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A while back, I ordered a pair of ladies' palazzo pants from Amazon, and, as you may know, they ask for a review. I sent them a favorable one since I like the pants. They look, fit, and feel great. Then a few days ago, a lady Amazon customer writes to ask me if the inseam would work for her "curvy 5"10" figure." So, I dutifully measured the inseam and sent her the measurements along with the comment that I thought the pants would work fine for her. I did have to add that they work for my 6' non-curvy male body. Now she has written back to tell me that my comments were helpful. I am finding this whole episode somewhat amusing. Now,I wonder if I'll be asked to give any more advice. LOL

ROFLMAO!! Michelle... your wife, Monica's Mum and my Mum musta all been cut from the same cloth. Like Monica's Mum, mine also IRONED. EVERY. THING. Sheets, towels, UNDERWEAR. EVERYthing! If it came out of the washer, it got ironed. I will admit though, that she stopped ironing sheets after she started buying "permanent press" sheets. I had decided it was just a woman thing until today when I read that Monica is content to fold or hang straight outta the dryer. I think because of my Mum (she made my brother and I iron occassionally), I hate to iron and will iron nothing except my button-up shirts. For some reason, I gotta have them looking neat, crisp and spiffy. 😊 Maybe a touch of OCD....

This one is long so You'll need some time to read it all. I grew up in a small area. The town I originally lived in has less than 300 people. Well technically I didn't live in town I lived in the country, but screw semantics. I don't know why, but I was the one the family hated. I'm not exaggerating when I say hated. They reminded me daily how much they hated me. The first thing I remember about the abuse is my uncle. When I was 2, and still in diapers, he threw me into an above ground pool and said "Swim or die" before he walked away. I don't remember how I got out of the pool, but when I did I went to my father crying. He hit me in the head with a board for, as he put it, "being a (euphemism for a vagina)". I woke up there in the dog house a day or so later. Our dog had dragged me in there to clean me up and protect me. He was a violent drunk that only cared about where he was getting his next drink. He would regularly beat me just for fun. I had black eyes, the occasional broken bone. I also had times when they would lock me in my room for a few days and not give me any food or water. I didn't need it since I could drink my urine and eat my excrement. I never did either, so I almost died. But it was all standard. My brother and sister however, walked on water. Everyone everywhere loved them. Even my own in-laws love my brother. They hate me, but love him. They have asked when his birthday is so they can send him a card or something, but won't even say happy birthday to me. Mine was a week ago and they didn't even acknowledge my existence. But back to the reason for this blog. We moved from that town to a bigger one (roughly 15k people) before I started school. My first day of kindergarten I got all my stuff in my backpack, and started to leave for the bus stop. I was already scared, but my father made it worse. Aside from his verbal assault, he literally kicked me down the front steps of the house. There were 6 stone steps. I had to go to school like that. Bloody and scratched up. Apparently my parents (and I use the term EXTREMELY loosely) had called the school and told them that I may look rough when I got there because the cat had attacked me, but I had wanted to go to school anyway. We didn't have a cat. When I got there, the kids looked at me, and almost all of them got this look of disgust and hate on their faces. I didn't know what I had done. The teacher looked at me and said it was about time I got my lazy *** to school. Fast forward 2 years to second grade. Mrs Rosentrater. My second grade teacher had a special hatred for me. I never understood her. She made up stories about me and not only told them to adults, but to the students as well. If I was wiggling my foot, it meant I had "problems". She made me sit in a box for 2 weeks. After 2 weeks she would try to tell me it had only been one week and very loudly call me stupid. I eventually started skipping school and vandalizing the teachers cars and school property. I retaliated like that. I was never officially caught, but they all knew it was me. I made it thru 3rd and 4th grade pretty normal. Daily beatings by sperm donor(dad) verbal assault by egg donor(mom). Nothing out of the ordinary. 