I Thee Wed, I Thee Will Cheat

What is it with celebrities - or for that matter anyone - and their incessant need to commit "transgressions" (in the words of Tigers Woods) upon their respective spouses and/or boyfriends and girlfriends?

Is is really a need as opposed to simply "I don't give a fuck I can do whatever I want because I am so-and-so?" Or is it just another way of bolstering their own unconscious (flagging?) self-esteem to ensure oneself that EVERYONE LOVES ME or EVERYBODY WANTS ME?

Tiger Woods, perhaps golf's greatest athlete or the world's greatest athlete period has been thrust into the spotlight the last week-plus because of allegations that he cheated on his wife. And this is a surprise to anyone why? Obviously, it's not enough that he's a gazillionaire, it's not enough that he's won major golf tournaments that golfers can only salivate about and it's not enough that he's graced the covers of countless magazines and has enough endorsements to line the course at the Masters.

It's never enough for these celebrities. But for all their athleticism, for all their pleadings for privacy, blah blah blah, they still (a) are photographed in compromising situations with people other than their spouse; (b) commit technological suicide by sexting, texting, emailing, voice mailing, etc. to the people with whom they are cheating and pretty much set themselves up for a massive fall into the abyss where - drum roll, please - all celebrities fall because they are just plain dumb asses.

In this age of technology, transgressions, cheating, slutting around, or whatever you want to call it, are going to come back and haunt anyone in spades about a thousand times over. And the people with whom the celebrities are cheating? Ha, don't let that "I didn't know who he/she was when I was screwing them while they were hanging from my chandelier" ignorance fool you. Those texts, sexts, emails, voice mails and cell phone photographs are saved to flash drives and hidden away for future use. These "cheat-ees" (not the cheat-ers) are stacking the deck that someday they, too, will become famous for having fucked so and so.

Take Monica Lewinsky, for example. Unless you are from another planet, as soon as you hear her name you automatically think "she gave the President of the United States a blow job in the oval office." Yes, that is how I want to be thought of 24/7/365 when someone speaks my name.

Not.

Don't give me this oh, she was young and naive and innocent bullshit. She knew exactly what she was doing. My personal opinion - OK - eww - I'm sorry - there are just some things I will not put into my mouth and Bill Clinton's johnson is one of them. Yuck. I have to be reasonably or more attracted to someone (powerful or not) before that even happens).

But there are plenty of people willing and able to be on the receiving end of the transgressions no matter who the cheater is. Maybe it's me but aren't there about 75 million different sexually transmitted diseases running around our planet just waiting to hop on to someone? Nevermind the ones that probably haven't even been discovered yet! Gross.

Congratulations, Tiger. You've probably inherited a few new STDs and passed them along to your wife. That's disgusting. And frankly, I think the truth of the matter is (and I'm sure everyone else feels the same way) is that Elin Woods went after her husband with - no surprise again - a golf club. "Sources" claim that Woods was texting one of his "transgressions" right in his house and his wife bagged him. And now one of those transgressions has turned over an alleged voice mail from Tiger Woods begging her to remove her name from her phone because his wife was probably going to call her and - no surprise - rip her a new you know what. Or something like that.

Remember the movie Moonstruck? Cher, Nicholas Cage, Danny Aiello and Olympia Dukakis? Olympia played Cher's mother in the movie and she caught her husband cheating on her. And she set out to find out why men cheat. The living room scene where Olympia and Danny Aiello (who plays Johnny - Nicholas Cage's brother who can't do wrong to his mother) are sitting plays out something like this:

Olympia: Lemme ask you something Johnny. Why do men cheat?

Danny Aiello: Because they fear death.

I always thought that was hysterical because Olympia Dukakis agreed and she goes on to tell her husband that he's gonna die anyways so he needs to 'stop seeing that woman.'

If only it were that simple.

People cheat for different reasons. But when celebrities cheat, the entire world knows about it because of who they are. The media creates a firestorm and when celebrities like Tiger Woods admit to "transgressions" but don't outright admit the actual cheating and with whom, the media continues to whip its audience into a frenzy with speculations and of course, the "cheat-ees" who eventually surface with all the damaging evidence.

Cheating has nothing to do with death. It's a means to bolster one's ego, one's self-esteem because there is always someone else who will look at you in a different light (maybe not a very good light but a different one at best) and who will compliment you or tell you things that your husband or wife or girlfriend or boyfriend has failed to see or simply overlooked, who will treat you differently than everyone and who will at some point in time become your go-to when the world is closing in around you.

When you are a celebrity, everyone wants a piece of you in some way, shape or form. It's whether you are willing to give yourself up to that kind of life - or to those "transgressions" in order to retain your self-esteem, self-worth or integrity.

What is it with famous people or people with money that make them commit acts of infidelity and then have their lives plastered on the front pages of every tabloid, every online magazine and dot com news center? Is there really something lacking in their lives that they can actually find with someone who has nothing to do with their lives?

Perhaps THAT is the answer. Perhaps celebrities should have boyfriends or girlfriends not in the "business" - people who live in obscurity, single Moms or Dads who don't have money but who actually have integrity and character and self-worth and values. Perhaps those qualities are what celebrities are seeking out when they commit these "transgressions."

I'm not a believer in the grass is always greener in the other side. Whether you are a celebrity with that "I don't give a fuck attitude" or someone like me who does live in obscurity, is not famous in any way, shape or form but has committed my own share of transgressions in my life that really are of no interest to anyone and certainly not worth tabloid fodder, it's how strong a person is on the inside, or how strong his or her own self-esteem and self-worth really is that can determine how you deal with stardom or fame or having gobs of money at your disposal.

If you become successful and/or become extraordinarily good at a natural talent with which you were born, it's up to you how you pursue that talent and how you handle the notoriety that comes with it.

But don't think that you need to have everyone love you or fall all over you to make you any better than who you are. I know there are people that live for that kind of adoration and those tabloids and online dot coms fuel the fire of transgressions - whether sexual or not - day after day and those people live for that kind of fame.

But sooner or later the furor dies down and those people fade out of print until someone else comes along with new transgressions and new fuel for the fire.

Is it really worth it in the end? And if you have children, is it worth it for them to be subjected to these transgressions as well?

Tiger Woods' kids are gonna grow up and find out that their Daddy was a cheater (not on the golf course) and that their Mom went after him with a golf club as a result. Nice job, Woods. Thank you for probably contributing to the delinquency of minors of the future - your own kids.

And ditto for Monica Lewinsky. I can't imagine her having children because sooner or later her kid(s) would find out what she did and be the subject of ridicule. And I'm not inclined to think that a kid will want his Mom at his baseball game who is known as the Mom who once gave a blow job to a president of the United States, among other things.

Every kid has their limits. Perhaps celebrities should find those limits too.

Terrorist School Reject

On Wednesday morning, the town in which I live became a national focal point (and a feeding ground for media outlets around the country) when Tarek Mehanna, a resident of Sudbury, Massachusetts, was arrested on charges of plotting to commit acts of terrorism which included killing U.S. soldiers and attacks on shopping malls here in the United States. www.cnn.com, www.metrowestdailynews.com, www.foxnews.com and a whole lotta other dot coms around the world.

And at his arraignment this morning, Mehanna, 27, displayed his defiance (not surprising) when he refused to stand for the judge when the charges were levied against him in the courtroom. Only at the urging of Mehanna's father did this moronic brainless (educated) twit stand, but not after throwing his chair loudly to the side.

Nothing like starting your morning with coffee and a terrorist arrest right in your rich suburban town.

But the prompt of this blog doesn't come from the news story itself but is borne from the fact that this whack was "rejected" from being accepted into "terror camps" and therefore was unable to access the weapons used in terrorist attacks.

Let me just put my tongue in my cheek right about now and ratchet up my twisted sense of humor. While I am completely aware that terrorism is a very real issue, I cannot help but laugh at the absurdity of Mehanna's inability to get into "terror camp."

I have some questions about "terror camp." Is there an application? How much does it cost? I fork out about 1200 dollars each year for my son to go to summer camp where he swims, goes on field trips and basically has a good time sans automatic weapons and bombs and training to fly planes that will ultimately crash into U.S. buildings and kill thousands of people. I think my summer camp expense is well-spent.

What exactly does one do at "terror camp?" Well, let's see. I'm sure the "counselors" teach them how to (a) build bombs and weapons of mass destruction unless they already have them on hand; (b) hold "art classes" in which terror-camp student learn how to identify "infidels" (kind of like knowing the difference between a Van Gogh painting and a box of Twinkies?); (c) practice athletic exercises which probably include strapping on a few hundred pounds of dynamite around their waists and running distances which could be the simulation of running into crowded malls and marketplaces and blowing themselves up and taking many of the patrons of the malls and marketplaces with them. Gives new meaning to the word "blowing yourself to smithereens" although I don't think "smithereens" is in the dictionary of terrorist terms.

Let's see. Oh sure. Students at terror camps probably learn how to perfect their driving & flying skills by practicing flying planes and driving trucks or tanks or cars that will ultimately crash into largely populated areas and buildings in the United States and do that smithereens thing.

