who heard the case of Richard and Mildred Loving in 1965 and ruled against their interracial marriage.

“Marriage is one of the ‘basic civil rights of man,’ fundamental to our very existence and survival…. To deny this fundamental freedom on so unsupportable a basis as the racial classifications embodied in these statutes, classifications so directly subversive of the principle of equality at the heart of the Fourteenth Amendment, is surely to deprive all the State’s citizens of liberty without due process of law. The Fourteenth Amendment requires that the freedom of choice to marry not be restricted by invidious racial discriminations. Under our Constitution, the freedom to marry, or not to marry, a person of another race resides with the individual and cannot be infringed by the State.”—The 1967 Supreme Court ruled unanimously in Loving v. Virginia

“The secret to a happy marriage is if you can be at peace with someone within four walls, if you are content because the one you love is near to you, either upstairs or downstairs, or in the same room, and you feel that warmth that you don’t find very often, then that is what love is all about.”—Bruce Forsyth

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WANT TO READ MORE ABOUT “ELLIE AND JACKIE”?  CHECK OUT THE AUTHOR’S LATEST BOOK:  “THE FETUS CHRONICLES: PODCASTS FROM MY MISEDUCATED SELF” ON AMAZON!

WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR? CHECK OUT THE WEBSITE: www.eleanortomczyk.com

Birthday Anniversary Celebration 

REFERENCES

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/06/03/opinion/sunday/how-interracial-love-is-saving-america.html?mabReward=ACTM_TC4&recp=7&action=click&pgtype=Homepage&region=CColumn&module=Recommendation&src=rechp&WT.nav=RecEngine *

http://www.npr.org/sections/codeswitch/2017/05/18/528939766/five-fold-increase-in-interracial-marriages-50-years-after-they-became-legal

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 
8 Comments

Posted by on June 8, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , ,

TRUMP AND HIS CHRISTIAN FOOLS

Do you know what I discovered this week?  There are moles in the White House who are leaking pertinent information.  I know because they contacted me.  No, that’s not entirely accurate.  The White House moles contacted the Tomczyk moles who live in my lawn (of which there are scores), and gave them the straight poop on all the crazy shenanigans that #45 has been up to.  They say this president is going down! These moles can hear everything, because they are everywhere under the White House grounds, and they assured my mole peeps that Trump did “tape” Comey on several occasions. How’s that for a “deep state” scoop? Fox News thinks that Obama government hold-overs are the leakers in the White House, but it is actually insectivores.

TRUMP COMEY DINNER John Darkow Columbia Daily Tribune Missouri

Cartoon used by permission: John Darkow, Columbia Daily-Tribune, Missouri

The White House moles are true patriots and are Trump supporters (they tend to support whichever president occupies the White House), but they have become very concerned at the volatility of this particular president and the damage he is causing our democracy.  Several of the moles keeled over and fainted dead away when they heard him leak secret information to our enemies the Russians that had been told to our CIA in confidence by the Israelis.  (First of all, the White House Moles couldn’t believe that the Russians were invited into the Oval.  There are a large group of moles that have served under several presidents, and they had never, ever seen such egregious flaunting of security and boastful mishandling of top secret information.)

Trump spills the Beans Dave Granlund Politicalcartoons com

Cartoon used by permission: Dave Granlund, Politicalcartoons.com

Then there was the pulling together of that bogus letter to fire Comey.  The White House moles heard it all!  Things whispered in the dark and secretly taped… They weren’t fans of Comey’s, but they had heard the inside scoop between #45 and his body guard who later delivered the pink slip to the FBI.  When the news broke about Comey, the White House moles were deeply concerned, but when the White House spokespeople blatantly lied about why Comey was fired, the moles wondered whether they should speak up.

Muzzling Comey Marian Kamensky Austria

Cartoon used by permission: Marian Kamensky, Austria

Then the White House moles overheard a private conversation in the Oval between Trump and one of his loyal Evangelical supporters that greatly alarmed them.  The Evangelist was pledging his undying loyalty to Trump along with all his followers, and encouraging Trump to fight on—to never give up—because God was on his side.  The Evangelist said that any and all critics were the Anti-Christ and Trump was to ignore them.

The moles determined that a message needed to be leaked on social media to warn the country about what was going on in the White House and the crazed, religious bent of many of #45’s supporters, so they chose “Eleanor the Blogger” because of her long-standing, on-again-off-again relationship with the Virginia moles and the fact that she used to be one of those goose-stepping Christians (horrors!) to sound the alarm.  She wasn’t necessarily a fan of moles, but they knew her to be fair.  Below is what transpired.

***

This morning, when I went out to pick up the morning newspaper, I noticed a giant pile of leaves and debris on my front lawn.  “Goddamnit,” I said to myself.  “Those moles have been up to it again!”  When I began to stomp down on their tunnel, I noticed that a grungy manila envelope (marked:  From the White House Moles) lay just beneath the surface.  Upon opening the envelope, I found an old-fashioned tape recording and the picture of the Evangelist Jim Bakker—looking like Gollum with a white beard and a cross on a blue cap.  (Remember him of the Jim and Tammy Show [she with the runny mascara from crying all the time], and [he the convicted felon accused of raping a woman, paying her hush money, and misappropriating funds from his Christian village/theme park])?  He was convicted for 45 years and sent to prison, but got out after five years on a technicality.  At first he appeared to be a humbled and changed man.  Even wrote a book about how he was wrong about shaking down gullible people for his self-centered, greedy purposes.  But given what I heard from the tape delivered by the moles, he’s back and worse than ever.   Below is a transcript of the tape between Jim Bakker and President Trump that was delivered to my lawn by the White House Moles.

