Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Christmas Blues? Think Again.


I wrote this piece a few years ago, but the sentiment has stood the test of time. It's worth another reminder:


This will be the first Christmas EVER without my daughters. When you get divorced and your children are split in two, you know this dreaded day will come eventually. It’s like April 15th in December. Looking back, I’ve been blessed with 12 wonder-filled Christmas mornings, over a decade of giddy dawns. It’s been magical. I’ve had a good run. But this year, it’s my ex’s turn to experience all that.

I’ll miss the little things: The frosted cookies on a plate with a note to Santa; the frenzied, last-minute gift-wrapping; getting up before dawn to wait by the lighted tree, hot tea in hand, camera at the ready; and then that Kodak moment, the look of pure joy, mouths forming perfect ‘O’s’ as my sleepy children get their first look at Santa’s handiwork.

Yes, I’ll be alone on Christmas morning. But woe is NOT me, for I have been given the gift of perspective; an epiphany that, like the symbolism of Christmas itself, has come in the form of a newborn baby. Her name is Emilie. She’s sweet and beautiful…and lying in the intensive care unit at Children’s Hospital of Orange County, tubes as long as she is coming out of her in every direction. Emilie was born with a defect that prompted surgery three days into her fragile life. Her parents – my neighbors – are, understandably, on pins and needles. While the prognosis is good, and there’s every reason to believe that Emilie will wake up Christmas morning in her own home, still . . . I worry. I pray. And I count my blessings.

Certainly, I’ll miss my kids on Christmas morning. But there are much bigger heartaches, one being played out just a few houses over. As divorced parents, we need to look at the overall picture. It really doesn’t matter which custodial parent’s home your children wake up in on December 25. What’s most important is that they are alive, in good health and loved year-round.

So what do I plan to do, all alone, on that calendar day we call “Christmas?” Something I don’t do often enough: RELAX. I’ll sleep in, enjoy a long, uninterrupted cup of tea (what is THAT?) while watching the twinkling lights of my tree and start a new book. I can hardly wait.

About mid-morning, when I know my kids have ripped into all those gifts at their dad’s house, I’ll call to say “Merry Christmas” and let them know a similar scenario awaits their return.

And more than a few times, I will glance through the window, toward my neighbors’ house and try to imagine the joy unfolding as Emilie celebrates her very first Christmas with a family so grateful to have her home.

Christmas is about celebrating the life of children. And thanks to one precious baby, I’ll be singing a different tune this year… “Four calling birds, three French hens, two healthy children and a heart filled with love and gratitude for my bounty year-round.”


Can anyone recommend a good book for Lynn Armitage to read on Christmas morning?


Reblog this post [with Zemanta]




Thursday, December 17, 2009

Taco Bell Burritos Shrunk!

Taco BellImage via Wikipedia
Now that the Tiger Woods scandal is pretty much old news, let's talk about another cheater: Taco Bell! Yep, I bring you another installment of "The Incredible Shrinking Bread Loaf," only this time, we're talking burritos.

Drove through Taco Bell today to feed me and my teen. Lunch in a pinch. Ordered my usual bean burrito, and while it tasted the same -- hot, gooey and delicious -- it looked different, somehow. Upon further examination, I realized that the burrito I have loved for three decades is now SMALLER!

It has shrunk in both length and girth, and I am one unhappy senorita. The beauty of Mexican food is that it is so cheap to make. We're talking tortillas, refried beans and cheese configured a zillion different ways. It's a cheap, winning formula -- for everyone! But I guess someone at corporate headquarters (in Irvine, California, if I'm not mistaken) saw an opportunity to make even more millions by cheating consumers -- their bread and butter all these many years.

I don't mind if something gets smaller, as long as the price shrinks right along with it. That seems fair. But that's not the case, here. The price is still the same, but now we get less burrito.
I'll admit that if it weren't for Taco Bell, a lot of people would go hungry. But while it's still an affordable food choice, it's likely that we won't be as sated with the downsized portion as we were in the good ol' days, which means we may have to buy two burritos, instead of one.

Oh . . . I get it now.
Reblog this post [with Zemanta]



Thursday, December 10, 2009

Are Men Capable Of Monogamy?


First off, a BIG thanks to Jouda Mann for his guest post about the Tiger Woods mess. Very interesting take on it, Jouda. You understand men all too well, and I am about to respond to you in my own special way.

Here goes . . . OK, Jouda, and all you other menfolk, I know I'm making a massive generalization here, but guys . . . why can't you be faithful to just ONE woman? Yeah, I know there are women who cheat, too. But if it's such an equal playing field, why aren't they making the headlines right along with you?

This Tiger Woods debacle is just the most recent scandal. Earlier this year, there was Governor Mark Sanford, who admitted to an affair with his Argentinian "soulmate;" and let's not forget David Letterman's very public indiscretions with some of his female staff; in recent years, basketball star Kobe Bryant went to court to defend his philandering ways and presidential contender Jon Edwards cheated on his wife when she had cancer, the creep!; and then there's Sheriff Mike Carona from Orange County, former President Bill Clinton, and on and on. I've lost track of all the rich and famous athletes, entertainers and politicians who have FABULOUS wives and lives, but who have been caught with their pants down, haven't you?

I heard an interesting statistic this morning on FOX News: One in 4.6 men cheat in America. Then the expert wisecracked, "The rest cheat in Europe!" That got the news crew on the set laughing. Funny, but oh-so-TRUE!

What I don't understand is, what EXACTLY do you want from us women, guys? We give you our hearts, our bodies, our trust and our youth; some of us even allow doctors to slice into us to make our boobs bigger and our thighs thinner for you; we build our nests together, share our intelligence and humor and merge our lives with yours; we sometimes put aside our own dreams to help buoy yours; we nourish you, and comfort you and boost your egos and even clean your dirty underwear; and the most bonding and sacred thing of all is that we create LIFE together!

Is that not enough for you?

