There is something so comforting about making dinner in a kitchen in which I can twirl around (yes, I said twirl but not I am not a ballerina) and be able to look about and see space and light and - freedom.
My son and I moved into our new home a week before Christmas and I am still in awe. I want that awe factor to remain. This home gave me freedom. Matter of fact, considering the dark dungeon in which I resided with my son for 7 1/2 years, it may as well have been a prison. So now that I am "out" of prison, I do not know how to act - or react.
Last night, one of those reactions surfaces when my friend Sharon arrived for dinner and I opened my front door to her and felt .... pride ... for the first time in many, many years. I welcomed my friend inside and gestured with my arm out, smiling, that this is my home. I am no longer a prisoner. But I am still trying to act like it's mine. I'm still trying to get used to opening my blinds to let the light in. And when I do, I can see outside, the trees swaying in the (chilly) winds, I can see my neighbor's home, but I can see light and MY driveway and MY walkway, MY yard and I cannot wait for spring so I can plant MY flowers and a peony and lilac bush. And to those who know me, those two particular flowers have special but bittersweet places in my heart and hopefully will have a special place in which to grow outside my home.
But when Sharon and I sat down to dinner (she admitted she didn't like pot roast but clearly, the clean plate didn't mirror her distaste for pot roast so that makes me some sort of pot roast goddess ha ha ha ha), I felt the pride grow. This was normal. My son and his friend Mike were running amok in the house and making noise and stomping and being typical 10 and 11 year old boys. I no longer have to shush my son or squash his footsteps because there is no one below us, no one above us to care about the noise. And other than trying to eat dinner with Sharon with a Lego Nerf gun poised over my shoulder and my son ducking under the table to avoid being shot, and me wondering if the nerf bullet was going to end up in the green beans, I was genuinely relaxed. I still have my neurosis, though, about the stairs because when my son was a toddler he fell down the stairs in my old home and it scarred me. Clearly,watching him take the stairs on fleet feet and listening to me scream HOLD THE RAILING every time he comes down the stairs with those fleet feet, well, it's going to take time for me to perhaps let go a little bit of that fear.
And yes, I did go upstairs a few times because the boys seemed to think that my bedroom was way more fun in which to play and hide and being ON my bed was the perfect battleground podium for the Nerf wars. So the ceiling was creaking crazily and the lights flickered with every stomp but the laughter coming out of my son was the best music I've ever heard. It's been a long, long while since I heard my son laugh the way he did last night. And I want that laughter to continue. I will make it continue.
The best part of having dinner with a friend I haven't seen in a while is talking about all the events - good and not so good - that has transpired over the months of not seeing one another. So, let's see. We talked about men and how some possess eerily similar traits likened to a jellyfish (spineless), the Lion in the Wizard of Oz-pre-wizard (cowardly), a penis that appeared on Facebook briefly (Sharon found that - I didn't get that lucky LOL) .... near-genius men who break up with women over the phone and near-genius men who make plans for a date then mysteriously disappear with blocks of ice firmly frozen over their feet.
I personally think the "cold feet" cliche should be re-visited and "ice blockhead" should replace it because clearly some men "freeze" in the face of a possible date, some sort of a possibility of - oh heavens - a budding relationship - and we women simply wish that when men freeze, the neutrons, electrons and protons and neurons and brain waves that control their ridiculous views of how to "deal" with - gasp - a relationship - would unfreeze and be completely re-arranged so that common sense becomes the center of all brain activity.
But that would be asking way too much of the male species.
A song by new artist Christina Perri comes to mind, this particular line "you're gonna catch a cold from the ice inside your soul who do you think you are."
There is just something so wrong, so ridiculous and so immature about a 50 year old man who breaks up with a woman over the phone. Crying. He was crying, Sharon. I'm sorry but I'm sitting here laughing because I can hear the echos of all parents who say to their cryings kids "If you don't stop crying, I'll REALLY give you something to cry about.!" Hmmm. maybe I should have said that to him and mentioned casually about how I could take a little drive to his house, stand out front and scream at the top of my lungs YOU BROKE UP WITH ME OVER THE PHONE YOU SHORT FAT (you know what) ROCKET SCIENTIST JELLYFISH PUKE JERK.
Yep, that would probably work way better than the "I'll give you something to cry about" line. hee, hee.
So over pot roast, roasted potatoes with Fanny's Italian dressing and parmesan cheese and steamed green beans, Sharon and I commiserated about the other half of the human race that occupy space on this planet but seem to have their collective heads stuck either on their asses, on backwards or just non-existent.
Sharon met up with a classmate at our most recent reunion, who, according to Sharon, grew up to be quite "hot." (is that the cougar term or is that a universally used term for men of all ages?). When you go to a reunion, you USUALLY just chat about inane drivel, gossip fiercely about anyone and look around and try to figure out who's losing their hair, who's sleeping with who and the usual reunion chitter chatter.
And Sharon informed me that my intuition of one classmate's sexual preference for men was right on the money but frankly, all I can say is kudos to him for walking into the reunion with leather pants on and not caring about what anyone thought. Now THAT'S self confidence and self-esteem that any human being would kill to possess. Of course, Sharron believes it is a waste of hotness that this particular classmate is gay. Ha, don't we all feel that way sometimes? I look at American Idol runner-up Adam Lambert that way. Damn. Just give me 10 minutes with him. I'd make a valiant attempt to turn him around!!!!