Jim BAKKER

Jim Bakker, convicted felon/evangelist/doomsday huckster

TRUMP:  Welcome, oh squirrely one.  Who are you that dares enter my presence unannounced?

BAKKER:  It’s me, your Royalness.  One of your poorly educated that you said you loved so much on the campaign trail.  I hail from Branson, Missouri.

TRUMP:  Oh, yeah!  Are you one of my Christians or one of my Heathens?

BAKKER:  Your Highness, I’m one of your best Bible-believing Christians.  In fact that is why I’m here.  God sent me here to tell you not to get discouraged.  You won this election because of all the good Christians who prayed and fasted for you, and then voted for you in droves.  God heard our prayers and put you in office.  If Hillary had won, God told me that it would mean He was judging the world for immature leadership.  In fact, I came here to specifically tell you that you should pay no never mind to your critics.  They are just haters from Hell.  *It seems like there is a hatred among peoples and this is satanic. This (hatred) is the White Horse of the Apocalypse. The White Horse of the Apocalypse is the first horse. It’s a horse of speech. It’s a horse of spirit. And the spirit of Antichrist is out now. This is what you’re seeing. You want to know what the Antichrist spirit looks like. That’s what’s going on in America. These people mocking the president. The words they use. The speech they use. That’s the spirit of Antichrist. That’s the spirit of hatred.*

TRUMP:  Oooooh, I knew my haters were bad.  Agents of the Devil, you say?  Part of the Apocalypse?  Epic!  God’s on my side?  Wait. I thought I was God.  Are you betraying me, my little uneducated one?

BAKKER:  Oh, no Master.  You are the one who will usher in the return of Jesus.  No matter who criticizes you, the Christians who voted for you will never, ever believe their lies.  We will never turn against you! We will fight for you until the end.

Poorly Educated Arts and politics from the armpit of America

TRUMP:  Can you believe how they treat me?  **No politician in history, and I say this with great surety, has been treated worse or more unfairly. * And did you hear that a special prosecutor has been appointed to mess with me?  They didn’t even consult me—they just up and did it.  Announced it to me thirty minutes before announcing it to the world. ***With all of the illegal acts that took place in the Clinton campaign & Obama Administration, there was never a special councel [sic] appointed! This is the single greatest witch hunt of a politician in American history!”*** This is America.  I should be able to do what I want—meet with the Russians, fire somebody, and grab women by their va-jay-jays.  I’m the President!

President Cartman RJ Matson Roll Call

Cartoon used by permission: RJ Matson, Roll Call

BAKKER:  Yes, your Holiness?

TRUMP:  So what do you do for a living, my loyal subject?

BAKKER:  I’m a leader in the “Prepper Movement.”  You remember, I sent you all my pamphlets.  I help the right kind of Christians (ones that think like me) prepare for the Apocalypse.  I have a show on TV (via DirecTV, Roku, Apple TV), and I sell food and goods for the End Times.  The end is fast approaching, my King.  You’ve got your tsunamis, your earthquakes, your financial meltdowns, your Zika virus, and most of all, you’ve got your ISIS and your homosexuals—all point to the End Times.  Obama was the Anti-Christ, as you know.  But don’t you be afraid because you’ll be saved in the Rapture, and you’ve been made President of the United States to hold back God’s wrath for a few years.  That’s where I come in.  It will be seven years of turmoil and then Jesus will take all the real Christians—including you, Oh Anointed One—right up to Heaven.  But you’ve got to stay alive until then.  That’s where I come in.   I sell enough goods through my TV show to keep you hanging out in your bunker until Jesus returns to rescue us.  (This is why Global Warming is a crock of shit—no need to worry about the Earth because Jesus is going to destroy it in seven years anyway, after we’re gone.)

Anyway, to keep you staying alive, I’ll sell you 14 totes full of black bean burger mix for $3,000; what I call Bakker’s Dozen Extreme Canteen Kit, including 13 packs of ponchos, thermal blankets, glow stick and whistles for $500; and my Survival Food Brick Monthly Club with 90 servings of food for $50 per month.  I’ll also sell you a solar-powered, “fuel-less” generator for $1,784, and a variety of mid-tech water bottles and hand-cranked ham radios for extra security.

Jim Bakker Survivalist Food

Snapshot of Jim Bakker’s Prepper Food++

TRUMP:  I only eat McDonald’s burgers, fries and Kentucky Fried chicken.  Got any of that freeze-dried in your seven year plan?

BAKKER:  No.  But you’ll love what we do have.  As you so famously say, “believe me!”  It is sooooooooo good!++  My advertising slogan is: “Imagine — the world is dying and you’re having a breakfast for kings!”

TRUMP:  Excellent!  As I’ve always said, the beauty of me is that I’m very rich, so I can afford your end-timey food.  By the way, how much for the snake oil?

***

INSPIRATIONAL “SELAH” (“AHA” MOMENT) ON “CHRISTIANS FOR TRUMP”

I am discovering that you can’t make this shit up.  There are no such things as undercover garden moles leaking me White House secrets, but there is a mad king in the White House and nutty Evangelicals supporting Trump’s every move.  In fact, they, along with their science-fiction fears, helped him gain the White House. The exact quotes of Trump and Bakker have been indicated by asterisks in my blog, and are tagged into the source material under “references” below.   One of the reasons the supporters of Trump will never believe the truth or stop following him (no matter how terrible he becomes) is because, for many of them, voting for him was a holy cause, and to admit that this president is the worst leader we’ve had since Andrew Johnson means that they were wrong, wrong, wrong in voting for him, and it would shake the very core of their faith in God and their literal interpretation of the Bible.  It would destroy them to the core.