I understand how men lose all sensibility over beautiful, sexy women. Women get weak in the knees over handsome men, too. But even when men are lucky enough to get beautiful women to marry them -- in Tiger's case, a SUPERMODEL, which is like winning the marital lottery for men -- they eventually seem to lose interest in these goddesses, too.

So it doesn’t seem to be beauty or sexiness you’re after. At least not long-term, which should be a huge relief for all the women out there who are spending wads of cash and undergoing risky surgeries to attract your attention and keep you in their beds. Don’t do it, ladies! You’ll get cheated on eventually, too, especially if you’ve committed yourself to some superficial jerk who places great value in having a sexy bosom by his side.

Personally, I have some serious doubts about whether some men are capable of monogamy. And I'm not alone in my thinking, either. (Read here.) Be honest now, guys. When you stand up at that altar and make a promise to forsake all others and love and cherish only one woman, do you REALLY mean it? Or are you just playing the role that society expects of you?

Perhaps you start out with the best of intentions. Then real life takes over, years go by, stress and responsibilities creep in, passion subsides, you get older, boredom sets in. You miss the great sex. I totally get that. We miss it, too. But I think the difference between men and women is that we believe (perhaps mistakenly) that the emotional and intimate bonds, the life histories, that we have created with our men are stronger than their sexual urges for other partners. They usually are for us women, anyway.

Hey, this is a GIGANTIC topic to discuss and I can’t possibly cover every angle. But I need to know something before I wrap this up. For all you guys who cheat on your wives and significant others, I have an important question for you:

Do you do it for the thrill of the chase or for the chase of the thrill? Think about that for a minute.

Whatever your reason, please do us ALL a favor. If you know in your hearts that you can’t be faithful to one woman, only, FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, don’t marry us! Don’t have babies with us! Instead of saying, “I do,” be honest and say, “I’m sorry. I just can’t. There are too many other women I want to experience.” Think of all the time and heartache and airtime you’ll save everyone.

Or, here’s a more radical idea . . . instead of marrying a woman because she is GORGEOUS (at least in the beginning, until familiarity sets in), how about if you marry for LOVE?? Not lust, but real, true-blue, until-death-do-us-part love? And ladies, the same goes for you. Don’t marry a guy for what he makes, financially (golddigging being a big part of the problem in many cases); marry him for what he is made OF, instead.

I think if more couples married for love and scrutinized their mates for good character -- I mean if they were patient enough to wait to get married until they found partners who, in their eyes, were beautiful on the inside, as well as on the outside -- there would be far fewer public scandals, scorned women and rambling blog posts like this one.

So what do YOU think: Are men capable of monogamy?

Reblog this post [with Zemanta]

Monday, December 7, 2009

Tiger's Boredom Factor


My name is Jouda Mann, and with the recent upheaval over Tiger getting his jollies away from home, I felt that I had to rebut Lynn’s "Mad Mom" rant, and give a little perspective of my own. She has been kind enough to lease me some space in which to tell my point of view on the whole thing.

So here’s how I think the whole Tiger Woods thing went down:


The Lead-Up . . . From Tiger's Point of View

"All I ever wanted in life was golf and money. That way, I could set my parents up however they wanted to be, get a hot model wife, and everything could be good in life. Now I have all the money that I could ever want, and golf balls and clubs haunt me in my sleep.

I MADE IT! I'M HERE!

What's that? I'm only 34, and it's a reasonable assumption that I'm going to live for at least another 40 years? OK, what to do in the meantime?

Sure, we can decorate the house. Sure, we can buy other houses. And decorate them, too. Jewelry, cars, boats, restaurants, more jewelry, bigger, more extravagant cars, more exclusive restaurants, and I still have how much money left? Hell, what else can we do?

Sure, we can travel. Oh, wait, when we get to Borneo, the local government (magistrate, mayor, tribal chief, whatever) wants a photo op. And I'll have to glad-hand wherever I go. And there's some endorsement thing my agent tells me I have to do. What a waste of time.

Why the hell can't I just enjoy a simple trip with my Hot Model Wife?

Fuck it. Let's just stay home. You want to go to Emeril's new restaurant? I know it's going to be just like all his other restaurants, but it's one that we've never been to. Fine, you stay here and put more dead flowers in a vase. I guess I'll just go to that function that my agent told me about."


The Dirty Deed

(At the function)

"Yeah, thanks for the drink, bartender guy who really wants to break into the business, but you’re just doing this so you can pay bills in the meantime. Oh, hey, whatever-your-name-is. Yeah, I’m still swinging the clubs. Yeah, I’m sure Pebble Beach is going to be a beast this year. It always is. Yeah, I’m gonna go over here now, because I’m tired of talking about this."

(Hours later)

"Holy shit, everyone says the same thing. They’re all rooting for me. Good for them, but it’s not like that’s all I can do. Hey, who’s that? She’s really hot! She’s looking over here. She’s looking at me. Oh shit, here she comes.

Yeah, Hot Model Chick, I’m Tiger Woods, but you knew that. And who are you? Nice dress. No, Hot Model Wife isn’t here tonight, just me. Yeah, you know I want to spend some time with you, but this is a public place, I can’t just have you hanging on my arm when I’m Tiger Woods, and everyone knows I’m married to Hot Model Wife. But what are you doing tomorrow? Awesome. I’ll give you a call."

(Later, at home)
"Hey, Hot Model Wife, how was your day? That’s nice. The function? You know how those things are; same people, glad-handing, all that same stuff. Baby, I have to call Agent. Nothing big, but I need to know what this thing is that he wants me to do tomorrow. He said something about Chicago, and it would only be a one day thing. I’ll probably leave tomorrow afternoon, and be back the day after. Yeah, I’ll be in bed in a little while. I love you, too. "

(On the phone)
"Hey Agent, how’s it going? Nothing on the schedule for the next day or so? Ok, I need you to do me a favor. I need you to get me a room. Nothing too fancy, nothing in-your-face, but nice and quiet, maybe a little bit out of the way. Here’s the thing: I need it to be in your name, or anyone else’s name other than mine. I don’t care who it is, it can be Mickey Mouse for all I care, as long as it’s not my name. Meet me tomorrow at the cafĂ© on Some Street, and give me the key card. Ok, thanks."