Then of course there is probably moments of prayer where these people pray to their respective "gods" (whoever that may be) to bless them and keep them safe until of course they strap on those bombs and kill themselves along with all those other people. Oh yah, and they probably pray that the feds don't find out about their planned activities because it wouldn't be much fun to be in terror camp only to have it raided by those pesty feds you know what I mean?

So here's Mehanna filling out an application and probably answering questions like: How much do you despise the United States? What is your definition of infidel? Do you wake up in the morning and hope that you will kill more than 100 people that same day? How good are you at wiring things together like bombs? Have you ever handled an automatic weapon? Where did you attend college? Are you a member of any leadership groups? Do you play any sports? Questions like that I'm sure.

And of course there may be a one-on-one interview with the director(s) of the terror camp which of course could either seal the fate of a wannabe terrorist into a gonnabe terrorist or, in Mehanna's case - a terrorist camp reject.

Question by terror camp director: "How do you feel about our program?"
Soon-to-be-reject Mehanna: "Well, you have excellent training facilities, and lots of equipment and cool stuff to make bombs with and frankly, I think my attending terrorist camp would enhance my skills to be able to commit many acts of terrorism against the U.S. government and its infidels. Oh, and I play nice with other terrorists, too."

And so on.

I'm sorry but I think this is actually humorous in my own twisted sordid way of viewing this situation. How the freak does one get rejected from terror camp? What exactly excludes someone from terror camp? Are they not sick and twisted enough? Are they not educated enough about the infidels of the country that they want to blow up? Maybe there's a medical problem like, well, glass eye, lazy eye, extra trigger finger which of course could hinder the proper use of an automatic weapon (for aiming purposes), uh, let's see, bum leg (which could hinder escape situations if escape was part of the plan but usually terror camp graduates don't escape after they commit their acts of terrorism).

I wonder if terror camp has a "don't ask, don't tell" policy?

So Mehanna was rejected (loser) and has been arrested (loser reject now criminal) and his application for terror school has been filed into the back of the filing cabinet which probably holds more rejected applications.

I told my son that terrorists come in all colors, shapes, sizes, etc. so that he understands that terrorism presents itself in all races. And that terrorists are young, are old, pray to different gods BUT have one thread in common: a deep rooted hatred for the United States. My son asks me why and I don't have an answer. But he did ask me why everyone can't just get along. I didn't have an answer for that one either.

I wanted to be a baseball player when I grew up. I had friends who wanted to be firemen, police officers, astronauts, etc. Some turned out fine, some turned out to be drug addicts and career criminals and have a permanent place in our prison system. But never in my early young life did I ever have a friend who told me he or she wanted to grow up to be a terrorist.

Are these people born and bred to hate? Where does this hatred come from? And unfortunately, many of these terrorist blur the lines between religion and war and combine the two to form the basis and foundation for their sick and twisted acts of terrorism. I think their gods need to be taken down, too.

But like Mehanna, who hid in plain sight here in my town, terrorism has always existed. Terrorism and its perpetrators are like a deadly virus that keeps mutating - it keeps getting stronger and stronger, hides in places that are just-enough-veiled from view and resists attempts to destroy it.

But every now and then, viruses and plagues like terrorist reject Mehanna get destroyed like he did when he was arrested on Wednesday morning.

Well, thus ends this blog. Oh wait, look. I just saw an ad online for a great job for which I need to go and apply:

"Electric chair switch flipper, no training needed. Part time. Easy pay. Rid the world of terrorists." Call 1-800-USA-LOVE."

I can only hope that Mehanna gets a turn in that chair in the none too distant future.

Ballon Boy Hoax

Last Thursday, my nine-year-old son and I, as well as most of the entire nation, were glued to our collective televisions witnessing what appeared to be an almost certain tragic incident unfolding on national TV: A six-year-old Colorado boy named Falcon Heene had reportedly climbed onto (or into) his father's homemade helium-filled balloon and untethered it from the backyard and balloon and boy lifted off into the sky. Witnesses tracking the balloon's journey stated they had possibly seen something falling out of the balloon. When the balloon landed, the boy was not in the balloon. News stations across the nation were broadcasting this story and websites like http://www.cnn.com/, http://www.cbs.news.com/, were clamoring for up to the second coverage of this riveting story.

My son became visibly upset when it was discovered that Falcon was not in the balloon when it landed somewhere approximately 400 miles from when it first was untethered. Jake said to me, "Mom, did that little boy fall out of the balloon? Is he dead? How come his parents weren't watching him?"

My heart was wrenched looking at the saddened expression on my son's face. And more so, he was waiting for an answer from me. I had none because I too, had those exact same questions and those exact same fears.

And within days, our fears turned to absolute and utter disgust because Richard and Mayumi Heene - the parents of Falcon and two other children - perpetrated what is now confirmed to be a huge hoax, a pathetic publicity stunt by these parents to gain national attention for themselves and their family for a possible reality show. Perhaps what is worse is that the hoax was perpetrated upon unsuspecting parents like myself whose children were traumatized and terrified that a little boy had fallen thousands of feet to the earth to his death all because his parents weren't paying attention to him.

Nice job, Heenes. Thank you for now becoming the most current pathetic, disgusting role models for parents our nation has witnessed.

If you look up the word "losers" in Webster's dictionary, Richard and Mayumi Heene's names and faces should be edited in next to the express definition and pictured on the side of same page.

What is perhaps more shocking is that the children themselves - including Falcon - were in on this hoax. Shhhhhhhh - don't tell anyone what Mommy and Daddy are going to do. Shhhhhh - don't tell the TV news anchors who are going to interview you on national TV that Mommy and Daddy told you to do this. And try not to throw up on national television when you are perpetrating Mommy and Daddy's lies, lies and more lies.

Too late.

Little Falcon did throw up probably from the angst and stress caused by keeping his parents' dirty little hoax/lie/secret. What in the world were the Heenes thinking when they decided to put their scheme into action? At the expense of their children? At the expense of the FAA, the Larimar County (CO) Sheriff's Department, at the expense of the entire nation who watched this story unfold from the balloon's journey across Colorado and possible doomed passenger right up to the continuing saga of how others may have been involved in the Heene's attention-getting pathetic excuse of a prank for a reality TV show?

I have something to say to you Richard and Mayumi Heene: You are horrible parents. You have taught your children not only to lie but to lie in the attempt to gain fame and fortune. This may not be an entirely new or novel concept but you both took it one step further and lied to the entire nation and probably to the world. You lied to me, you lied to my son, and you caused a nation of parents to grab their children and hug them because they were there to be hugged and you caused a nation of parents to wonder why you weren't there when your six year old son allegedly took off in your homemade balloon.

And you had the utter audacity to initially tell the nation that your little stunt WASN'T a hoax, blah blah blah.

Well, you losers, your lie unraveled like a thread pulled on a brand new sweater and how the entire world knows how pathetic you really are, how you used your children to gain national attention and how you are beyond pathetically poor examples of parents.

Have you any idea what you have done? Your children will now be (if not already) the brunt of jokes, torment and teasing amongst their peers. I can hear it now: Fake balloon boy, big faker, and worse of all "Hey Falcon, you're the boy whose Mommy and Daddy lied to everyone."

Nice job, Heenes. What a great example you set for your children.

And now that I know the whole sad, pathetic story was nothing but a hoax perpetrated by thoughtless liars like yourselves, I can now answer my son's question - truthfully.

Do us all a favor - move to another country so we don't have to deal with the likes of you people ever again.

Justice is NOT served

I read a very disturbing story the other day about a former Alabama judge who was indicted for sexually abusing inmates in exchange for leniency of prison sentences. http://www.foxnews.com/ Herman Thomas was a well-respected judge until allegations of his bizarre sexual proclivities surfaced, allegations that included "spanking and paddling" of inmates in his offices among other things. Charges of kidnapping, sodomy, sex abuse, extortion and ethics violations brought this judge down and he now faces 20 years to life in prison for the most serious charges of kidnapping and sodomy.

Based on what I have learned, I can't help but think how many judges there may be that allow their personal feelings on varying issues (or in this case, sexual deviances) to cloud their judgment on making decisions about cases.

Let's use allegations of alcohol abuse in divorce cases as an example of why I believe judges may look the other way when this type of subject matter is brought up (or not) in court.

In 2007, my son (who was 7 at the time) came home with a nip vodka bottle in his pants pocket, given to him by my ex-husband who is an alcoholic. The bottle contained about a 1/4 inch of vodka in it. (After his colon cancer diagnosis a year ago, my ex-husband claims he no longer drinks). My son told me he never drank anything out of the bottle and I believed him but I pretty much went off the deep end when I found this in my son's pants and told my ex husband in no uncertain terms that I was going to take him to court and ask for a modification of custody. I wanted full custody and I was going to ask for supervised visitation. My ex husband retaliated by stopping his child support to me which put me into a nightmarish abyss of debt from which I have yet to recover. He also stopped his visitation. I filed contempt charges against him, garnished his paycheck and the DOR grabbed his bank account for what he owed me in arrearages.