++JUICY TIDBIT:  EVANGELIST’S JIM BAKKER’S FOOD WAS REVIEWED BY CASEY CHAN OF SPLOID AND CHEF GREG LAURO FROM BROOKLYN, NY WHICH CHEF LAURO PURCHASED AND PREPARED: “The food—which basically only requires the addition of hot water to cook—ends up being like beige slop and red vomit and liquid sludge. (Chef Greg) Lauro described the taste as ‘paper mache’ and ‘a bathroom at a bar at the end of the night in a college town’and ‘one of the worst things I’ve ever eaten in my life’ to describe the taste and smell of the food.”

***

LATEST BOOK BY AUTHOR:  The Fetus Chronicles: Podcasts from My Miseducated Self

AVAILABLE ON AMAZON NOW!

***

Witch Hunt David Fitzsimmons The Arizona Star

Cartoon used by permission: David Fitzsimmons, The Arizona Star

REFERENCES

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/05/15/opinion/trump-classified-data.html?action=click&pgtype=Homepage&clickSource=story-heading&module=opinion-c-col-right-region&region=opinion-c-col-right-region&WT.nav=opinion-c-col-right-region

*http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/jim-bakker-antichrist_us_59195cfbe4b0031e737ebff7

http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2017/05/16/trump-officials-on-comey-memo-dont-see-how-trump-isnt-completely-fcked

*http://www.newsweek.com/2016/04/08/televangelist-jim-bakker-back-440991.html

++http://www.npr.org/sections/thesalt/2015/12/03/456677535/apocalypse-chow-we-tried-televangelist-jim-bakkers-survival-food

*http://www.patheos.com/blogs/friendlyatheist/2017/01/25/televangelist-jim-bakker-donald-trumps-critics-even-the-republicans-look-demon-possessed/

***https://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/plum-line/wp/2017/05/18/trump-is-totally-delusional-about-whats-happening-to-him-right-now/?hpid=hp_no-name_opinion-card-b%3Ahomepage%2Fstory

**https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/2017/live-updates/trump-white-house/trump-comey-and-russia-how-key-washington-players-are-reacting/trump-says-no-president-has-been-treated-more-unfairly/

 
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Posted by on May 18, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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MOTHER’S DAY: “OY TO THE VEY!”

(RETOOLED FROM A MOTHER’S DAY POST PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR IN 2013, PREVIOUSLY ENTITLED: “MY CRAZY-ASS MOTHER”)

Do you know what I’ve discovered?   I could really do without Mother’s Day.  In fact, I pretty much hate the celebration.  It is not my fault—it’s God’s.  He could have arranged for me to be born as Michelle Obama and have her delightful mother and her life, or God could have delayed my birth and let me be one of Michelle and Barack’s kids.  I’d be so cute, rich, and smart right now—and man, my upper arms would be on the road to becoming spectacular like Michelle’s instead of flapping in the breeze like the morning wash hung out to dry. But noooooo!  God had to let me be born to a crazy woman who thought if she, ever so sweetly, ignored me (except when she was trying to kill me), that maybe somehow my sister and I would disappear before anybody noticed we belonged to her.

Mothers Day Favorite Peter Broelman Australia

Cartoon used by permission: Peter Broelman, Australia

I suspect my mother was paranoid-schizophrenic long before I was born, but she kept it well hidden until the hormones of menopausal, illegitimate pregnancies produced offspring who demanded to have a mother.  Children are self-centered like that.  They don’t give a shit what is going on in your life.  If you’re their mother, then you better damn well show up and do your job and being crazy is no excuse:

“Feed me, change me, hold me, love me, discipline me—goddamnit—or I’m going down to the nearest ne’er-do-well office and fill out an application to become the local (fill in the blank____________) thief, drug-addict, ‘ho, gangsta, self-centered brat—you name it.  Forewarned is forearmed, Mommie Dearest.”

There is an old adage that women end up emulating their mothers which scared the bejesus out of my sister, Pee-wee, and me.   We were always looking over our shoulders to see if the crazies were going to catch up with us.  We’re both in our sixties now and we’ve managed not to go insane (knock on wood), but we did so by tip-toeing past the graveyard of Mother’s Days lost and putting each other through a sanity check once or twice a year.

Turning into my mother Dan Piraro www bizzaro com

Cartoon used by permission: Dan Piraro, http://www.bizzaro.com

My sister and I would take each other’s mental temperature with questions about scenarios that once plagued our mother’s daily existence:

Are you talking to the wall, yet?”  (No, only to myself, but I try not to answer me or to talk to myself more than once a day!)

“Are you sewing extraneous pockets inside your sweaters and coats and stuffing them with stolen Saltine crackers, sugar packets, salt and pepper shakers, and anything not nailed down at the lunch counter of the Woolworths Five and Dime to prepare for Armageddon?” (No, but I must confess that I take home the little bottles of shampoo and conditioner from fancy hotels.  Does that count?)

“Do you make up conspiracy theories about the Russians trying to take control of your mind through radio waves?”  (No, although I must admit that I am starting to believe a conspiracy theory that since Trump got elected, I’ve been kidnapped by aliens, and I’m living in an alternate universe with alternate truths and an alternate reality.)

“Do you fantasize about killing your children in order to protect them from the “Russians” and white people”?  (No, but I did have copious dreams for years about me killing our mother after that time I invited her to the Girls’ Ensemble concert I was conducting at a church.)