(The next day, on the phone with Hot Model Chick)
"Hot Model Chick, can you meet me tonight at Out of the Way But Still Pretty Nice Hotel? Cool, I’ll see you then."


The Fallout

Well, we all know what the fallout is, don’t we? What? It turned out that Hot Model Chick was recording their conversations? And she played them back to prove it? Why, that means she’s just a golddigging whore! Now come on, is anyone surprised?

But all this doesn’t answer the big question: Why?

Humans get bored. Easily. All the time. It's why we do things like jump out of perfectly serviceable planes or off perfectly stable cliffs. It's why we strap waxed slats of plywood to our feet and go whizzing down snowy mountains at twice the speed of Oh My Fucking God. It is why we stuffed three perfectly healthy human beings who otherwise would have had a long, intelligent and fruitful life in any case into a tiny aluminum cone and sent them to a god-forsaken rock that's been winking at us from the sky for thousands of generations (well, that and propaganda, let's not forget that).

And yes, it's why some men occasionally fall down and accidentally slip their willies into other women. For that matter, it's also why some women occasionally fall down and allow other men's willies to accidentally get slipped inside them.

But, why another woman? Why would he go and let another woman get his nine iron, when he has Hot Model Wife there?

Men are simple creatures, in many ways. Low-hanging fruit is our game, for the most part. And when we think small, we tend to screw up big. I’d put money down that Tiger didn’t leave the house or hotel that night thinking “I’m gonna get some strange tonight." For the most part, men just aren’t that imaginative. But men are opportunists, and when the opportunity came up, he jumped at it, without thinking of the long-term consequences. If it had been coke, another party drug, or a small part in a murder, he just might have done the same thing. Anything to alleviate the boredom.

So there it is. Boredom, and opportunity, possibly combined with the fact that he never really cultivated and invested in a real relationship with his wife.But I have a more prescient question: Why does it matter?

It’s very plain to me that had he not had the skill to hit a small dense plastic ball farther than just about anyone else in the world, consistently and skillfully, he would not be The Tiger Woods. And were he not The Tiger Woods, he would not be followed around by people who make their living on photographing celebrities screwing up, and he never would have been in the paper. He would just be some guy that got into a domestic dispute when his wife found out about his extracurricular activities, and he would just be some guy that got into a fender-bender in his own front yard, warranting a passing entry in Fark, and then he would have been forgotten.

But since he is The Tiger Woods, we worship him. This despite the fact that he is famous for nothing but hitting a ball 300 yards and not having the sense to put it in his pocket after finding it, because at that point he had obviously won the game. And when I say worship him, I mean it, since there was actually a Church of Tiger Woods, that got disbanded after he turned out to be human.

Why are we Americans so fascinated by celebrities? I completely understand the desire to look at their lives as they play out in front of our eyes like a train wreck, but why does it deserve HOURS of air time?

Some of you might say “Well, Jouda, I want my child to be as successful as Celebrity of the Week."

I call bullshit.

You want your child to be happy. You want them to be able to enjoy the simple pleasures of sliding down a metal slide that burns their butt, and play in the dirt in a playground where they aren’t being photographed by people that are this close to being pedophiles. If you’re a good parent, you want them to be happy and healthy of their own merit, and in their own way. I would never want my child to be a Suri Cruise, or a Britney, or anything else that wasn’t exactly what she is.

The (still fairly recent) episode of Britney going ape-shit on a bevy of photographers should illustrate the fact that in many cases, you can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl. You wouldn’t worship the little brat down the street that opened her legs for some jackass and spat out two burdens of society. Why worship the same little brat when it turns out that she can gyrate on the stage like a stripper, and her singing voice sounds decent with the help of some production magic?

Just last night, I read that Tiger’s exploits have led to a whole slew of mistresses, at last count up to five of them. So let me get something straight: As a society, we’re going to take a person out of their own local bubble, give them their every heart’s desire, tell them that they’re great, and they can’t and have never messed up on anything, and follow them around in fascination like we’re producing "The Truman Show," and then we’re going to be feel let down when he takes advantage of our idiocy and adulation, and when it turns out that our Idol of the Month has clay feet?

Is this an excuse for his behavior? Absolutely not, nor is it an endorsement.

But are we really surprised?


Written by Jouda Mann

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Tiger's Wood


Something smelled fishy from the start. Tiger Woods crashed his car into a fire hydrant right outside his home at 2:30 in the morning, and his wife bashed in one of the windows of his Escalade with a golf club to pull him to safety.

Huh??

First of all, Escalades are huge cars. I don't really see how Tiger could have been "trapped" inside that ginormous vehicle. Besides, how much damage could he have done to the car from just backing out of the driveway into the fire hydrant? From the get-go, I suspected a domestic-violence situation, especially given the early-morning hour and the fact that his wife was brandishing a five-iron. Yes, I said brandishing, as I suspect she was planning to use that golf club as a weapon with which to beat her golf-legend-of-a-husband.

Poetry, Mrs. Woods. Pure poetry. (Click here for the musical version.)

Now ask yourself, why would a woman chase her husband out of the house, wielding a golf club, at 2:30 in the morning and create such fear and panic in him that he accelerates in reverse out of the driveway and crashes the family's SUV? The only thing that could cause a woman to go that ballistic is . . . another woman!

This is how I think it went down: I think Tiger Dear snuck out of bed around 2:15 a.m., thinking his wife was sound asleep, and dialed up his mistress on his cell phone to make plans for their get-together next week at the golf tournament. But the wife wasn't asleep. She overheard the conversation and went nuts. She grabbed the closest thing to a weapon that she could find -- a golf club, as they must have hundreds of those lying around the house -- and chased his cheatin' ass out the front door.