But when I went in front of the judge for my case - she presides in Middlesex Probate & Family Court - and told my side about the vodka bottle, also told her my ex-husband had a warrant out for his arrest in Pennsylvania for a failure to appear on a drunk driving charge and other numerous occasions when my ex would show up drunk and attempt to take his son and I would not allow him to do so. I then pulled out the vodka bottle, she very nonchalantly turned to my ex-husband and stated, "If you want to have a cocktail or two when you get home from work, it's OK. Just don't drink when you have your son." And then she reminded me that no matter what, I have to adhere to the visitation schedule and that if I didn't allow my son's father to take him based on the visitation schedule, I could be held in contempt.

It was all I could do not to run up to the bench and attack her. I was shaking with fury at her blase attitude toward my little boy's safety.

When I had time to think, I realized that perhaps this particular judge had a drinking problem and hid it well. She, too, probably drives drunk with people in her car but somehow has managed to drive under the radar of police detection. Or perhaps she has been caught and it's been hushed up and smoothed over with something the color of green.

Another Massachusetts judge wasn't so lucky. Christine McEvoy, a judge in Massachusetts Superior Court http://www.tomkileylaw.com/ was pulled over last April for an OUI. She was fined $665, received a driver's license suspension for 225 days and was ordered to attend a drinking and driving education program. And this judge REFUSED to take a breathalyzer test. And in another related story, she stated she would remove herself from drunk driving cases to which she was assigned.

Oh gee, isn't that mighty noble of you.

Two cases of Massachusetts judges - one who ignored my pleas to protect my son - and another who simply ignored the laws governing drunk driving and put people in danger of her stupidity.

Both are still sitting on the bench today. How many more of these above the law judges are sitting on the benches?

Now let me change gears and bring up another situation. A good friend of mine recently went through a fairly bitter divorce. She has a retirement account, and since her separation from her now ex-husband, has been forced for financial purposes to dip into her retirement account to pay monthly living expenses for herself and her son. She is employed but her take home pay is far, far less than what she needs to survive. Her ex-husband moved out and took up residence with his girlfriend, who coincidentally, lives in a home valued at just south of a million dollars and which she owns outright and my friend's ex husband pays no rent whatsoever.

They have a 17-year old who resides with my friend at her home.

At her divorced trial, her ex-husband produced a financial statement which basically showed he did not have a "steady" provable income (he is self-employed) and therefore, the child support awarded to her was based on the flimsy figures he put down on this statement. Her ex-husband apparently was not ordered to contribute to his son's college education, either. Why? No provable income and therefore, the judge couldn't make a calculated guess on how much of a contribution the father should make and therefore allowed the father to get away with not paying anything. Nice guy, huh?

And perhaps the worse slap of all is that the judge ordered my friend to turn over 1/2 of her retirement account to her ex husband, a retirement account to which her ex-husband contributed not one penny over the 20 plus years of marriage.

I get all the "marital assets" laws and blah blah blah. But isn't this where "discretionary judgment" can come into play? Apparently not. Oh, the judge gave her the house that she cannot afford. That makes a whole lot of sense.

There is a lot more to her case than I care to write about because I'd sling some mud that may end up back on me so I am going to refrain from interjecting all of my two cents about this.

But my point is that judges have so much power but yet they choose to ignore facts placed right before their eyes. Are the attorneys to blame for not pushing the envelope close to the judge's faces that they can't ignore the obvious? Or are the attorneys' hands tied so tightly & bound together by the fact that they already know the judges just don't care so they don't even try?

Is our justice system so clogged that a little boy's life is overlooked because a judge think it's OK to have cocktails? Apparently so. Did Judge McEvoy actually think that she was above the law when she got into her car and drove drunk? Apparently so. And did the judge in my friend's divorce case overlook the fact that the financial statement produced by her ex husband was as flimsy as x-rated lingerie? Did the judge even consider for one second that perhaps my friend's ex husband was a con artist, a bullshitter of the highest degree and perhaps take into consideration that he may be hiding assets? Apparently not.

So my friend is now left with a house that she can't afford, a retirement account she has been ordered to "share" with her ex-husband and a son whose college education may be in jeopardy because a judge didn't look more closely at one of the most important documents in the divorce case.

This is why justice is not served. And if it is, it's probably served with a five or six beers, a few cocktails and some bar peanuts. And some cash to keep everyone quiet.

Fly This Way (Not!)

I have a fear of flying. It is not an ambivalent fear but a real, deep-rooted, twisting vine kind of fear that grips me every time I see a plane or hear one flying too closely above my apartment complex. I remember the last time I was on a plane - there was a mechanical issue and the plane had to make an unscheduled landing. The pilot assured us that we were never in danger. Passengers deboarded, including myself, and were re-routed to other flights. Not me. I rented a car and drove the rest of the way (approx. 483 miles) to my destination. I never got on a plane again.

And this all happened BEFORE 9/11.

9/11 added the final vestiges of fear for what was already rendering me paralyzed from getting within a Texas-sized step of an airplane. I could just imagine me on a plane - I'd be staring at people, wondering if they had a bomb concealed in their shoe, or bombs in their cell phones programmed to detonate by the ringtone "You Dropped a Bomb On Me." I'd be scrutinizing innocent people, looking for the slightest deviation from the norm. Then of course within a heartbeat I'd be trying to catch a glimpse of the pilot, the co-pilot and trying to ascertain if they (a) were drunk/hungover; (b) had any sleep the last few days; (c) were in the middle of an acrimonious divorce, in danger of losing custody of their children and decided to simply crash the plane and end it all (including the 150 plus passengers' lives on that plane, too.). These are the kinds of twisted thoughts that would go through my head and for which verbalizing my fears would probably land me a front-row seat in the nearest insane asylum.

But I am not insane. I am quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. I just don't envision my life ending at 40,000 feet, being blown to bits but some Allah-hugging, bomb carrying whackjob who got up that morning (in the name of Allah), strapped on a homemade bomb to his waist and somehow managed to sneak through security, board the plane, stand up, recite some prayer in his native language and press the detonation button much to the chagrin of all passengers who DIDN'T get up that morning intending to die.

OK, so that's a far-fetched scenario but my point is that I'm just not good about heights, about not being able to see where I am going and having no clue as to the histories and origins of the pilots manning the plane, and those who sit next to me who are farting, wheezing and gasping for breath, spreading god only knows what germs into the already claustrophobic confines of the airplane aisles and snoring so loudly the sound coming from same could conceivably alter the gravitational pull of the Earth.

Then there's Captain Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger, the pilot who safely landed what may as well have been a plane the size of Jupiter - on the Hudson River last year after a flock of dumb-ass geese flew into the plane's engines, rendering them inoperable and forcing Captain Sullenberger to land that plane on the river. Safely. No fatalities (he saved the lives of 155 people), no breaking up of the plane, nothing. He is a hero. And as of this week, he is, for the first time since he became a hero and performed a miracle all in the same day eight months ago, is heading back to the skies. www.nypost.com./p/news/local/sully-brate.

Apparently Captain Sullenberger could not wait to get back up in the skies.

Go get 'em Sully. I'll stay on the ground, thank you very much.

My fears are not without merit. Country singer Justin Moore told The Boot http://www.theboot.com/ that he hates, flying too and, not a surprise, wonders the same thing I do about who exactly is flying the plane. Moore was quoted in The Boot as saying, "You're putting your life in the hands of perfect strangers. If I could interview the pilot before and make sure they ain't hungover or something like that, I'd be OK with that."

Well, Justin, YOU may be OK with that but I'm not OK. I would rather take my chances behind the wheel of my car any day and do battle with 18 wheelers whizzing by my Honda Civic at 80 miles an hour and creating a wind shear on the ground. At least I have some measure of control.

And I think that's what my fear is about: control. People who fly lose all control of their lives. And when they land safely, they get it back. I'm just not game about losing control of my life, even for an hour.

Flying is generally viewed as the safest mode of transportation. But the fear that grips me - and many thousands of other people - renders us powerless to find a way to "cure" this fear.

I am all too aware of the fragility of life, the vulnerability of my own life as I experience it in my day to day routine. I am consciously aware that I could get into my car today and get hit by a drunk driver, or someone texting on his or her cell phone and collide head on with me. I am aware that a deer could run out in front of my car, stop dead in its tracks and I'd be a new window display for a music store - can you say accordion? So the question I ask myself when the subject of flying comes up is why would I want to put myself at even greater risk by allowing myself to be whisked up into the atmosphere at a height of about 30,000 feet - Ish - by someone I've never met in my entire life and someone about whom I know nothing. Zilch. Nada.

There are many scenarios I can conjure up to convince me not to fly. (The recent Air France crash which inexplicably blew up or crashed after suffering some sort of weather-related catastrophic disaster) is a perfect example. I followed the news story of that crash with a heavy heart knowing that each had a story, each had a history and none stood a chance. Only a few bodies were recovered and only a few pieces of the airplane were found. A few pieces. A few bodies. I closed my eyes at night and envisioned the scene. I cried myself to sleep knowing there was an 11 year old boy on that plane - a boy only a few years older than my son - who was traveling by himself. His life ended in too short a time, as did all the others on that plane. I lost sleep for a few nights thinking about all those people. I prayed for them and I prayed that I would never have to set foot on a plane for any reason whatsoever.