The Girls’ Ensemble concert in 1976 was my last ditch effort to reestablish a relationship with my mother after having cut her out of my life for years.   Mommie Dearest hadn’t been in the concert for more than fifteen minutes before she got “agitated from being surrounded by too many white people” she said, and decided to accompany the Negro spiritual I was conducting [“God’s Gonna Rain Down Fire”] with her personal pyrotechnics.  She couldn’t understand why I didn’t understand that she was aiding God and me with the lighted matches she was throwing with trance-like abandonment into the audience’s hair.  I can still hear the curses of those poor white folks as they scattered like roaches swatting their heads while Security tried to subdue my crazy-ass mother.  I kept conducting the choir as if nothing crazy was happening—as if I didn’t know that woman.  I was too horrified to turn around and face the audience.  All I could do was sob like a hot mess while never missing a beat with my baton, hope the audience thought the crazy woman was related to the only other black person in the choir, and beg God to open up the ground and yank my mother down into the deepest hole in Hell.

 

Crazy Mother FB MEME

Every year, my sister and I have passed our own litmus tests, and we didn’t become paranoid-schizophrenic like our mother—thank God.   But one doesn’t rub elbows with that type of mother and come out unscathed.  Children of alcoholics, drug addicts, and mentally ill people either become like their parents or become the polar opposite. With all due respect, my sister Pee-wee is a control-freak and never had children. I overcompensated for my mother’s mental and physical abandonment by trying to be the perfect mom who was always up in my children’s grill, which almost drove my kids and me insane.  All children make mistakes and have to find their own way in life, no matter how inept or how great the mother.  Every stumble, every rebellion, and every mistake my children made I took as a personal rejection of my “shoddy” parenting, and I would just try harder.   My kids weren’t allowed to fuck up in life and that is a pressure no child can withstand, even if their hearts are in the right place to do the right thing. They love me dearly, and I them, but I’ve always felt that I could have done better by them by providing more clear-thinking advice about the pitfalls of life.  I have nightmares about the things I never had a chance to teach them before they flew the coop.  My secret horror is that they will be confronted with something in life and not have the life skills with which to overcome, and that lack, in turn, will fling them into the insanity of their grandmother.  When asked what keeps me awake at night about motherhood—this is it.

Good Mother FB

ELEANOR’S “SELAH” (“AHA”) MOMENT

I am discovering that I am cautiously falling in love with the memory of my crazy-ass mother and coming to the adult realization that she did the best she could, given her circumstances.   Mama has been dead for thirty-seven years now (died in her sleep on an Easter morning after singing in the church choir), and I’m just beginning to see her through the prism of a life destroyed by intrinsic racism, sexual abuse, and poverty.  As I interview people from my past to chronicle my mother’s all-consuming insanity for my memoirs, I am beginning to see a woman who was not too different from me in her aspirations, dreams, and talents.  The difference in my sanity and my mother’s insanity is that I found the true love of a man (she was summarily abandoned by my father and left to perish in poverty with two babies); the winds of history blew open the doors at just the right time for my intelligent mind to be educated and my talent to be cultivated beyond the aspirations of scrubbing White folks’ toilets (Mama was never allowed to go past high school and spent much of her life as a maid rather than an opera singer which was her dream).   I have traveled the world and lived extremely well (wasting more money on Broadway shows, travel, and gourmet meals than my mother made in her entire life as a servant).

Am I sane today in spite of my mother because I escaped ignorance and want?   Can I “get over” in life because I don’t have to live under an apartheid system as my mother did in the US?  Were my babies safe from my potential descent into madness because I had hope for tomorrow and didn’t have to worry about my children’s next meal?  Only God knows.  But one thing is for sure—I no longer judge my mother for the pain I endured as a child.  Besides, it has made me who I am and given me a riotous sense of humor.  I am truly coming to love and understand the woman who gave me life.   From the conversations I’ve had recently with my grown children, it seems as if they are affording me the same grace.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, MAMA!

Mom Dysfunction

INSPIRATIONAL QUOTE ABOUT MOTHERHOOD

“Mothers are all slightly insane.”—J. D. Salinger

“Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we’ve ever met.”― Marguerite Duras

“When your mother asks, ‘Do you want a piece of advice?’ it’s a mere formality. It doesn’t matter if you answer yes or no. You’re going to get it anyway.”― Erma Bombeck

“Through the blur, I wondered if I was alone or if other parents felt the same way I did—that everything involving our children was painful in some way. The emotions, whether they were joy, sorrow, love or pride, were so deep and sharp that in the end they left you raw, exposed and yes, in pain. The human heart was not designed to beat outside the human body and yet, each child represented just that—a parent’s heart bared, beating forever outside its chest.”― Debra Ginsberg

Mothers Day IV Nate Beeler The Columbus Dispatch

Cartoon used by permission: Nate Beeler, The Columbus Dispatch

****

BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR ON SALE NOW AT AMAZON!

THE FETUS CHRONICLES: PODCASTS FROM MY MISEDUCATED SELF

“Eleanor Tomczyk’s latest book shares deep insights and absurdly hilarious moments Tomczyk has collected from her life. She presents her unique humor and perspective through a fantastic conceit: podcasts to her unborn self.

“Tomczyk’s voice and cutting commentary travel back through the decades and into the womb. She’s here to tell her baby self all the things she should know about the world and all the lessons she will learn.

“Eleanor L. Tomczyk advises her fetus self on everything from the dangers of douching to the use of words as deadly weapons. Special podcast guest stars range from Tomczyk’s Aunt Lily—“Church Lady Extraordinaire”—to her own eyes and other body parts. When her children follow the “Little Barbarian Manifesto,” and her own organs start reminding her about the passing of time, all the reader can do is laugh out loud.”