At a party Saturday night, I proposed that very scenario even before all the facts started trickling in. I told everyone that I thought he had a mistress, and the wife must have found out about it. What was interesting is the reaction I got from the men in the room. They suddenly turned on Tiger's wife, despite the fact the she is a supermodel -- every man's dream wife, right?

"Well, her husband brings home millions," they said in his defense. "She should be happy about that, but she probably nags him all the time and he just got sick of it."

I guess all those PGA titles and piles of cash somehow give the world's greatest golfer a hall pass in life. Just like it was beyond comprehension that the Heisman-tropy-winning O.J. could have ever murdered his ex-wife.

What really burned me today is an interview I saw on Fox News. I don't even know who the interviewee was, but the reporter asked him if he thought Tiger might have a mistress. And this guy had the nerve to say that if Tiger did have a mistress, it's going to make him even more popular because now other men would see how "human" Tiger really is.

Give me a break! I guess when you're the world's greatest athlete, and you have all the fame and fortune you could ever dream of, and you're married to a beautiful supermodel with whom you have two perfect children . . . it's just not enough for one man.

It's only "human" that he would be bored and want more.








Sunday, November 22, 2009

Leave The Moms Alone!

I kid you not, the morning after I wrote my "Road Kill Of Another Kind" post, I was taking my daughter to school and saw not one officer pulling over a mom in a minivan, but THREE . . . all at the same time, right there in front of the middle school.

It looked like a sting operation!







I understand the profit motive, the explanation that Jouda touched on, that the recession is stretching everyone's budget, including the city's. But why squeeze it out of moms? In many cases, we're the keepers of the family till, and these days, the till is pretty empty. As moms trying to battle through a recession and climbing unemployment rates, we do our best to make sure that there's enough money for three meals a day for the entire family, gas in the car, heat and electricity, and maybe an occasional Happy Meal. I assure you that we don't have the funds to be paying $250 traffic tickets for going just a few miles over the speed limit.

Can't the city make money in another, more humane way? Oh, I don't know, like cutting down on the number of traffic cops patrolling in front of a middle school?

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Road Kill Of Another Kind

Speaking of road kill . . . I have discovered that I am living under martial law in my new town. Cops are EVERYWHERE! Especially everywhere where you don't want them to be, like parked surreptitiously behind trees in the morning when you're driving your kids to school and need to break a few rules of the road to get them to class on time.

I fired off this picture last week. When I first saw this traffic cop, I was in the right lane, coming from the other direction, and when I made the turn, he startled me because there he was all of a sudden, off his bike and hiding behind a tree with his radar gun.

Isn't that entrapment or something?




What I'm ticked about is that these cops are going after moms in mini vans who are maybe driving a few miles over the speed limit. Big whoop! It's not like anyone is really speeding because there are so many cars going to the same place, the same school, there's no room to go very fast. Simple physics.

About a month ago, I was ticketed on this very street for driving only five miles over the limit. FIVE MILES! Down in Orange County, you were driving too SLOWLY if you were driving only five miles over the speed limit.

This highly patrolled, small town is going to take some getting used to for this former Southern Californian who was used to breaking traffic laws and getting away with it.

Here's another shot of the Enforcer. Looks like he's going to fire on me with a real gun for taking this picture, doesn't it?










Thursday, October 29, 2009

Road Kill


One thing’s for certain when you move to a small town: You can expect to see more dead animals in the road. It’s simple math. The less populated a city is with two-legged creatures, the more living space there is for the four-legged variety.

About the second week I moved here, I noticed a dead raccoon on the side of the road right around the corner from my home. Poor guy, I thought. Poor BIG guy. Not sure what he had been scavenging when he was alive, but I’m certain this bruiser of a raccoon didn’t die hungry.

Surely, someone would pick up his carcass – HEAVE-HO! -- and dispose of it properly, I thought. Hey, don’t look at me . . . . eeewwww!! I’m a city gal at heart. We don’t do that kind of thing. But there must be some designated city worker in this small, critter-filled town whose only job is to harvest road kill, right?

Well, we’re going on two and a half months later, and believe it or not, that dead raccoon is STILL lying face-down on the side of the road! But thanks to the marvelous science of decomposition, it’s not so big anymore. (EEWWWW!) My stomach turns every time we pass it when I think about how many seasons that carcass has endured.

What amazes me is that no one seems to care. Complete indifference. Where’s animal control? Where are the city health inspectors, because surely it must be a health hazard by now? I see people walking right by the shrinking dead raccoon, lots of joggers, too. The people who own the home on the hill above the rotting raccoon wheel their trash out to the side of the road, faithfully, every week, and position their can within feet of that poor ’coon. I mean, would it kill them to just grab his formerly bushy tail and HEAVE-HO him into their trash can? What’s wrong with these rural folks?? Have they no respect for their road kill?

It must smell something awful by now. I wouldn’t know. I keep the windows rolled up tight when I pass by. But I must confess: I do look. I can’t help myself. It’s that weird car-crash-mentality thing. No one wants to see dead bodies, but when you pass a car wreck, you can’t help but stare, half-expecting (and half-hoping, right, all you sickos??) to see a head roll.

Today, there was a dead squirrel in the middle of the road in our housing tract. We may as well dress him up with garland and holly because I suspect he’s going to be there for a while. Quite possibly until the ’coons come home.





Reblog this post [with Zemanta]

Sunday, October 25, 2009

SMILE!

I rarely check my Facebook account. I don't like all that responsibility. But it's amazing what I find when I do finally poke my head in. Here's a fun little video I discovered there from a friend who sent it to me this morning:

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Welcome Home, Soldier!

I found this on my lawn this morning. Sometimes, words aren't necessary. This picture says it all.




