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.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
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.
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.
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