I can't get over my fear. My mother chides me for my fear - she who is 78 years old and gets on planes without batting an eyelash and journeys to Florida once or twice a year to visit my brother and his family.

She wants to take my son and I to Disney World for a vacation. She wants to go to NASA, where my son intends to work someday. I want to see the Grand Canyon. I want to see the Aurora Borealis in Alaska. I want to see Alaska, period.

But my fear holds me prisoner. It has me duct-taped to the walls of my own invisible prison in which I reside because I cannot fathom getting on a plane ever again.

There are many of us with this fear. Some will conquer their fear, and some, like myself, will never find a way to get over it.

If I can't get there by car, bus, plane or train, or even boats (although iceberg issues are right up there with my fear of flying LOL), I don't go.

The Grand Canyon isn't going anywhere so I figure I'll just rent me an RV someday and take a nice, long leisurely trip across country, stand on the rim overlooking one of the most magnificent sights our country has to offer and spread my arms out to embrace the beauty before me.

With my feet firmly planted right on Grand Canyon ground, thank you very much.

Love, Life, Actually

Human beings are truly the amazing species. We have free will and choice, we laugh, we love, we love, we learn. We make mistakes over and over. Some of us keep all our mistakes original - some keep making the same ones over and over again, never to figure out what exactly we are doing wrong that prevents us from fixing these mistakes. Some of us are bound by the invisible threads of our childhoods - threads that either bound families tightly together with love, loyalty and devotion - or threads that strangled us and cut off those very same emotions, leaving us with nothing upon which to build the foundation for a future.

Some, like myself, who fell into the latter category, somehow managed to pour something akin to a solid foundation but never failed to see the cracks - invisible to most, but clearly visible to me. Throughout my life, I kept tripping over those cracks, getting caught in them, because there were gaps and spaces in my life for which I had no information or tools or knowledge to fill. Thus the cracks, thus the constant tripping. I always thought I just had big pterodactyl feet. My Tuesday morning meetings with someone has made me see otherwise. I suppose I've always known, though, it wasn't my big feet. But when success seems just an arm's length away, there comes with great clarity the realization that everything in your life - my life - has always been an arm's length away. So close, but yet so far away.

Humans are blessed with the ability to love, to generate emotions so powerful, so replete with energy and passion and devotion it is mind-boggling to comprehend. As an individual, I always thought I knew what I wanted in a mate. I knew my needs, my wants, my passions and I figured out that a mirror image of myself - not outwardly but inwardly - would be my true soul mate, the person for whom I could generate all that energy that intertwines love and passion and devotion so well.

I thought I had found that person - finally. I was not searching, I was not looking - he just happened. And I fell in love with this person, quite unexpectedly only to be told time and time and time again over the past four years that he did not feel the same way.

To love without being loved in return is an indescribable pain. You think you can love enough for both of you but it does not work that way. Humans are not meant to love one-sidedly. Love can be equated to a garden - it can grow but only with sustenance - warmth, sunlight and nurturing. With those simple components, it will flourish.

Without them, the beauty and brilliance of that garden will go unseen to the beholder and that very same garden will one day die.

Something inside of me has died. I cannot put my finger on it but I looked inside of me tonight and saw the dull, withered remains of emotions that were once brilliant and beautiful.

I do not believe that love truly dies in the sense of the word. It is more like a flame that simply winks out and all that's left are the wisps of smoke - memories of what may or may not have been.

I equate love to a garden because there is always the possibility that someone else will come along and bring it back to life, but plant different flowers, find new spaces and places upon which to coax new brilliance, new beauty with his warmth, his sunlight, his love.

Sometimes I step back and shake my head because it's hard for me to imagine that my human body - the tangibleness of it - is designed and engineered to generate intangibles: love, passion, loyalty, devotion, happiness, sadness, rage, elation. I cannot "see" my emotions but I feel them as deeply as if they wrap themselves around us like colorful ribbons.

And when those emotions are crushed and scattered with a few simple words by someone who has taken and never once given, it is difficult to believe that I as a human being can ever generate those emotions again.

But I know me very well.

And this knowledge is the most amazing thing about human beings, about me: We live, we love, we lose. But we can live and we can love again. The past is concrete - it is etched in stone, it is permanent. Nothing can change what has already occurred. Words cannot be taken back, and certainly, love can't be taken back like a dress that is too big or too small.

Love does not come with a receipt or a warranty and certainly, as I have learned, love does not come with a guarantee. But love changes, it shifts, it blends like paint colors on an artist's palette. And there is always the possibility that someone else may paint those colors of love into something more brilliant and beautiful than before.

So here I am, I live on, I change, I shift, I blend. I am resilient. I have reservoirs of strength that I have yet to test. The cracks in my foundation are still there but I intend to fill them in, smooth them over and walk without tripping or faltering.

But I have discovered that I am the beauty and brilliance of my own garden - and that will never die.

The Chronicles of Momya - Part 7

I was going to pick up where I left off at Part 6 and write about the events that transpired during the first five months of my newly found "relationship" back in 2006. But instead, I will write about what happened last night, September 13, 2009, nearly four years LATER. I did find out from this person that he does not see us in the future, or as he stated doesn't see us in the future "right now," whatever the hell that means, that I am simply a warm, comfortable body to him and that there is no emotion toward me other than the physical feelings I have always elicited from him whenever we have been together. Simply put for him: it has always been about sex and that's it. I guess I needed to hear this straight from his lips and now I have something concrete upon which I can make a decision: do I simply let him go and hope that someone else comes along (not likely); or do I remain in the place that I with him because it's safe, it's comfortable, it's familiar and it is at least a part of him which is better than having no part of him at all.

Before he came over last night, I wrote something that I translated to another language - his native language - and it said "No matter what happens tonight, you will always have my heart and I will always be in love with you." I read it to him in his language and apparently, it came out perfectly pronounced and he was taken aback at my ability to do same, and then said, "Can I have that?" I started to cry and asked him "why, why do you want this" (after he had told me that he and I were just "physical") but when he left, he had that piece of paper gripped tightly in his hand. For whatever reason, those words became important to him and in the grand scheme of things, I really meant what I said. I am not vindictive by nature, I am not a vengeful woman and I am not one to "get back" at people who hurt me. I have never wavered in how I have felt for him (ok, so I've wanted to push him in front of a bus a few times, eyed my steak knives when he was standing in my kitchen not too long ago telling me I was scrambling the eggs "wrong") and wanted to kick the living shit out of him for not calling, emailing or texting me for six freaking weeks at one point during this relationship). But never once did I ever feel like I wasn't in love with him. That has always remained - much like a tattoo

This has always been a one-sided relationship - I fell in love with him, and he adamantly stated he did not feel the same. I asked him once a year and the answer was always the same. I did not ask him this year because I already knew the answer and I think, having been armed with that knowledge, that all the questions I put upon him last night were already answered by me, I already knew how it would play out, I already knew that he stays with me because I give him what he wants, and not what he needs. And perhaps it is the same way with me. I don't want to "need" someone, I'd rather simply "want" someone because isn't great sex like a super bonus in a relationship? If you have the solid foundation, if you have all the elements of a solid relationship, isn't making love or having mind boggling sex truly just one big giant present at Christmas? That's how I have always looked at it. He and I just have the bonus part without the foundation. Our foundation was not solid it was crooked and wrong and could not support us because we started it all wrong. And he believes, as a result, that it can never be right.

Maybe he is right. Maybe you can never start over right when you begin wrong.

I do know one thing, however: I gave him my heart and he handed it back to me and pretty much said "no thanks right now" but when I woke up this morning, it was still securely in its place, beating strongly and I was still breathing, still writing and largely unchanged.

The human spirit truly is indomitable and we are tested on our strength and courage all the time. In matters of the heart, many of us simply lay down and wait for the emotional landslide to bury us, others like myself have built a secure wall to hold back those landslides when they happen. Sure, that wall may develop cracks and not be as strong as it was when it was built but cracks can be fixed. But the wall remains solid, and it stands strong against the onslaught of falling in and out of love - or simply not falling in love at all.

I recently wrote that I wanted to be a vampire because love sucks.

It may, but it's how we deal with that that makes us amazing as human beings truly are. And frankly, I wouldn't trade my "humanness" for all the Edward Cullens in the world.

The Chronicles of Single Momya - Part 6

Trying to stop yourself from falling in love is like trying to stand on the shore in front of the vast ocean, waving your arms frantically and shouting "Stop, Stop" at the waves - trying to actually prevent them from coming ashore. You can't do it. And unless you are completely and utterly emotionally challenged or just plain devoid of emotion, period, it's really, really difficult to stop yourself from falling in love. In 2006, I fell really hard, right on my head. And it was unexpected, shockingly shocking and with pretty much the last person on earth that I would ever considered (even the remotest possibility) to fall in love with. And four years later, I am still "with" him - whatever the term "with" has as a full meaning.