In case you couldn't read the sign, here it is real close:


Saturday, October 3, 2009

Love Shouldn't Hurt

Your home is supposed to be a safe place, a refuge from the stresses and storms of life. You shut your front door at night and gather around the warmth of kinship to relax, refuel and recharge. It feels so good to be home.

But for one out of every four women in this country, home is anything but safe. When she closes her door – reluctantly -- to the protection of the outside world, it triggers fear and a growing dread. She’s alone with the enemy -- her loved one, the one who is supposed to love her. But instead of kisses and hugs she gets fists and bruises. She cries and withdraws, he cools down and later is remorseful. They reconcile, there’s a honeymoon period and he promises never to hit her again. Then one day, out of nowhere, the vicious cycle of abuse starts all over again in her black-and-blue world: He didn’t like her dinner, or how long she was out shopping or the tone in her voice.

It’s a life lived on eggshells, a house of cards that could come crashing down at any moment.

Ashamed to face the truth, she becomes a great pretender in a doomed drama. And nobody, but the traumatized children, knows about it.

“It’s very difficult to reach out to victims because the core nature of domestic violence is isolation. Women are locked in by fear, shame, guilt and the traumatic bond between husband and wife,” says Vivian Clecak, founder of Human Options, a multi-service agency in Orange County, California, dedicated to the prevention of domestic violence, and the treatment and intervention for victims (humanoptions.org).

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month, though it’s a cause that deserves our attention year-round. Violence against women and children in their own homes happens all the time. Every nine seconds a woman is battered in this country. And in at least 30% of the cases, children are assaulted, too. What’s more, domestic violence is the leading cause of injury to women ages 15 to 44 -- more than rapes, muggings and car accidents combined.

True, every couple fights. But domestic violence is darker and cuts much deeper. It’s a pattern of physical, sexual and psychological attacks fueled by the abuser’s pathological need to control. “The cycle of abuse often starts verbally. Calling her stupid, treating her with disrespect, demeaning her,” Clecak explains. “It’s a slow, subtle wearing down of her personhood.

It’s not just a “trailer park” crime, either, as many would believe. Domestic violence is an equal opportunity destroyer, invading every ethnic, religious and economic strata of society. Yet, so much of it is hidden. Couldn’t possibly happen in your nice neighborhood? “The more affluent you are, the more hidden it is,” says Clecak: “A wealthy woman has more shame because she has a social position and children who also have a social identity.”

Sadly, it’s our young ones who really suffer. “We know that children are traumatized by the violence even if they’re never hit,” says Clecak. An astounding 33% of calls to Human Options’ hotline come from children. Too often, domestic violence is a searing torch passed to the next generation.

The good news is, education and outreach are working. “The most interesting thing about domestic violence in the last 20 years is the number of abusers murdered by their victims is way down,” claims Clecak. Homicides against victims is on the decline, too. Women are getting out of abusive relationships sooner. They now have places to turn for emergency shelter and transitional housing.

Changing the tide of domestic violence is a long, hard journey because it’s deeply rooted in society. “It comes from a long tradition of patriarchy that women are property.” In many cultures, it’s OK to beat your wife. But make no mistake . . . it’s a crime in this country.
The first step is always the hardest. If you’re in an abusive relationship, call a local shelter. “The most important thing a woman needs is to know she’s not alone, she’s not to blame.” Clecak makes a final plea.

It’s not going to get any better. You know that. So get help now while you and your children can still get out.



Thursday, September 24, 2009

Another Stressful Day In Southern California


This past weekend, I took a very long drive down to my old stomping ground in Southern California. My daughters had a scheduled visitation with their father and I had some business to take care of. At the top of my "To Do" list was getting my hair done.

Yeah, I know. Seems like a long way to go for a few highlights. But you have to understand . . . I have been going to my stylist for more than 20 years! I’m having a very hard time giving him up for somebody local. He’s like a brother to me, or maybe more like a sister because he’s gay. He’s been with me through my single years, and all those crazy perms and experiments with reds. He did my hair for my wedding. He talked me into getting my first bob. And he made me look good through two pregnancies and one divorce. He's worth the drive.

The whole point of this blog is to share with you a certain perspective I acquired from this 400-plus-mile trip. And that is this: Southern California is a meat grinder! Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s the entertainment capital of the world. But it was only after I left it and returned for a short weekend did I also discover that it is the STRESS CAPITAL of the world, too.

The minute I came down off the Grapevine and got into the Mulholland Pass, I noticed a distinct physiological change in me. I gripped the steering wheel tighter and I could feel my blood pressure rise. Or maybe it was bile. Most noticeably, I became angry. Really angry. (How did I live like this for so long?) This asshole behind me who was driving a convertible BMW with a pristine-white leather interior was tailgating me so closely, we were practically spooning. I could see him in my rearview mirror gesticulating wildly and pounding his steering wheel as though that would intimidate me into speeding up.

I could hear him thinking, “Hey, You, the Nobody in the Honda! Move the hell over for me, a very important Hollywood type in a fancy car who just had an illicit nooner with my production intern and now I have to make up the time on the freeway to get to the charity auction that my trophy wife is hosting.”

(I lost track of how many stereotypes I just used.)
So I did the only thing a Northern California girl could do . . . . I slowed down. Just slightly. Ha! Take that, Mr. Prematurely Balding.

Once my wheels hit the 405 Freeway, my daughters noticed the change in me immediately. They had just told me days earlier that since we moved up north, I seemed calmer, more happy. My teen even told me that she thought I had become “less strict.” But once I entered the crazy, frantic gravitational pull of Southern California, I became my old self again. And it didn’t make me happy.

Maybe that’s why people in Southern California seem so self-absorbed half the time. It’s not that they really are, it’s just that they are entirely focused on rushing from one place to the next. There’s no time for niceties and common courtesies, because God forbid you should slow down and get trampled by the angry mob.

And if you do slow down it's usually because you're STUCK on a freeway somewhere. They should post road signs that say, "Welcome to Southern Calfiornia. Now turn off your engines because you're not going anywhere!"