MONSTERS’ THROWDOWN

FLEEING OZ

****

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 
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Posted by on May 9, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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KINDLE LAUNCH of “THE FETUS CHRONICLES”

Do you know what I discovered today?   Amazon just launched the Kindle version of my new book:  The Fetus Chronicles: Podcasts from My Miseducated Self.

   IT’S ON SALE NOW AT AMAZON!

CHAPTER SNEAK PEAK:  SEE BELOW!

Front Cover

Kindle Book Cover of “The Fetus Chronicles”

I’m so excited that I decided to share one of the podcasts from the book.  Please note that the entire book is an absurdist theater piece (based on true events) about a weekly podcast to an audience of one—my fetus self.  The podcast segments (replete with imaginary commercials) are commentaries about my adventures as a Black woman and the gnarliness of life—covering everything from women in the workforce, shame, date rape, colonoscopies, menopausal sex, rearing children, betrayal of friends to fear of growing old and dying.  All the stories actually happened (or are happening) to me at one time or another.  Enjoy!

IMP. NOTE:  There is a reference to the Little Barbarian Manifesto in the excerpt below, which is explained in a previous chapter of the book.  It simply means:  A terrorist guide that all babies (especially First World babies) come to the Earth with, that instructs them on how to “get over” on their parents and claim sovereignty over their home turf.  In this chapter, the story is about my younger child.  The previous chapter in my book is about her older sister—both enthusiastic adherents to the Little Barbarian Manifesto.

***

PODCAST #18

 (EXCERPT FROM THE FETUS CHRONICLES)

This is The Fetus Chronicles—“You in Trouble, Girl” Podcast Hour.  I’m your host, Eleanor T, and today’s episode is brought to you by the late Dr. Benjamin Spock from the grave—“Forget most of what I told you in the ‘Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care;’ just do the best you can because it’s all a crap shoot, anyway.”

***

Hey Girl!  How’s everything down under?  You should be about the size of the head of endive (about 12.7 ounces) by now since you’re twenty-one weeks old.  I read somewhere that you can bat your eyes just for the hell of it, and you’re sipping on cocktails of your own amniotic fluid, the taste of which is unimaginable, since I haven’t a clue what your mother is eating these days.  So, good luck with that.  According to Google, at least you can start to body surf at this stage, which must be pretty cool.

Anyway, Darling, I promised you last week that I would finish the story of our parenting characters: The Mother, The Father, Baby number one and Baby number two who have all settled down into becoming the perfect family…

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Children of author, 1985 (ages 1 and 3)||Photo credit: Eleanor Tomczyk

 

Looking back, The Parents suspect Baby Number Two came to the Earth with the Little Barbarian Manifesto well in hand also, but she was slow to engage in the battle to bring down the reigning parental government which threw them off their game.  However, when she declared war, she could have written the book on passive-aggressive warfare.

Baby-girl didn’t talk for the longest time—just stared at the faces of others for hours on end as if to ascertain whether they were friend or foe, intelligent or stupid, good or bad.  (Once at a mall when she was ten months old, she stared so intently at a group of teenagers that they fled the mall in terror, screaming about the scary baby who kept following them with her demon eyes.)  When Baby-girl did talk, it was in complete, adult sentences with the potential to have international repercussions.  Once when The Parents were having a discourse over when there would ever be peace in the Middle East, the then three-year-old with a slight lisp chimed in at the appropriate lull in the conversation and said, “If ju askth me—if ju really want to know what to do ‘bout middie eest—I tell ju.”

It was downhill from there.  At three years old, the younger child announced that she was never, ever going to take a nap again once she discovered that her five-year-old kindergarten sister no longer needed a nap. She advised her parents that if they ignored her wishes and they put her down to nap, they did so at their own peril. Instead of wailing for hours like her older sister did and causing a huge scene that could be heard a block away, Baby-girl would bide her time, pretend to go to sleep, and when The Parents were otherwise occupied would sneak out of her bed and crawl into a hiding place that gave her full access to the family’s conversations but would keep her hidden for hours.  She would occupy herself by quietly drawing low-level permanent marker murals along the hallway’s crème-colored walls while holding the markers in the hand of her favorite doll (Sarah Finney).  Of course she was eventually caught—multiple times.  But each time she would swear on a stack of kid Bibles that it was Sarah Finney, the doll, who had encouraged her to escape her bed, and it was definitely Sarah Finney who had drawn the graffiti on the walls.  (Technically, she was right:  Baby-girl had wrapped the hands of the doll around the markers before taking hold of them both and drawing her masterpieces with abandonment.)

When it came to potty-training, that chapter in the Little Barbarian Manifesto must have been a doozy, because the war was on with Baby-girl when it became her time to be trained.

“It’s time to stop wearing diapers, Sweet Pea.  Here’s your new little kids’ toilet in your favorite color that plays music every time you leave a present of a “winkle” or a “poo-poo patty” in it.  Are you ready?  Isn’t this EXCITING?”

“Okay!”

Nothing happened.

IMG_1118 (1)

Daughter of author, 1986||Photo credit: J. Tomczyk

“Hey, Baby-girl—what’s goin’ on?  Don’t you want to be a big girl like your sister and wear panties?”

“No, can’t say that I do… I hate panties—I really, really like diapers.”

“Then why did you agree to sit on your new toilet today?”

“It’s a nice place to cuddle with Sarah Finney.”

“Oh for Pete’s sake.  I tell you what: How about an M&M every time you do #1 and two M&M’s when you do #2?  You love M&M’s right?” said the mother who had plagiarized the idea from one of the gazillion parenting magazine that assaulted the mailbox every week.

