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.

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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.

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.

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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.

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On Vacation!

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

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.

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What A Bunch Of Boobs!

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.”

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!