Another interesting observation . . . we noticed the thick smog for the first time. When you live down in SoCal as long as we did, it’s not smog. It’s “morning haze.” Well, I can tell you after living up in a smog-free town that boasts fresh air and bright-blue skies, that stuff they’re trying to pass off in SoCal as “haze” is really disgusting, choking air pollution. Don’t be fooled by the lure of the beaches.

What, you say? You want me to say something NICE about my weekend in Orange County? OK . . . the hotel where I stayed was awesome. The Quality Suites at John Wayne Airport. Nothing fancy, just a nice, clean, roomy room at the right price. For $71 a night (which included a Triple A discount), I got a living room with a TV and a separate bedroom with another TV and a king bed. PLUS, a free, cooked-to-order breakfast every morning. Fresh eggs, hot pancakes, coffee, juice, you get the picture.

The only complaint is that on Sunday morning, the line for breakfast snaked way out the door, as everyone had the same idea: to sleep in on Sunday and rush down to breakfast 10 minutes before they closed.

A stressful start to another crazy day in overpopulated – but beautiful! -- Southern California.



Reblog this post [with Zemanta]


Tuesday, August 25, 2009

ADT, The Alarm People, Are Crooks!


Hello . . . I'm back. And I'm all fired up again. Has anyone ever had a bad experience with ADT? If so, please respond. I'm trying to get a feel for how many potential plaintiffs there may be out there for a class-action lawsuit. These people are crooks! Which is ironic, considering that the whole thrust of their business is to keep the crooks out of our homes. Little did I know that I was being robbed the entire time that ADT was installing my system!

Long story kind of short, I'm renting a home that has an ADT alarm system already in place. All I needed to do was activate it. When the installer came over to do just that, he told me that the components of my system were "old and outdated," and not compatible with the current system being used all over the country. So he talked me into spending $800 to buy new window and door alarms, as well as a fancy-schmancy glass sensor that activates the alarm if someone breaks a window.

Eight hundred bucks!! Hook, line and sinker!

A week later, the owner of my rental home tells me that he JUST replaced the old ADT components with new ones last October because the installer told him the same thing, that his system was outdated. So I didn't need to buy news components, as the so-called "outdated" ones were less than a year old!

Either one or both of us was swindled. Probably both.

It took this guy 4 hours to install the system -- he wrapped it up around 9:00 p.m. on moving day. I had had the movers here all day, the cable TV, Internet and phone guys came in and out, too, and I was EXHAUSTED! This ADT crook throws about 10 pieces of paper in front of me -- my "contract" -- and asks me to sign. He never explained what I was signing, and I was too tired to ask. Stupidly, I trusted him.

As it turns out, I signed a 3-year contract, which I never would have done had it been explained to me because I am in this rental home for only one year. He knew this, too, because I recall having that discussion with him.

Does it make any kind of sense to you that someone who is leasing a home for only one year would agree to a 3-year contract with an alarm company???

I've been doing a little research, talking to some other folks who have ADT, and I am hearing similar stories. Everyone had a complaint of some sort about them, making me think that there may be grounds for a class-action lawsuit.

Feel free to chime in if you have an ADT story to share, too. We can't let these thieves get away with cheating us like this. Makes me wonder how long they've gotten away with their unscrupulous business practices and how much money they have stolen from everyone.




Reblog this post [with Zemanta]




Friday, June 26, 2009

The Thriller Is Gone


This morning, some very inconsiderate early-riser jarred me out of my sleep. This person was parked right outside my open window and had the car radio cranked up pretty high. My first reaction after the initial shock of being stunned awake was anger. The sun had just risen and you want to hear birds chirping at that hour, not music blaring from car speakers.

But then I listened, and my anger turned to grief. Then understanding.

The song blasting through my window was “I’ll Be There” by the late Michael Jackson. (My favorite song of his!) Sounds surreal to be saying that, doesn’t it? Yesterday he was alive. Today, Michael Jackson is dead.

The early-morning offender was simply paying his respects. He gets a pass on this one.















Thursday, June 25, 2009

On Vacation!


I'll be back Tuesday with something to bitch about, I'm sure!

Friday, June 19, 2009

All Is Right With The World - Sort Of

For once, I find myself in a position where I have nothing to whine about. All is right with my world. It might have something to do with this video that my friend just sent to me. It makes me happy and hopeful that there are people out there like this, intent on uniting the world instead of dividing it.

And I say this on a day when news has reached us that North Korea has a nuclear missle pointed right at Hawaii, with a rumored launch date of July 4th.










Reblog this post [with Zemanta]

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

What A Bunch Of Boobs!

Helmet and ball


Softball is a great sport for young girls. Even for old girls, like me. I played softball for 30 years, believe it or not. (And no, I’m not a lesbian!) I know what you’re thinking: “I didn’t know they had leagues in the womb!” But really, I’m a lot older than I look. I usually tell people that I’m 39.99, plus shipping and handling.

Really, though, I love softball. I was a fast-pitch pitcher, and later I slow-pitched. I commanded the mound for nearly three decades, then hung up my cleats after a softball accident a few years ago. Long story short, I fell on my head running to first base, after tearing my hamstring and groin muscle simultaneously.

Lesson No. 1: Always, ALWAYS stretch before the game.
Lesson No. 2: When you play with lesbians, you're bound to take a licking eventually.

Anyway, I wasn’t going to let a near-death experience sideline me. (Well, maybe I’m exaggerating.) So I jumped in to help coach my 11-year-old’s team this year. The Stingers. Black shorts, yellow jerseys. Cute little buggers. Coaching isn’t the same as being out in the field and actually playing. Nope. It’s even MORE fun!

My daughter played in a city league, with girls ranging in age from 6 to 14. The little ones were so precious. Their tube socks nearly covered their entire legs and the girls were almost as tall as their bats. One team had the most creative team name I’ve ever heard: Babes Ruthless. Isn’t that clever??