“Hum… how ‘bout three MM’s fo’ #1 and… and… ten, twenty MM’s fo’ #2?”

“Are you shittin’ me—sorry, Baby, excuse my French?  Why the giant wage increase?”

“#2 is super hard—need lots more MMs!”

There was a labor dispute right in the middle of the bathroom that lasted thirty minutes.  The child let out a thimble full of pee, demanded her payment of three M&M’s which the frustrated mother gave into—after all, a bargain is a bargain.  The child immediately got off the toilet and proceeded to saunter butt-naked back into the playroom, sat down on the playroom rug, and promptly peed a week’s worth of urine all over the rug and started to grunt out a poop about the size that a forty-year-old man would produce.

“No, no, no.  I’m the parent here,” screamed The Mother, as she grabbed the baby militant and plopped her naked behind back on the potty-chair.

“Listen Missy, I can tell when I’m being played.  It is time to be potty-trained and that is that.  You are going to sit here until that poop that I can actually see halfway poking out of your butt plops into the toilet and we make some progress. ‘Capiche’”?

An hour passed.

K and C

Children of author, 1984||Photo credit: J. Tomczyk

“What’s happening here?  Where is the poop that was visibly poking out of your behind a little while ago?”

“I push it back inside with my fingers.  Can I have 10 MM’s anyway?”

(This was soon discovered by The Parents to be a ruse of their Little Barbarian:  Baby-girl would squeeze out the smallest deposit of urine to get the candy reward and then subsequently drop a grown man’s equivalent of a shit brick into her diaper while quietly playing with Sarah Finney off in a corner somewhere some ten minutes after leaving her potty-chair.)

“Oh for Pete’s sake!  You are way overdo to be potty-trained.  All your friends are trained.  The other mothers are looking at me like I’m an unfit mommy.  Come on kid—help a mother out.  Besides, if you can negotiate like a fifty-year-old lawyer, you can learn to go to the toilet, ‘tout de suite.’”

“Nope! No way, Jose.”

“Come on, Sweetie, you don’t want to be a baby forever, do you?  Don’t you want to grow up and be a big girl?”

“No!  I’m okay being the baby.  It works for me.”

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Husband and daughters of author, 1984||Photo credit: Eleanor Tomczyk

 

The Mother and The Father were never, ever able to potty-train Baby-girl. I am convinced that there is a chapter in the Little Barbarian Manifesto that says:

“Comrade, it is very important if your older sibling does not break The Parents through sheer dominance, then the ball is in your court to wear them down through a full-court press of guerilla warfare.  Initially acquiesce to whatever they ask you to do so that it looks as if you are the compliant child, and then never, ever do what you promised.  This will work throughout your childhood covering your homework assignments, cleaning up hardened nail polish off the wooden floor of your bedroom, cleaning your room that will stay steeped in knee-deep dirty clothes until you’re an adult, or emptying the dishwasher.”

The Parents cajoled, they pleaded, they threatened, they cried, and finally gave up on ever potty-training their second child until a very wise old woman told them to lighten up because she had never seen a twenty-one year old wearing a diaper who wasn’t medically impaired.  The M&M strategy did nothing for the potty-training process except turn Baby-girl into a life-long candy junkie because by the time she was finally potty-trained (by her five-year-old sister over a ten-minute span), the parental bribe was up to fifteen M&M’s for #1 and thirty-five M&M’s for #2—paid in two installments, due to the size of the teensy-weenie’s hands.

The Parents should have known that they were no match for Baby-girl and that she had an updated copy of the Little Barbarian Manifesto, when one day she was enjoying her afternoon respite watching Sesame Street while cuddling with her mother when Kermit the Frog started singing his trademark song, “It’s not easy being green.”  The Mother was touched by the sweetness of the song, but the chubby, bi-racial toddler yanked the sippy-cup out of her mouth, pointed it at the TV screen in warrior-like defiance, and promptly announced to Kermit:  “Yeah right, Frog!  You think it not easy bein’ green?  You should try bein’ light brown!”

HEAD SHOT LATEST

Author, Eleanor Tomczyk||Photo credit: J. Tomczyk

 

Well, would you look at the time, Fetus-self?  I haven’t even told you why I’m telling you this story about having kids.  There is a method to my madness.  Except, I can’t even begin to go into all of that at this late hour.  Besides, I’ve yet to tell you about the War of the Worlds between Baby-girl and her sister.  Stay tuned.

Until next week:  Keep calm, stay focused, and grow bigger!

KINDLE: “THE FETUS CHRONICLES” ON SALE NOW ON AMAZON!

PAPERBACK AND KINDLE EDITIONS

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 
3 Comments

Posted by on May 4, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: ,

MAJOR ANNOUNCEMENT: MY THIRD CHILD HAS BEEN BORN!

WELL, FOLKS, THE OLD BROAD DID IT!  My third book has arrived!

AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK AT AMAZON TODAY!

(Kindle copy to be released in two weeks)

TA-DAH!

Front Cover

FRONT COVER

 AMAZON EDITORIAL REVIEW

With The Fetus Chronicles, writer and humorist Eleanor L. Tomczyk completes the trilogy she started with Monsters’ Throwdown and Fleeing Oz. Her latest book shares deep insights and absurdly hilarious moments Tomczyk has collected from her life. She presents her unique humor and perspective through a fantastic conceit: podcasts to her unborn self.

Tomczyk’s voice and cutting commentary travel back through the decades and into the womb. She’s here to tell her baby self all the things she should know about the world and all the lessons she will learn.