5th grade comes along. We get a new principal. Dana Mogar. She hated me more than Satan. I actually heard her one day say that she "wanted any excuse to screw him over". Her exact words. If I burped I was distracting the other students and offending them. 3 day suspension. I was in lunch one day and this black student that always bullied me something fierce was on me. I ignored him as best I could. After lunch we always walked out to the playground. He kept tackling me as I walked. I got called into the office. The students had told the teacher that I was attacking HIM. Also that I had told another black kid to "get a rag and wipe the mud off his face" and that I was calling them both the N word. I went ballistic. My egg donor was called in. She eventually asked her if she could spank me. The egg donor said go for it. I grabbed a letter opener and said "If you try I'll blanking kill you". She looked at me and asked me if I was crazy. I just said "try me b****". 2 week suspension. I looked up where she lived. I slashed her tires, burned down a shed, and killed her dogs. After that I got sadistic. I also went for as many students as I could find. If I had been caught I would have been I juvee until I turned 21. Mogar also followed me through 3 schools. At home is where it was bad though. My sperm donor beat me unconscious while my egg donor cheered him on. They had divorced a few years prior, but still agreed on how to raise me. A fist was the best way. Beat me into submission and false confessions. The verbal assault from my egg donor was fairly normal. The one that stuck with me the most was when I was 8. She looked me dead in the eye and said "I wish I had aborted you". The other things she said several times on a daily basis was that I "wasn't worth S-word", "No one would ever love me", "You'll never amount to S-word", and so much more. I can't tell you how many times I stood by her bed in the middle of the night holding a butcher knife, staring at her, and daring myself to do it. I eventually decided that the physical beatings were more desirable than the verbal ones, so I moved in with my sperm donor, which proved to be an almost fatal choice. I was 12 when I moved in with him which also meant changing school districts. The beatings were daily now and multiple times per day. This was when I started sleeping with a loaded rifle in my hands. I was a lot bigger than the other kids. After the beatings at home I was also a lot meaner. The first day they were all afraid of me. On through out 8th grade I was suspended regularly for beating the ever living hell out of any student who got under my skin, male or female. I guess this is what caused the entire school to hate me. High school wasn't any better. I stayed to myself, and did what I could for my grades. Mostly D's and a few C's. I've never been a good student. It doesn't matter what it is. Something I want to teach myself, or learn somewhere else. Sophomore year rolls around. My Freshman math teacher told me I should have been in algebra. She actually liked me for some wild reason. I got an A+ in basic math. I was beyond shocked there. So I decided to take algebra sophomore year. I understood nothing. The problems we were give were things like (x-3)y solve for y. How the hell am I supposed to know what Y is!? There's a huge gap of information there! So I failed miserably. But the bad thing is that the teacher would call my house every single night and talk to my sperm donor. Even if I had my bedroom door locked, he'd break the door down, and beat me until his fist was tired. Even if I was unconscious he would still be beating me. Finally I picked up the phone one night when she called. She asked for him. I threatened her life and that of her family if she didn't stop calling. I told her the results of her calls, and that I didn't need that poop, before slamming the phone down. The next day in class as I was walking into the room, she flagged me over to her desk. I walked up to her, and she told me she didn't like what I had said to her. I told her I didn't like her causing me to get the poop beaten out of me. She asked me what I was talking about. I opened my shirt and she saw the damage. My father rarely went for the face. It was easier to hide it in the hair or under a shirt. I told her to keep her mouth shut or I would get it even worse. At semester, I dropped her class. Fast forward to 16. I got a job as a cook at Pizza Hut. It was my first real job. The pay sucked, and the hours sucked. But hey it was putting a few bucks in my pocket every 2 weeks. I never told my sperm donor when I was paid or how much. He would have forced every penny out of me. He had a new reason for beating me now. I wasn't home after school to take care of his horses or calves. He expected me to do both. Since I wasn't able, the fists and boards came. My first real girlfriend was a girl I met at Pizza Hut. She was a waitress named Beth. Which at the