Now that I’ve set the scene, it’s time to whine/bitch about something that’s been bothering me for a while, but I held my tongue until after the season was over because I didn’t want my opinions to color the way my daughter might have been treated in the league.

Here’s my beef, summed up in a picture:




Does anyone else think it’s odd for Hooters to be sponsoring a young girls’ softball league? Does that seem a little out of place to you? That would be like the Jewish American League sponsoring Oktoberfest. Or me getting back together with my ex-husband. It’s kind of a mismatch.

Think about that for a minute: First off, the word “hooters” is downright demeaning to women. It’s a guy word, obviously. I don’t know any woman who refers to her breasts as “hooters,” and you know why? Because it’s degrading, guys! So why would you slap the word “Hooters” on a large, vinyl banner and hang it up on the fence of the main softball diamond for all those impressionable young girls to see?

“Coach Danny, what's a ‘Hooters?'"

One Saturday, an adult in an owl suit showed up to cheer on some of the young players. He was escorted by a gal in tight pants and a belly-baring top who was passing out restaurant coupons. The attention-grabbing owl was from Hooters. Get it?

I was stunned, then outraged. No one else seemed to be bothered by this invasion of innocence. Exposing young girls to the world represented by Hooters can contribute to their early sexualization, don’t you know? Studies have shown that early sexualization of girls can lead to eating disorders, depression and low self-esteem. Certainly the opposite of what we are trying to instill in our daughters through their participation in a team sport.

And what’s a family supposed to do with the coupons, anyway? Take their daughters to Hooters for some half-priced wings to see more young women in tight shirts and barely-there shorts being ogled by “hungry” male guests? I can’t verify this myself, but one of my readers told me that some of the less-endowed waitresses even walk around wearing signs on their shirts that say, “Tip me. I’m saving up for a boob job.”



Alexander Wang - Backstage - Fall 09 MBFW

I repeat: Hooters has NO business sponsoring a girls’ softball league. There are plenty of other businesses to tap into that would be more appropriate for this venue: Chuck E. Cheese, Knott's Berry Farm, Baskin and Robbins, Del Taco (just kidding on that one!).

And those who think it’s perfectly acceptable to take Hooters' money and hang their banners on our daughters' softball fields in exchange for a little “exposure,” well, you’re just a bunch of boobs!









Reblog this post [with Zemanta]








Sunday, May 24, 2009

He GETS Me!


I won’t argue that the Del Taco horse is beaten and long dead. Trust me, I don’t want to resurrect that big stink! But you may have missed the last few responses that have trickled in. FINALLY, my people have come out of the shadows in my defense. Where the HELL have you been? You left me all alone, defending myself against an angry mob with nothing but a sharp tongue. Anyway, I’m glad you finally showed up.

But one response in particular stands out because it’s from one of the loudest critics of me in this fray. His name is Jouda Mann. Probably not his real name, but still. He’s a Farker, and what I love about his final response to me is that he GETS me! Jouda is right on the money about who I am and my purpose behind writing this blog: It’s where I go to scream when something’s bothering me. Where I let it all out and gain composure before I blend seamlessly and sanely back into the mainstream. I don’t bitch and whine all the time. But I do it all the time here.

This world is full of so many different people and viewpoints. Just look at what’s going on in the Middle East. But that doesn’t mean that it has to get ugly. Less prejudgments and more tolerance can go a long way. Thank you, Jouda, for demonstrating this.

I copied Jouda’s response below so that you don’t have to go fishing for it. But before you read it, take a look at this video. For those of you who don’t quite understand a mother’s primal instinct to nurture and protect her children, this might enlighten you some. It’s also a wonderful testament to how two different species can get along in this mad world, if only we come from a place of understanding.






Jouda Mann said...

For the first question, I live in Texas, and I have never even seen a DelTaco. But I do have an analytical mind, and I know that the figures I cam to might not be accurate, but they're close.


As for snowflakes:The Urban Dictionary defines "Precious Snowflake" thus:Child of extremely overprotective and/or self-absorbed parents. Coddled from birth, their mommy and daddy will get stupid, ludicrous rules added or changed because they cannot fathom the idea that their kid might have to learn humility. Often turn out to be stuck-up, spoiled pains in the ass because they get everything they want.We Farkers, as you have labeled us, use that term to indicate our disgust with people who seem to show us these traits.

I think that the reason you have garnered this attention from the Alt community is because many of them know how to read words, but they do not know how to read the correct inflection in the words. They just assume that you are another butthurt loud mouthed mom who's gonna raise a big stink.However, in your case, I will admit that it's unfair.

I took the time to read some of your blog posts, and while you do come off as somewhat standoffish and a little uppity, one can see that you have taken up these blogs as a way to blow off steam. I can also tell that while you are concerned about the welfare of people in general, and your children and their friends in particular, you don't take yourself as seriously as it might appear on the surface.

Actually, since you and I got over jabbing at each other, and talked to each other as human beings, I can tell that we would probably have some very interesting conversations. You be Shawn Hannity, but with less Crazy, and I'll be Kieth Olberman, but with less smug attitude and condescension.










Reblog this post [with Zemanta]

Monday, May 18, 2009

And The Ground Rumbled!


Last night, as I was reading some of the inspirational and truly moving responses provided by my newest fans, The Farkers, the floor beneath me rumbled, then my office chair started shaking, then the walls took on a life of their own. My first thought was, "OMG, the angry Farker mob is coming to get me!"

Then I heard my daughter scream, "Earthquake!" and it shook me out of my reverie. (Learn more about the shake-up here.)

We ran to the front door of our condo, and I'm not sure why people do this anymore. The Red Cross doesn't recommend it. (Here's what to do instead.) All our neighbors up and down the long, narrow condo complex poked their heads out their doors. I saw heads I had never met before. "Did you feel THAT??" they said nearly in unison.