My high school reunion (our 26th) had been planned for July, 2006. From August of 2005, my old classmates and I gathered emails, names, addresses, etc. and sent out announcements of our pending reunion. One classmate had emailed me to let me know other classmates were here and there and one in particular was "here" (work location remaining undisclosed) and he had forwarded my email to this person. Well, thus began an innocuous communication: what have you been doing the last 25 years, are you married, divorced, kids, job, blah blah blah blah. The usual civilities and trading of information that comes when you "catch up" and secretly think how your life just might suck compared to someone else. This particular guy who will remain unnamed because of circumstances that are, unfortunately, unchanged after four years, was someone I knew only fleetingly in high school and with whom I walked the halls and just "knew" because he was in my graduating class. For fear of revealing his identity now, I will simply call him BD - short for Bad Dog because that has been his nickname - one I dubbed - since the night we met. BD is and never would have been my type. I've always gone for the bad boy looks - the dark brooding eyes, just dark and brooding, period. I mixed in athletes here and there but that bad ass look always caught my eye. BD is so far from that "type" I am just not sure where he fit in to my grand scheme of things. But certainly, he wasn't then in high school my type - back to that remotely even remote description, but somehow that typecasting of my "type" evaporated on January 20, 2006, or actually, certainly, specifically, five months after that date.

BD and I exchanged a barrage of emails over a two week period in early January. One such email he sent to me was in response to my married/divorced/children questions email. He answered me "divorced, now engaged but unsure." That statement puzzled me - it was not really the kind of thing you tell someone after 25 plus years, someone you've really never ever talking to, seen or had any kind of a relationship whatsoever. A frown etched itself in my brow that day (which, suffice to stay is now still there after four years of consternation and frustration over this one little statement) but within a few seconds of his response, I shrugged it off and plunged on. We suggested a mutual meeting, lunch, or whatever just to "catch up." He remembered me: the sports writer, my love of baseball, etc. That's how all my high school friends remember me because there was nothing else that I did in high school which required any more memories of me. Sports and Paula, particularly baseball, went naturally together like apple pie and vanilla ice cream. He remembered somehow, or why, as I asked myself.

We met on January 20, 2006, a day after my 43rd birthday. I went to meet him with no expectations whatsoever because at that point in my life, I wasn't looking for anything - no one, nothing. He got out of his truck and I greeted him with a hug. The usual display of friendliness after you haven't seen someone for 25 or more years. He didn't rock my world. He was exactly the same height as me (I like tall guys), he rocked some really cool hair and his eyes - well, I had always been drawn to eyes and his were this liquid deep brown color and they crinkled when he smiled and laughed. But what woman wouldn't notice stuff like that? But there was no "spark," no "electricity" no nothing. He was just BD.

We sat for nearly 2 and a half hours talking and talking and talking. We didn't run out of things to say to each other. Frankly, now that I look back, I should have seen this coming. You don't just meet someone after 25 plus years, sit down and be able to talk to them for that amount of time as comfortably and as, well, normally with someone you've known for that length of time. That just does not happen at all.

We laughed ourselves silly over so many things. And then it was time to go. We walked out to the parking lot and I stood next to my car, keys in hand. I think I said "well, I had a really nice time," or something inane like that and he took one step, got in my space and kissed me.

I can't sit here and say I was shocked because it went beyond that. I'm not sure if it was the kiss or the fact he was unsure about his engagement and he was just trying me on for size or the millions other things that went through my head because kissing him BACK seemed like the most normal, natural thing to do in the world.

And he fit perfectly to me, I didn't have to bend down or stand on my toes. He just fit to me. Perfectly. He stepped back, I had no words so I laughed. And so did he. I said "Look, I have to go," and he said "Maybe I should follow you home" and I laughed again and said, "You are a bad dog. Go home." And he looked at me, burst out into this amazing laughter, and said "I'll talk to you real soon" walked away, turned back and looked at me one more time and got into his truck and left.

I was still standing there, holding my keys in my hand, wondering what the fuck had just happened. I touched my fingers to my lips - I know - lame - but because he was the first, uh, different kind of guy who had kissed me (I have no choice but to say it that way because I'd end up revealing his identity with any other choice of words and I can't do that) I realized that aw hell, he kisses just the same.

But somehow that kiss was better and different. And then I squashed my thoughts, cleared my head and went home.

I did not sleep that night. All I heard was our laughter, all I could feel was his lips still on mine and then I realized what a terrible mistake he'd made.

Or was it?

Four years and four hundred breakups and make ups later, I now know it wasn't a mistake but realistically two people who really belong together - the last two pieces of a really intricate puzzle - but can't be "together" in the sense that word is meant to be used in this kind of relationship - because that "engaged but unsure" statement was and still is an invisible, two-ended, sharp serrated knife that if either of us move too close to each other, that knife will surely rip us apart.

OK so five months later I moved way too close to that knife and it ripped me open, bearing my heart and soul and I realized I had fallen in love with the goddamned bad dog that went home that first night but came back two weeks later and just kept coming back again and again and again.

And is still hanging around.

Tomorrow: Bringing me back to life, doubt, pain, and questioning my sanity.

Keep Your Pants On

I am not one to knock other people's religions or beliefs but there are just some beliefs that are just way too whack for me to understand. In a story on AOL today, a Lubna Hussein, a female Sudanese journalist was convicted of "public indecency" because - heaven forbid - she wore a pair of pants in public. http://news.aol.com/article/sudanese-journalist-lubna-hussein She has refused to pay the $200 fine and has stated she'd rather spend a month in prison. She had faced the possibility of a public flogging (oh, lovely) but the judge ordered her to pay the fine instead. Now, hear me out on this: I can understand if she sprinted outdoors naked and ran through the streets denouncing the country's president, police force, judicial system in general - you get the picture - or some other type of indecent crime as us common-sense type folks here in the United States see it - but this reasonably attractive professional woman who was wearing a very lovely head covering and matching shirt (I believe this head covering is in accordance with the laws but forgive me if I do not name it properly) and a matching pair of brown trousers. Oh my God - she wore PANTS in PUBLIC. And worse, the judge ruled "Hussein's outfit indecent" and he imposed the $200 fine. He also was quoted as saying that "her clothes violated traditions that a woman should only "adorn themselves" for their husbands and not in public. You know what I have to say to that: Hey judge, kiss my ass. See? This is what I mean about going too far with beliefs. In this day and age, women are still treated pretty much like shit. There is a country where women's sexual organs are mutilated and removed; women are publicly beaten, flogged for insubordination to their husbands or male relatives; and perhaps the worst and most horrific act - murdered with approval of the male's family. But this woman - she wore a pair of pants in public. That is her crime. And government spokesman Rabie Abdel Attie said Monday that Hussein's defiance of paying the fine and making her case so public and her denouncement of the morality of such a ridiculous law (including the public flogging punishment) "is not a way to change the law." And Attie went on to state that "Changing the laws goes through officials, and it is a continuous matter looked into by the parliament," he said. Let's see. Public flogging of women who wear pants in public: Causes humiliation, embarrassment. horrific injuries which can result in permanent scarring of one's body and/or back, possible infections resulting from same, etc. etc. etc. Nah, no need to change the law. Is THIS the mindset of these idiotic lamebrained morons who run the government over there? I KNOW these laws have been in place for eons but do these men really believe that they are RIGHT and that the laws should STAND as is???? Yes, they do. And that's the worst part of it. Attie's last quote was ""These courts are not convened without a crime. Lubna was convicted and she should respect the law." If I was Lubna Hussein, I'd be foaming at the mouth, wishing I could PUBLICLY tell that government spokesman clown Attie "Hey, do me a favor, will ya? Just keep YOUR pants on because I would not want to see how small your balls are compared to mine."

The Chronicles of Single Momya - Part 5

I moved into the "low income housing" apartment complex and settled in for the most part. I had a job that I hated and my employer made me cry many times because he was at the beginning of his own divorce and was taking out his bitterness on me. I could not quit because I desperately needed the money. The other attorney in the office was giving me work that I genuinely loved doing but still, it was a struggle to get up and go to work every single morning. My son was thriving, loved going to his day care provider's home and at least I knew he was safe, cared for and loved while I worked.

I tried not to think about myself at all. I was still so grossly overweight and disgusting that I couldn't even think about dating again. Perish the thought. I would have rather drank battery acid than get involved with anyone.

I checked out the neighborhoods around and realized I could simply start walking. I bought an IPod Shuffle, loaded it with songs, bought myself a decent pair of sneakers and got off my fat ass and started walking. I lost myself in the music and just let my legs carry me as far as I could go.

Small changes but I'd begun to take steps to make those changes.

Days flew by. It was time to go to court and get the divorce rolling, custody and support issue in place. It had been three years and my ex husband was literally non-existent in my son's life. My son didn't know any better and for that I was glad. But I knew better and each year since my son had been born, I had grown wiser and stronger.