Eleanor L. Tomczyk advises her fetus self on everything from the dangers of douching to the use of words as deadly weapons. Special podcast guest stars range from Tomczyk’s Aunt Lily—“Church Lady Extraordinaire”—to her own eyes and other body parts. When her children follow the “Little Barbarian Manifesto,” and her own organs start reminding her about the passing of time, all the reader can do is laugh out loud.

Ms. Tomczyk speaks to her past self as a Black woman, a proud (if sometimes out-of-her-depth) mother, a wise teacher, a jaded baby boomer, and the many other identities she has adopted during her storied life.

Back Cover

Back Cover: “The Fetus Chronicles”

EARLY REVIEWS

“This book has got to be the best book I have ever read, with the exception of the Bible.  However, I do not recall much humor in the Bible. In the conversations with the author’s self, The Fetus Chronicles is a collection of essays that are depicted with sadness, life’s purpose, life’s challenges, hope, and life’s lessons along the way that make an individual put up or shut up, and realize we are all put on the Earth for a purpose—all while done with such humor, laugh out loud instances, and even “Aha” moments. The humor is to die for.”J.A.

“I think that the author dealt with an uncomfortable subject of growing old with a balance of sobriety and humor.  This is a very difficult task to achieve, and all I can say is “kudos!”  Another proof of the author’s strength and tenacity.”—D.L.

“I really liked the premise of the author talking to her unborn self.  It was easy to pick up, read and entry or two, and pick up again later.  If one wanted to, one could even jump around vs. reading straight through.  I loved all the “products” that sponsored each podcast.”—K.F.

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PLEASE RUN—DON’T DALLY—TO PURCHASE A COPY OF “THE FETUS CHRONICLES” FROM AMAZON

IF YOU LOVE MY NEW BOOK—PLEASE TAKE THE TIME TO WRITE A REVIEW AND POST ON AMAZON.

IF YOU DON’T LIKE “THE FETUS CHRONICLES,” MY NAME IS “CRIDDLE SMEGOFF.” 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

 

 

 
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Posted by on April 25, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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HAMILTON, THE MUSICAL

Do you know what I discovered last week?  Every once and awhile, God answers one of my begging, pleading, nagging prayers:  Last week God answered two of them.  I got to go to NYC and see, Hamilton: An American Musical (Yeah, Baby!), and Bill O’Reilly got kicked out of Fox News on his ass along with his sicko buddy Roger Ailes.   Buh, bye boys! 

OReilly and Ailes Steve SackThe Minneapolis Star Tribune

Cartoon used by permission: Steve Sack, The Minneapolis Star-Tribune

But enough of that slimy, arrogant, racist, misogynistic, lying piece of shit—O’Reilly—and “hello” to a hero and a scholar:  ALEXANDER HAMILTON!  (You know, that dude on the ten-dollar bill, one of the founding fathers of the United States, one of the main authors of the Federalist Papers, and our first Secretary of the Treasury.)

Playbill_from_the_original_Broadway_production_of_Hamilton

By Source (WP:NFCC#4), Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=47271664

So I bet you’re wondering, how did this old woman get so lucky?  Well, as the kids would say, “This is what had happened”:

SOME TIMES PRAYERS DO GET ANSWERED AND DREAMS DO COME TRUE

By the author, ET

**A REVIEW**

Once upon a time there was an old woman who transitioned into retirement the same month a phenomenon was being born on Broadway and tickets into Heaven were easier to get than those to Hamilton.  The Woman hadn’t yearned to see a Broadway show as much as this since Les Miz.  But, alas, alack, The Man she was married to turned a deaf ear to her machinations to ransom their first born child in order to procure tickets.  His only response:  “If we weren’t moving—maybe—but we now live on a budget (fixed income/income fixed: say it frontwards and backwards, they both mean the same thing), and tickets to Hamilton are not an option.” 

The Woman (who never takes “no” for an answer), while beseeching her God to strike Donald Trump with a lightning bolt and crater Fox News with an earthquake, snuck in a teensy-weenie prayer that he would change her husband’s heart about tickets to the musical Hamilton before Christ’s return.  No answer.

In the meantime, The Woman assuaged her disappointment at not seeing the musical by reading Ron Chernow’s bestseller, Alexander Hamilton (the book the musical is based upon) and listening to and memorizing every song on the cast recording of Hamilton.

Alexander Hamilton Chernow

Book cover of Alexander Hamilton/Amazon.com

A year went by as The Man and The Woman settled into retirement and began to travel more. It was at that point that The Woman began to get hints that Her God might be answering her prayers about Hamilton.  A short time later, and quite by accident, The Woman and The Man ended up on St. Kitts on an old sugar cane plantation train traversing the island that overlooked the birthplace of Alexander Hamilton: Charlestown, Nevis. 

Alexander Hamilton Birthplace

By Daniel Farrell – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=13565315

“The current structure was rebuilt from the ruins of the house where Alexander Hamilton was born and lived as a young child.”Wikipedia

As The Woman engaged in excited, hyperbolic pontifications to a fellow traveler sitting next to her about the history of Hamilton, her longing to see the musical before she died, and what a fantastic work of history Ron Chernow’s book is, The Woman encountered (unbeknownst to her) her first Trump supporter in the flesh.  The Trump Supporter from Pennsylvania had never heard of the musical (horrors!) or the history book by Chernow (double horrors!!).  In fact, The Trump Supporter confessed her lifelong disdain for history until she started reading Bill O’Reilly’s (of Fox News) five historical books about Lincoln, Kennedy, Jesus, Patton, and Reagan (quadruple horrors!!!!).  The Trump Supporter asked The Woman if she had read those “wonderful works of history?”  The Woman went all Alec Baldwin on her—forgot her traveling manners—as she declared that if the books O’Reilly wrote were considered “history,” then she was a direct descendant of Alexander Hamilton, and that O’Reilly’s books had been trashed by the critics as a bunch of crap. Then The Woman topped the cake with icing by stating:  “Anyone who reads O’Reilly’s historical messes as truth is an idiot.  Needless to say, The Trump Supporter was not amused, turned her back on The Woman while she demanded that her husband tell the “two queers” in front of the train window to move so that she could get a picture of Hamilton’s island home.