What a silly question. I wanted to say, "Um, no. It's just a complete coincidence that we're all standing at our opened doors at the exact same time, looking scared and confused (and a little thrilled, I might add), some of us like the neighbor across the way in nothing but a T-shirt and undies." Of COURSE we felt that! In fact, my cat bolted so quickly up the stairs, I wasn't sure I'd ever see her again.

My daughters were afraid to go up to their rooms to sleep. But the Sandman eventually won out. Nope, it wasn't THE BIG ONE this time. And I think that really disappointed some of my crazy neighbors. But when THE BIG ONE does hit, there's not a whole lot you can do in about 10 seconds (5 seconds of which are wasted by you trying to figure out if it's an earthquake or not) but cover your head and hope that your sins have been forgiven.


Reblog this post [with Zemanta]







Sunday, May 17, 2009

Mad Mom Responds To Del Taco Uproar


First off, welcome to my blog. Glad you found me in the dark of night, even if you were carrying torches and pitchforks. Nothing like a public lynching to get your day off to a good start!

I thought it best to create a separate blog to respond to all your responses, so here goes:

Look, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you. So while I could react very defensively to some of the vicious, mean-spirited attacks on me, I’m not going there. Nope, not me. I’m above all that. I’m resilient. Made of rubber. I soar with eagles.

Well . . . I’ll try not to go there, anyway. But you know, I am human. And female. So I may be little, teensie-bit offended by your barbs. But I’ll try not to show it. Turn the other cheek. Shrug it off. Bounce.

So, um . . . do you really think my blog makes me look FAT??

Anyway, for the sake of brevity, let me sum up your responses this way: About 98% of you think I am a bad mom who stifles her children, a prude who needs to get laid, an overreactive psycho divorcee who is screwing up her children for life because I try to shelter my daughters from society’s attempts to oversexualize them.

It's a wonder that I get anything done around here.

I just have one question for all the people out there who have these lovely thoughts about me: How many of you are parents? I suspect not many. Because if you were a parent, you would understand the need, the impulse, the fierce, mother-bear instinct to want to protect your children from things they don’t YET need to know about.

And I don’t think an 11-year-old needs to know what “bagging a hottie” means! Let’s stay focused on the issue here! One of you named “Anonymous,” and there were many, made my point for me when you said that 11-year-olds already know all about sex because they’re giving each other blowjobs in middle school.

Where do you think the knowledge of blowjobs is coming from, Anonymous? Could it be that there aren’t enough boundaries out there between adults and children? That the line between what children need to know and what they don’t has become terribly blurred, possibly in the name of entertainment? That maybe we are exposing our children to messages and information that they don’t need to understand yet at their young age?

All right, maybe the call for a boycott was a little overreactive, I’ll give you that much. And yes, maybe I shouldn’t be feeding my kids fast food. But it was the middle of the afternoon, we were far from home, the kids were hungry for an after-school snack, what was I supposed to do? Drive around until I found a Mother’s Market or a vegetarian co-op? No time for that. We had an appointment to get to in 10 minutes.

Sifting through all the negative comments, I came across a few CONSTRUCTIVE ones that I think are worthy of mention. First, the one that suggested I ask everyone to recycle the Del Taco bags, not throw them away. VERY good point. Very green of you.

And then this one, which I think sums up all the hysteria in a very logical, non-emotional way. Whoever you are, thank you for being the voice of sanity in a sea of madness:

Poor choice in advertising on the part of Del Taco.

Poor choice of food on the part of mom.

Del Taco: Please consider changing your advertisement to something that might be more appropriate for families with young children.

Families with young children: Please stop feeding your kids dinner from the nearest fast food joint.


Reblog this post [with Zemanta]

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Zac’s New Movie – NOT Cute!



Wouldn’t we all love to go back in time to when we were 17 and make decisions that could have altered the courses our lives ended up taking? That’s the premise behind Zac Efron’s new movie, “17 Again.”

Nice premise. But here’s the problem (and you’ll want to click out of this quickly if you haven’t seen the movie and you don’t want to know what happens in the end): Zac’s character got his girlfriend pregnant when they were 17, and he married her. Two kids and many years later, this guy is filled with regrets and “what ifs.”

After two hours on the screen of Zac reliving his very predictable glory years in high school, he realizes that getting a girl pregnant at 17 and marrying her was the right thing to do, after all. And suddenly he has a new appreciation for what he had all along.

Leave it to Hollywood to glamorize teen pregnancy once AGAIN in “17 Again!” Two years ago, it was “Juno.” And wasn’t that smart-mouthed, sassy Juno so adorable, you just wanted to be her – the young girl who accidentally got pregnant, had the baby, then gave it up for adoption right before she went to Senior Prom?

“Juno” and “17 Again!” are the kind of movies that make you all warm and fuzzy inside about teen pregnancy. And THAT’S the problem! These movies are aimed at the teen set, and the danger is, these teenagers leave the theaters thinking that it’s OK to get pregnant when you’re 16 and 17, because it all works out in the end. Just like it does in Hollywood. Life all wrapped up in a pink or blue bow.

My 15-year-old daughter saw this movie with her girlfriends. I didn’t know what the movie was about (except that it was rated PG-13) until I picked them up afterward and they spilled the entire plot and ending for me. Surprised by it all, I asked one of her friends in the car, “What did you think of the ending?”

“It was SO cute!” she gushed.

CUTE?! Since when is getting pregnant at 17 a cute thing? How can my sensible message of college-career-marriage-and-THEN-babies possibly compete with the multi-million-dollar-mega-watt-charm of Zac Efron, who is basically telling these young kids that it’s OK to skip to the end and have babies, first?

Is it any wonder that teen pregnancies are on the rise again for the first time since 1991?

How about if Hollywood made a movie about a teenager who does everything right – gets good grades, stays away from drugs and alcohol, respects her parents, graduates from college, lands a decent job, moves out on her own, falls in love with a great guy, gets married and has babies, in that order?

Or is that just TOO boring??




Reblog this post [with Zemanta]