I was warned that the judge would simply look at incomes, issue a support order and probably grant joint legal custody. My divorce would be quick and simple for the most part since I didn't have any assets (I had a big ass but no assets) and neither did my ex-husband. Court came and went, support order was in place, visitation was scheduled but nothing changed. My ex was always late with support, a few times checks bounced and he usually bailed on visitation. 2003 came and went.

In 2004 I enrolled my son in nursery school. He loved being with other children. 2004 also brought the Red Sox a World Championship, the 1st in 86 years. My son was too young to understand its meaning, but it meant a big deal for me. My ex husband was in and out of our lives, in and out of his son's life, missing important milestones, birthdays, etc. I begun not to care anymore. At some point in time, I realized I had never been in love with my ex husband. There had never been anything there at all. He wasn't even my type. I began to tell people I was temporarily insane when I had said I do.

My walking began to pay off. The pounds began to come off, slowly, but they came off. I didn't look as hideous (on the outside) anymore. I could look at myself again without the deep disgust. I realized that it had been six years since I'd had sex, the last time being when I got pregnant. I wasn't sure if I missed it or if I simply yearned for intimacy and closeness with another human being - something I never had with my ex husband.

In August, 2005, I was laid off from my job because my son was starting kindergarten and at the time it was a morning/afternoon program - not full day and my employer could not accommodate the schedule I had laid out. So the other attorney offered to take me on and let me work from home, or in the office, whatever suited me. OK, so God was listening. The transition was easy and life continued as I knew it. My son LOVED school. During the school year I got wind that a kid had been bullying my son. Apparently this went on for about three months until I found out about it, and my son had enough and punched the bully in the eye. I got a call from the principal's office about the incident. I had to choke back my laughter at the thought of my kid punching this other kid.

I taught my son not to ever start a fight, but don't back down from one. And even at that young age, he had already figured out he had taken enough of the BS from this kid. And popped him. Of course, I had to discipline him (slightly) but I told him I probably would have done the same thing.

The kid never bothered my son again.

An old classmate from high school contacted me about planning a "late" 25th high school reunion for 2006. It would actually be our "26th" reunion. That kept me busy the latter part of 2005.

I began to receive emails from old classmates, and information for classmates who had scattered around the country. And then something happened. I met up with an old classmate - someone who I knew simply as a guy in high school with whom I walked the same halls but someone who I had any kind of a friendship with. I was too much into sports writing and baseball and he was simply trying to fit in. He came to high school late - he was 2 years old than all of us. And there were other issues that I choose not to name in this blog because it would name him, and for the past four years, I've protected his identity for a very specific reason.

In January, 2006, my life changed as I knew it then.

Tomorrow: the bad dog who would not go home, feeling alive again, falling in and out of love.

The Chronicles of Single Momya - Part 4

It was time to get a job and think about child care though the thought horrified me. But with the help of some caring friends and a little luck, I was able to land both almost at the same time. My son gleefully embraced his new daytime home and I landed a decent job with a real estate attorney although I didn't know the difference between a mortgage and the back of a wildebeest's behind. But I learned. And I began earning my own money, I got off of welfare and ended up picking up some more work from another attorney in the office in which I worked. Days and nights blurred again, my son turned two. He began talking and I settled into a somewhat routine of single parenthood. My ex husband was not around but I somehow managed on my own. My vow of celibacy was taking its toll - I was still young, in my eyes, but when I gazed upon myself that old self-loathing and self-disgust python of emotions crept back up and strangled me. Physically, I felt I was doomed. Emotionally, well, it was anybody's guess.

Sometime in mid-2002, my landlord informed me he was selling the two-family he owned - and in which I was residing and I would have to move. The fear of homelessness was even greater than anything fear I could imagine. There was no one with whom I could reside, nevermind with a 2 year old son along. I lost sleep, I lost weight (not the way I wanted) and I spent my days consumed with the fact I was now going to end up on the streets.

I do not remember who, or when, or where I was but someone mentioned a low-income housing complex in the town I now reside. The town is known for its wealth and its mansion-like homes and apparently, the apartment complex was considered "the town ghetto." I remember taking a drive to the complex and was stunned at how well-maintained the grounds were. But appearances are deceiving as we all know. But I didn't care. I wanted in. I filled out an application and waited and waited and waiting. Fall and winter came and went and with it my hopes. My landlord kept pressing me about finding a new place to live. I had nothing to tell him and frankly, he didn't care. His wife didn't either - she just wanted me gone. Period. She and I never saw eye to eye and it was evident when I planted some beautiful mums in the little garden space on MY side of the two-family - my son LOVED those flowers and she came knocking on my door one day and informed me that she had to go out and buy the same mums because "her side looked bare and ugly because of me." I don't remember what I said but I remember wishing a house would fall on her during the next tornado.

Spring of 2003 brought elation: I had been approved for an apartment in the low-income housing complex. I drove to it again, filled out paperwork and scheduled to move in July 1, 2003. I wanted to see the apartment first so I asked a woman I saw walking around with two children in tow if I could check out her apartment. She agreed. The apartments were the size of cereal boxes but I had a porch, a view of the field in back of the complex and oh yes, I could see dead people from my apartment: I faced the funeral home across the street. Lovely.

But it would be mine and I could afford the rent. And I had a roof over my head as long as I played by the rules (there were many) and didn't commit any crimes, etc.

I remember hugging my son and praying that somehow, we could provide a better life than what he'd had so far. But my prayers went unanswered. The worst was yet to come.

Tomorrow: Custody issues, rollercoaster rides, and loneliness.

The Chronicles of Single Momya - Part 3

I didn't have a clue as to what I was doing with a newborn. I had no relatives around me, no friends to whom I could turn and ask for support - I was all alone - and scared out of my mind. My ex-husband had left to find a better life in a bottle. I was penniless, jobless and ready to be institutionalized. And that lasted about a day until I decided, ah, hell, I can do this. I've never quit anything before. And then I realized that this 9 pound load was a human being who was going to be dependent upon me for every thread of his life - at least until he was 18 and probably even after that. But I did know one thing: I was absolutely, forever irrevocably in love with my son. And like a mother wolf, the fiercely protective instinct welled up in me like a volcano erupting with unimaginable force.

Until of course I discovered that I was a miserable failure as a woman/mother because these grotesquely huge boobs that hung lifelessly on my chest were exactly that - lifeless. No milk, nada. And frankly, and I am sure that I will be hung up and tarred and feathered for this comment but I was glad. The thought of my breasts being used for food disgusted me beyond comprehension - ugh. Gross. When I called my OB and explained same, he said "get some formula, he'll be fine." So I did and my kid thrived. He ate like a pig, burped up enough "blah" probably to fill those bottles right back up but he gained weight, he smiled, he crapped, he peed and he thrived. That's all that mattered to me. I guess I was doing something right.

I was able to get on welfare. I got food stamps and WIC and state-assisted health care. My ex husband did not give me child support and I did not know where he was. Jumping ahead - he was pretty much absent the 1st four years of my son's life. Perhaps it was just as well. I learned how to survive on my own - but then again, I had been doing that pretty much since I was 8 years old but that's another story for another day.

I learned how to change diapers with ease. I made my own "nap" schedule for my son and of course for me. I learned how to heat bottles just right. I learned about vaccinations and fingerprinting my son. I learned about car seats and onesies and twosies and socks and more socks. Days blurred and blended into months. The seasons came and went. I was still alone and my body was as heavy and disgusting as ever and I vowed that I would NEVER have sex again.

Actually, I figured no one would ever want me again.

And just for the record: I was not TRYING to get pregnant when I found out I WAS pregnant in September 1999. I had been on the pill since I was 17 years old (25 years) and never, EVAH been pregnant. But I developed a bad case of bronchitis in Sept. 1999 and was eating antibiotics like they were going out of style. And THAT, said my doctor, was the real reason I became pregnant. I went "huh?" and he said, "Duh, don't you know that antibiotics can kill the effect of the birth control pill?" And I screamed after 25 FUCKING years is THAT what you are trying to tell me? And he shrugged, smiled and said "I can draw you a picture, too, of the other way." I politely declined then decided if I wanted to kill myself then or wait a day or two.

This was my luck. And that bad luck was going to be my life. I was going to pay for all the bad things I had done which were not really bad by the usual means but I figured this pregnancy and subsequent single parenthood future was going to be a punishment - a banishment from life as I used to know it.

At 8 months, disaster hit and my kid came down with a stomach virus that lasted for six weeks. Nothing would stay in that kid's stomach and once again, the fear I had quelled over the past 8 months - I figured I was skating through this single mom job and not doing too bad a job - wrapped itself around me like a constricting snake. As if the life hadn't been squeezed out of already.

Somehow, someway, my son survived and so did I. His first birthday came and went. It was summer, July, 2001. I remember the clarity of the day. I was sitting on the back porch with my son. He was in a diaper, his blond hair glinting in the sunlight. He grabbed a hold of a chair or something and pulled himself up. He looked at me, smiled and took three steps to me and fell into my arms in a gale of giggles and smiles. And then I realized so THIS is what it's like.

Of course when he said "Mama' for the first time, I knew I could do this. I knew I could win this battle I thought I had lost when I hadn't even started fighting.