time was a little creepy since my sister's name is Beth. She was virtually obsessed with oral sex. Which made my father extremely angry that I was with a girl and he wasn't. She ended up taking my virginity, which actually made things even worse. If we were in my room with the door closed, he would often break it down to see what we were doing. Whether we were having sex, playing video games, taking a nap, or just sitting and talking didn't matter. He had to know. Eventually after about 6 months we broke up. Fast forward to summer after I turned 17. I made the absolute worst mistake of my life. I enlisted in the Marines. I had wanted to be a Marine since I was 5. The movie Full Metal Jacket was what made the choice for me. I would have shipped out right then, but they said I couldn't until after I turned 18. So I was in DEP for a year. My sperm donor told both me and the recruiters there was no way I was going to make it. That they were stupid for recruiting me, that I was too much of a (euphemism for vagina) to do it, etc. When I got home, he took to beating me for "disgracing the United States military". He was a Vietnam Navy vet. Which meant he was God apparently. He was right about me and the military. 2 weeks shy of graduation I was given an entry level separation. I failed at the only thing in my life I had ever wanted. That was when I knew that everything my egg donor had ever said to me was true. That I was truly completely and utterly worthless. I came home with my head down and a lifetime of shame to look forward to. My pride was destroyed. Any self worth I had had previously was gone, never to return. The beating I got was one of the worst. I did fight him off once though. He told me that if I ever pulled a knife on him he would kill me. I told him he wasn't ever gonna grab me again. He came at me and I cracked him in the face with a shovel. Then I DID put a knife to his throat and threatened to KILL HIM right then and there. He didn't respond. A day and a half later I decided to look for a job. I stopped by his room, and for a reason I still can't find, told him I loved him. He looked at me and said "I don't. You're a waste of a human being." I turned around and left. What else could I have expected. So I went looking for work, turned in some applications and a couple resumes. I came home and he wasn't anywhere to be found. Not anywhere in the house, not in his shop, no where. The truck was still there. So if he had left he had gone with someone else. I got back in my truck and left. About a mile from the house something just didn't feel right. So I turned around and went home. I looked around again, and looked over the gate to the barn lot and saw a blue shirt in front of the door. I hopped the gate and went over to it. It was just the shirt he had been wearing earlier. I was about to turn around, and suddenly there he was. In the shirt. Dead. It was surreal at first. I went into the house, sat down on the couch and told my grandmother he was dead. She didn't believe me. I told her I wouldn't joke about something like that. From there I went back to the barn lot. All I could think was that it was finally over. No more beatings. No more being labeled a (euphemism for a vagina). I was free. From there I don't remember anything. I know I was blamed for it. There was a hell of a lot of "What did you do" and "Why did you do this" from everyone. There was one person, I don't remember who, that tried to get me arrested for the murder of him. The cops didn't since it obviously wasn't homicide. According to the coroner it was a massive heart attack. I didn't care. I was just happy he was finally dead. The blog My Story will tell you what happened next. I've been to his grave a few times. The last time I was there, I emptied my .38 at his tombstone. It's hard to put into words why, but I'm sure a lot of you will instinctively know why. If I ever go back, I'm sure I'll do the same. The only reason I would go back is to visit my grandmothers grave. Which is unfortunately very close to my sperm donor's grave. These days I refuse to have anything to do with anyone I share the slightest bit of DNA with. None of them know how to find me. No phone number, email, home address, social media, website, nothing. And I will keep it that way forever. They didn't want me when they had the chance, they don't get me now that they have squandered that chance. My only hope is that my egg donor is dead also.

Dear Blackangel and Emma, Rejoice that you both not only survived, but THRIVED. Am sorry that such people could be allowed to become parents. Sadly, this is much more common than people want to acknowledge. Blackangel, I beg you to get counseling about this, as these people still seem to have a lot of control over you. Your friend, Monica