I should have realized at that moment something was afoot:  O’Reilly and Alexander Hamilton in the same breath, on a slave train, in a tropical island?  God was on the move—I could feel it.

Even Vice President Pence got to see the musical “Hamilton” and got schooled by the Hamilton cast during the curtain call.  Yes!  And his daddy (Trump) got pissed and demanded an apology from the cast.  (Never!!) Everyone was getting to see Hamilton except me.  Where was the love, The Woman asked The Man and Her God?

Trump vs Hamilton Bob Englehart CagleCartoons com

Cartoon used by permission: Bob Englehart CagleCartoons.com

Then Christmas 2016 came.  The Woman’s present was the last one to be opened.  In a box that looked as if it held a new Cuisinart, the woman dug deep and pulled out an envelope:  Two tickets to Hamilton for April 2017—“Merry Christmas, Baby, Love ‘White and Wonderful!’”

It appears that The Man had been working, searching, planning, saving, and doing everything in his power to bless the love of his life with tickets to Hamilton.  He had bought the tickets over a year ago and kept it a secret from The Woman.  The Woman damn near fainted in front of the Christmas tree, as she reminded her children that this was one of the reasons she had married their father—this was the way love rolled!

Last week, The Man and Woman went off to New York City to see the show of a lifetime.  Few things ever, ever meet up to one’s expectations, but Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton surpassed The Woman’s greatest expectations!  It didn’t matter that Mr. Miranda was no longer starring in this phenomenon, because the replacement cast was equal (and in a couple of cases) better than the original cast.  The night The Woman and The Man saw the show, Brian D’Arcy James (of “13 Reasons Why” of Netflix fame and the original King George III during Hamilton’s workshop days), and James Monroe Iglehart (the genie from Broadway’s Aladdin) made their debuts in Hamilton and brought down the house.  From the moment the cast started the opening number, and the Aaron Burr character sang his opening line, chills spread up and down The Woman’s body and she and her man were transported to heaven:

“How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a

Scotsman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten

Spot in the Caribbean by providence, impoverished, in squalor,

Grow up to be a hero and a scholar?”

Lyrics, “Hamilton” by Lin-Manuel Miranda

The Woman sent a message back to all her family, friends and fans that night:  “Do whatever you have to do to see the musical, Hamilton.  The hype is no exaggeration.  The script is outstanding, the singing is superb, the choreography is brilliant, and the message is transformational.  Beg, borrow, steal (do the time [just kidding], oh hell, it would be worth it!), but you must see this show.  It will change your life!  Lin-Manuel Miranda is a genius.

Hamilton

Photo credit:  Eleanor Tomczyk

INSPIRATIONAL “SELAH” (“AHA” MOMENT) BY ELEANOR TOMCZYK

I am discovering that prayers do get answered.  While I was in NYC seeing Hamilton, O’Reilly’s career was destroyed.  I can’t tell you how many petitions I’ve signed to have that man removed from the airwaves and how many prayers I’ve uttered to have his influence eradicated.  I was horrified when I met that Trump Supporter in the West Indies—horrified at the stupidity she embraced based on a stupid man’s lies that she believed to be truth.

On the other hand, I was enthralled by the brilliance of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s awesome rendition of one of our forefathers’ stories.  It reminded me that we are a nation of immigrants (Miranda, himself, is the son of Puerto Rican immigrants) inspired by God to do great things.  And although it looks as if we are living in the gutter right now under the reign of a tyrant king, we once “turned the world upside down” as Lin-Manuel’s lyric says and did the impossible by overthrowing a stupid king and building a great nation that cannot easily be destroyed.  I saw Hamilton and I came away inspired and strengthened in faith that God is hearing my prayers for the immigrant, the disenfranchised, and the powerless.

Killing OReillys Career David Fitzsimmons The Arizona Star

Cartoon used by permission: David Fitzsimmons, The Arizona Star

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INSPIRTATION ALEXANDER HAMILTON QUOTES

“Why has government been instituted at all? Because the passions of man will not conform to the dictates of reason and justice without constraint.”—Alexander Hamilton

 “The voice of the people has been said to be the voice of God; and, however generally this maxim has been quoted and believed, it is not true to fact. The people are turbulent and changing, they seldom judge or determine right.”Alexander Hamilton

“There are seasons in every country when noise and impudence pass current for worth; and in popular commotions especially, the clamors of interested and factious men are often mistaken for patriotism.”Alexander Hamilton

QUOTES COURTESY OF www.brainyquote.com

Political Discourse David Fitzsimmons The Arizona Star

Cartoon used by permission: David Fitzsimmons, The Arizona Star

REFERENCES

https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2016/nov/05/why-hamilton-is-making-musical-history

http://www.broadwayworld.com/article/Non-Stop-James-Monroe-Iglehart-and-Brian-DArcy-James-Join-the-Broadway-Cast-of-HAMILTON-Tonight-20170414

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

 
11 Comments

Posted by on April 23, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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