Tomorrow: Job Search, Child Care Search and Starting to Let Go - Just a little bit at a time.

Single Parent Musings - Part 2 - Choices

Last night, my ex husband and I were discussing the fact that he owes me a sizable sum of money based on a stipulation in our divorce agreement. He is supposed to pay half of all summer camp expenses every year for our now 9-yr old son and he is supposed to pay half of one sport per season for our son and he's supposed to pay half of all school-related activities and supplies. He owes me just south of $3,000.00. Since July, 2008, he's only given me two hundred dollars.

In the conversation, which surprisingly enough was pleasant and not heated, he attempted to turn the conversation around - steering it away from what he owes me by asking me why I didn't "put my education to better use" and "get a better job" which translates into if I made more money, he wouldn't have to pay me as much child support. The child support I receive from him has been the same amount for six years AND just for the record, it's a 3-figure monthly amount. My ex stated to me in no uncertain terms that the amount I receive from him will be good enough until our son is 21 years old. I'm sure many of you - if not all - can guess what my reaction was to that lame assumption.

Let me explain about choices. I did not "choose" this life of "poverty." I did not "choose" to live in the "ghetto." I did not "choose" NOT to be surrounded by loving relatives and close friends upon whom I can depend in emergencies. I made one bad choice - marrying my ex-husband - and the domino effect of that choice created a nearly 10-year landslide of devastating effects. My ex and I split up right after my son was born but our marriage had been doomed even before I said I do. I believe I was temporarily insane when I said those two words - I should have run screaming from the church saying "I DO NOT " and headed underground. But alas, I am not a mind reader and obviously, one lapse in judgment of character and choice of husband started downward slide in my life.

My ex husband is/was an alcoholic which was the sole reason for the demise of our very short lived marriage. When I found out I was pregnant - a mere 4 months after I said those fateful words - I did not experience a profound sense of joy, I did not embrace pending motherhood in any way, shape or form. I felt raw terror, cold fear and a sense of doom that I never had in my life.

Those emotions were right on target.

I did not want children for two reasons: (a) I wasn't altogether convinced I'd be a good mother because my role models for parents - particularly my father - were lacking in the nurturing and bond departments - two of the biggest ties that bond parents and children together; and (b) I was terrified of being pregnant.

But my son wasn't a shirt I could take back to the store so I accepted my fate be it as it was. My ex husband felt no joy at all - he took to his beer for the next nine months and left me pretty much to deal with an already worsening situation.

My pregnancy was a nightmare. My stomach came in the door before I did and my son must have thought he was an Olympic gymnast for I was kicked and punched from the inside every day as soon as he figured out he could. I hated the way I look. I gained weight just by looking at food although I tried to eat healthy. It was a losing battle. My kid kept growing and so did my belly. I was this hulking, stumbling monster, grotesquely stretched and pretty much wishing I would just die. When my water broke, that's about all that happened. I prayed that I would have a c-section because the thought of pushing an oversized watermelon through something the size of a keyhole was terrifying beyond comprehension and I figured I could survive being sliced opened more than I could having a "natural" birth. I don't do pain very well. And as it turned out, I never went into labor and did end up having an emergency c-section because my blood pressure skyrocketed and my son's heart rate dropped to almost nothing. We both barely survived.

But there he was, almost 9 pounds and there I was, horribly disfigured, horribly deformed and wondering if life was worth living.

There are no books a parent can read to tell you what to do. There are no google sites that say explicitly THIS is how you become a parent. You don't "become" a parent - either you are or you aren't. And my ex wasn't and his absence from right after the birth of my son to the next four years was clear indication that I was going to do this parent "thing" alone. My "choice" to marry him in 1999 was now becoming an undeniably and irrevocably a daytime nightmare that was going to last for a long, long time.

Tomorrow: More Choices and I Don't Have a Clue What I am Doing.

Single Mom musings Part 1

As I sit here with my coffee, five days before my 9 year old son begins fourth grade, I am thinking about my life as I know it: a single parent, pretty much singlehandedly raising my son (alone) and that my big picture just a short 10 years ago did NOT include my life as it is right now.

I saw the movie Julie and Julia a few nights ago about a woman who decided to cook her way through Julia Child's cookbook "Mastering The Art of French Cooking." The movie's character, Julie Powell, had always been chided about never finishing something she started. I connected with this character on a sub-level: I have six or seven unfinished novels in my computer. I lie in bed at night and write chapters in my head - good, solid, chapters to capture readers' attentions and propel them into turning the pages of my book long into the wee hours of the morning. But then my alarm goes off and I am startled awake by reality and those solid chapters fade away like the dreams I had during my sleep. I WANT to finish just one and I BELIEVE that I will but the question is when?

Single parenting is like searching for the elusive giant squid - it exists, surely, but trying to capture it to study is nearly impossible. There are no fullproof books on single parenting because there is nothing fullproof about parenting, period. I just made it up as I went along. And nothing prepares you for the fear (the kind of fear that the universe is going to collapse right on top of your head with all the weight of the planets, galaxies, etc. ) that you experience being a single parent. The basic five questions that start with "who, what, where, when and why" become quadrupled by about 40 billion. Congratulations: You suddenly have become responsible for another living, breathing human being that depends on you for all of its life's needs/wants/desires 24/7, 365 and within five years, you lose your identity - your first name has morphed into two names but names that have infinite staying power: I am now known as "Jake's Mom."

Funny, though. As someone who never envisioned herself having children because my father was (and remains) such a lousy role model, for someone whose mother gave passivity an entirely new meaning but has since become a force to be reckoned with at 78 years old, I honestly didn't think I'd be a candidate for the position of mom. Now, however, a mere 9 years later (and one nightmare of a pregnancy), I am now convinced that (a) my son is here for a specific reason TBD; and (b) he is my greatest accomplishment. I still live with that universal collapse fear every day but I've dodged enough incoming destructive asteroids that I now believe I can handle this job fairly well. OK, well, passably well. I'm not about to cook my way through Julia Child's book but those book chapters in my head are in a file drawer somewhere in my brain just waiting to be opened and written down. For now, this blog suffices as my creative outlet.

Tomorrow: Choices.

Drive Me To Blink

I pride myself on the fact that the only ticket I've received in my entire life was when I was 16 years old and speeding home with Chinese food on the front seat of my piece of shit Chevy Nova. My father told me in no uncertain terms that it would be my first and last ticket I would receive "as long you live under my roof." Well, two years later I lived under MY own roof and nearly 30 years later I remain ticketless.

However, years of driving on various roadways in Massachusetts and during the years I lived in Florida have hardened me to a point where I no longer have sympathy or empathy for ANYONE on the roads. My compassion has reached an end, the end of my rope is now dangling from my neck and this column is aimed at all you bad drivers, particularly those of you who do not use your blinkers.

Ah, blinkers. Those little lights positioned on the front and backs of car, on both left and right sides, that go on and off, on and off when you flip the long circular type rod attached to your steering wheel in your car either up or down that effectively gives the person behind you and coming at you a good idea of which direction you are about to go.

Or so you would think.

A little history lesson on turn signals, blinkers, flashers, indicators. Believe it or not, turn signals were NOT offered in automobiles until 1939. Hand signals were used which was not a bad idea unless the person behind you figured you were just sticking your hand out the window to check the air temperature or just for no apparent reason whatsoever.

My conclusion is that until 1939, the human race as we know it here in North America were mind readers. Or so you would think. Buick was the first automobile manufacturer to install turn signals in its cars but not until the 1940s were auto manufacturers making them a regular component of cars.

What a novel idea. Install a simple directional gadget that would actually, quite possibly, perhaps simplistically reduce the numbers of accidents, fender benders, etc. etc.

But here we are, 70 years later, and a large number of the population of drivers are still relying on mind-reading of other drives to replace their own use (or lack thereof) of turn signals.

For example: Picture yourself at a busy intersection. You are trying to turn right (you DO have YOUR turn signal on so the person behind you knows EXACTLY where you are going and you are watching the oncoming traffic on your left. If you see a turn signal, most likely that car is going to be turning right and you can go forth right effortlessly.

Wrong.

How many times have your cursed and sworn at the drivers who turn right (no blinkers in use) and you sit there seething because you could have turned right yourself but instead you find yourself screaming at the person behind you who is honking his or her horn at you and in response via your rearview mirror and a few subtle hand gestures pointing to the oncoming cars and your head, you convey to the bozo behind you that you are NOT a mind reader and do NOT want to get t-boned just because some moron either (a) doesn't use his turn signal and turns anyways; (b) has his turn signal on for no apparent reason whatsoever and DOESN'T turn or (c) you give up and resort to the simple wave of your hand forward next to your head which means in no uncertain terms: If you don't like being behind me, fly over me asshhole.

Then we have those drivers who are driving and then decide at the very last blink of an eye second to make a right or left turn without using the blinkers (like it's the most natural thing in the world) and you, of course, in that blink of an eye second, slam on your brakes so as to avoid ending up in their trunk not because you were following too closely but because the loser in front of you had an itch that needed scratching and decided to turn right or that to accomplish same.

Then as you are pushing your stomach back down into its rightful place, you watch in utter disbelief as the driver gallantly turns on his or her blinker during the end of the turn.

Another novel idea. Blinkers on during or after the turn.

This is where the "L" gesture comes in. Too many road rage incidents have escalated to maiming and worse - murder - as a result of the "bird" gesture. I have chosen instead to use the "L" gesture as a means of replacement for my middle finger. And frankly, many times I've found myself wondering exactly why the term "flipped the bird" has anything to do with our middle finger? I've seen a lot of birds in my life and not one of them look like my middle finger. Go figure.

Back on track, the "L" gesture is simple: Hold your index finger and your thumb on same hand up and form the letter L and place against your forehead so the offending turn-signaless driver can see.

This gesture effectively conveys a seemingly incongruous message: Loser.

Or as Jim Carrey would say: Lu-uuu-UUU-UU-ser.

Frankly, most bad drivers don't get the L on the forehead gesture which is probably just as well because I may not be sitting here writing about this turn signal issue if that were the case.

But considering I have a child and have had to tamp down my temper many, many times as a result of these lovely "losers" not using turn signals, and the very fact I try to keep my swearing down to a bare minimum so as to not influence my child into thinking I have a "potty" mouth, the L on the forehead has been quite effective.

How many times have you driven up behind someone and sat there wondering "duh, which way are you going?" And perhaps you've tried to anticipate left and sneak around to the right only to find yourself a part of a metal sandwich - one that you did not create. And the driver who turned you into that sandwich is hurling profanity laced epithets at YOU because you tried to be a mind-reader.

How many times have you driven around a parking lot looking for a space and watched the aforementioned snag a prime space that you were just about to turn into because YOU had your blinker on and he or she did not. That theft of space calls for far more than the L on the forehead, trust me. But I don't recommend revenge of any kind because usually people end up in the intensive care and/or in jail as a result thereof.

What is so difficult about moving your third finger on your left hand slightly and pressing down or moving up on the 6 to 8 inch rod that is attached to your steering wheel? Do you have any idea the sighs of relief that would ensue if you would only make a concerted effort to move your finger not even an inch? Heaven forbid you might strain your back or neck or go blind moving that finger but isn't it worth it to do it to say, save your car from becoming a new brand of Oreo cookie or perhaps save you from becoming a crash test dummy?

My father used to say to my mother when she was learning to drive "you'd put your blinker on in the Sahara desert." This coming from a man who didn't wear his seatbelt and who used to turn completely around in his driver's seat on 495 south going at about 80 miles an hour to try and backhand his children because we were being too loud.

In defense of my mother, at least she uses her blinker. OK, so she puts it on about a mile from the turn she wants to make but hey, she's making the effort, correct?

There exists, of course, another group of drivers who actually DO use their turn signals and for a reason that still escapes me, leave on the turn signals for miles and miles while the other drivers' brains are being collectively fried like chicken on a grill as a result of the collective mind reading that is going on in dozens and dozens of cars trying to figure out if the bozo with the turn signal still flashing is actually going to turn.

I can only surmise that most of those mind-reading drivers are collectively praying for a right turn off the nearest cliff.

Will someone please explain to me how you cannot SEE that the turn signal is still on 50 miles after you've turned? Doesn't it go something like "clicka, clicka, clicka" inside the car and the amber or yellow colored light is flashing on/off about one foot in front of your face? Isn't that slightly annoying or slightly distracting IN THE LEAST FREAKING WAY - AT ALL??????

These very same people who either don't use their blinkers or who do use them in excess must be the very same people who invented the bumper sticker which states "If you don't like my driving, get off the sidewalk."

I'll blink to that.

David Ortiz: Say It Isn't So Big Papi

For those of you who do not follow baseball, more specifically the Boston Red Sox, - or for those of you who do - a story broke about a week ago that one of the Red Sox's most beloved player, David Ortiz, tested positive for PED in 2003. For the acronym challenged, PED stands for "performance enhancing drug."

The law firm in which I work has five attorneys and one of them walked up to me and made this statement to me: "David Ortiz is on the list."

I was blindsided to say the least because Ortiz is the very last person in baseball I would suspect of taking any kind of drugs, nevermind a PED.

The "list" is a list of names - many of which have been leaked to the press - of more than 100 baseball players who tested postitive for performance enhancing drugs in Major League Baseball's 2003 anonymous survey to determine the extent of use of PEDs in baseball. More than 5% of players tested in this anonymous survey testing turned up positive results which prompted MLB to institute a drug policy that included testing programs and penalties for failed tests - including suspension. Most recently, Los Angeles Dodgers and former Red Sox player Manny Ramirez served a 50-game suspension for testing positive for PED.

But David Ortiz? Of all the players in baseball, Ortiz is the epitomy of all that is good about baseball: as a player, he unselfishly contributes to his team on the field, and unselfishly gives so much of himself back to the community off the field. David Ortiz's smile could inject light into a black hole. He is Big Papi.

Say it ain't so.

To date, Ortiz has yet to find out exactly the drug for which he tested positive. According to an Red Sox blog posted on boston.com, a source stated that paperwork and court proceedings are necessary to gain access to the information, i.e the actual test results, and that the test results and any correlating information is in the hands of the federal government as a result of Congress' investigation and subsequent hearings of illegal steroid use/PEDs in baseball.

Fans will recall that the Minnesota Twins released Ortiz in 2003, who, back then, was an average player and whose time with the Twins will be remembered by injuries and inconsistencies - not by the player that David Ortiz became when he joined the Red Sox in 2003. Fans like myself who lived through the agony of 1975 and worse, 1986 - saw Ortiz become a magical baseball wizard in 2004 during the ALCS when the Red Sox were at the brink of elimination, down 3 games to none against the New York Yankees. Behind the magic of Ortiz - and a bunch of other "idiots" that year, the Red Sox did the unthinkable, winning four straight games and defeating New York to advance to the World Series, and ultimately win their first World Serie championship in 86 years.

Ortiz's stats in 2004 were mind-boggling: In his second season with the Red Sox, this was his first full year as the Sox's DH. Ortiz was voted onto the All Star team - a first in his career. He batted .301, hit 41 home runs and had 139 runs batted in. Against the Yankees, Ortiz hit an unbelieveable .400 with five home runs and 19 RBIs. He had multiple game-winning hits during the wild card games with the Angels, during the ALCS with the Yankees which helped advance Boston to and ultimately win the World Series. I still get chills when I think about 2004. Ortiz's post-season magic garnered an MVP honor for the American League Championship Series.

In 2005, Ortiz hit 47 home runs and the following year in 2006 he hit a new Red Sox record of 54 home runs surpassing Jimmie Foxx's old record of 51 single season home runs.

In 2007, Ortiz was once again instrumental in leading the Red Sox yet again to the World Series, their 2nd championship in 3 years. Ortiz played the entire 2007 season with a torn meniscus in his right knee, and various nagging injuries to his shoulder but managed to finish the year with a batting average of .332. He hit 35 home runs.

Ortiz was beleaguered with a wrist injury in 2008 and finished the season batting .264, his lowest since joining the Sox. And this year, Ortiz went through a horrendous slump but has managed to climb out of that hole with grace and dignity. He did not make excuses. He took himself out of the lineup because he knew his presence was only hurting the club.

It takes a special kind of ballplayer to do that.

But this story of Ortiz's steroid/PED use has blindsided and staggered fans. Some were quick to judge Ortiz and label the Red Sox's two World Series championships as "tainted." Others like myself want only evidence, hard-core proof.

Ortiz has never backed down from the press. He has always been accomodating and gracious and he openly stated that he will get to the bottom of this and will share any information he receives with his team, with the press and with the fans.

When the rest results are obtained, and David Ortiz steps up to the plate and says it IS so, he will have to be the one to deal with this. For whatever the reason he tested positive, whatever it was he ingested or injected or drank or rubbed on his body - who knows - he is the only one who really knows the truth.

Is David Ortiz a genuine victim of his own ignorance? Or is he the biggest hypocrite the Red Sox fans have ever seen?

I do not condone drug use of any kind - in routine life or in sports. Illegal drugs of any kind endanger your health, your children, and others. PEDs are cheating drugs but worse - no one knows what kind of reaction a player will have to a PED. Is it really worth the risk of finding out? Is bonus money worth finding out if your heart will stop or if you will suffer various organ failure or your emotions become so unbalanced that your friends become your enemies instanteously?

No amount of money is worth that - at least in my opinion. But according to that list, and to those who testified and those who got caught - apparently the pressure to perform - and earn that money - is so great that PEDs are just another day at the gym.

For some players like Jose Canseco, Raphael Palmeiro, Alex Rodriguez, Manny Ramirez and many others I could spend hours naming here, that gym, and all the weight it carries, came crashing down on their heads.

I hope that David Ortiz is able to bear that weight with dignity, grace, strength and more importantly truth - all those important qualities that have made Big Papi who he is to Red Sox Nation - when he uncovers exactly what happened in 2003.