But back to the "hottie" classmate with whom Sharon found herself engaged in conversation and who was peppering Sharon with personal, one-on-one questions of Sharon's life and genuinely seemed interested in Sharon. Period. And over the course of the few months, they both communicated and ultimately set up a date for December 9th which Mr. Cold Feet Clueless In The Head bailed on her and stood her up. That Dec. 9th date seems to be a bad karma day because I relayed to Sharon that was the day that SHORT FAT (you know what) ROCKET SCIENTIST JELLYFISH PUKE JERK broke up with me (crying) over the phone. So Sharon has the pre-50 year old man just bailing on her, period, and my 50-year old acting like he's effing 12 with his phone break up shenanigan.
And people wonder why women like their power tools. Take 'em out of the drawer, turn 'em on and voila. Instant gratification without all the whining and bitching and whatnot. And then they go back into the drawer. Why can't handling men and their quirky whacky ways be as easy as that?
Anyways, the dinner was great, Sharon's company even better and the sound of the laughter of two boys having fun echoed throughout the house.
Freedom. It comes in different forms, at different times.
And Sharon, the theological part of our conversation - that was truly interesting. But like you said, faith is an intangible and most of the human race want something on which to place their hands - to touch, to see, something concrete. But faith isn't that.
It's like the Red Sox of 2004 when they were down 3 games to zip to the Yankees in the ALCS. I went out on my back porch, looked up in the sky and said "can we get a LITTLE help here?"
Look what happened after that.
So sometimes, with a little faith and sure, a little bit of cynicism mixed in - sometimes you just gotta believe.
Lining up another friend for dinner. Any takers?
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Open Letter to President Obama re Gays and Marriage
Dear President Obama: The best freedom I have in this country is my choice to write a blog addressed to you without the fear of being stigmatized -- or arrested. But since you are the President, I will remain respectful for same reason.
Let me ask you a question: Are we not all members of ONE race upon this earth? Yes, we are. The HUMAN race. And as such, we should all be entitled to equal rights. Who are you, or anyone else, to take a stand and offer your opinion as to who should be able to marry, or be entitled to health insurance or the rights to which we ALL should be entitled living in this country?
I recently read a story that you are "wrestling" with gay marriage. Why? Why or how does it affect you? It doesn't affect me or my son so why should it affect you?
Let me toss up my two cents. Why does it bother so many people that men fall in love with men and women fall in love with women, form solid relationships and stay together long-term? Is it the sexual part of that that bothers so many? Let's leave out the religious part of this scenario because I'm not so sure God is happy with the fact that people are being discriminated against for their sexual orientation.
Why shouldn't gay couples be able to marry like, well, other human beings? I'm not going to sit here and write "like regular people" because gay people ARE REGULAR PEOPLE. They are humans, they have thoughts,emotions, they have jobs and families and dogs and fish and cars and homes. Don't you? You just live in a way bigger home and have a really important job.
But do you see my point? Why should gay people be denied the fundamental rights that "couples" are afforded when they marry? If a husband lands in the hospital and is near death, the grieving wife is freely allowed to sit by him and pray for his recovery. If a gay man lands in the hospital and is near death, his "partner" or spouse is railroaded and sometimes turned away because he's not considered a "spouse" or immediate family. Is that fair? Gay people have the exact same emotions as you and I. They love, they laugh,they cry, they grieve, they smoke cigarettes, they make decisions, they have checkbooks, etc.
Gay people pay taxes.
What is the big deal about allowing gays to marry? IT ISN'T A BIG DEAL!!!!! It's only a big deal because someone DECIDED that oh, look what the bible says and oh, the rest of the human race has to abide by these rules and regulations of the bible. Seriously? Do you actually think God sits up there and frowns upon gays?
No, he does not. He gave us free will, independence and choices. If He didn't want us to have those things, then why did He give them to us? We can't judge God and blame him for anything - we as humans are the ones to blame because we have the freedom to choose.
And living in this country, the freedom to choose who we love, who we marry and with whom we raise children should not be an issued on a podium, on a piece of paper, read by you as the President or anyone else. When you got married, did anyone shred you to pieces? No. When you were elected President, however, it was a different story. The first BLACK President. Why in the WORLD did the color of your skin matter/ Does the color of your skin run the country? Nope. It's the man upon around which the skin is wrapped around who runs the country.
My point is that gay people are just like you and me on the inside. Some are flamboyant and loud and stand up for their rights - or what those rights really should be. Some are quiet and humble and stand in the background and wait for someone to say hey, it's OK to be you.
It should ALWAYS be OK to be who you are without someone pointing a finger, or passing judgment just because as a man or a woman, your chemical makeup in your body attracts you to the same gender.
Why is this such an issue? Why does "straight" and "gay" have to be separate and apart words? We are human beings. Period. We choose mates, some for life, some for a day, some for months. We choose either to have children or not. Human beings are either good or bad.
But for you to "wrestle" with allowing gay marriages and allowing HUMAN BEINGS to be afforded the same rights as any other married couple - now that's really sad and discriminatory in my opinion.
While the repeal of the "don't ask, don't tell" law was FINALLY initiated (and that was based upon the same principals about what I just wrote) your "wrestling" with gay marriage and the rights of gay couples still bothers me greatly.
It should be NO ONE'S business - at all - who we choose to love, who we choose to marry. Certainly, our friends and family can blah blah blah their opinions all they want but in the end, we as humans make our own choices and act freely and independently because God gave us those rights.
Shouldn't you, as President of the United States, act freely and independently and allow gay married couples the same rights as you and I have?
This isn't rocket science, Mr. President. This is simply about giving human beings the same rights as other human beings who are married, who love, who laugh, who cry, who eat, who sleep, who dream, who own big dogs and little dogs and play basketball with their kids and who pack lunches and make dinner and take their cars in for repairs and who pay taxes and buy holiday cards and presents and who celebrate life and who grieve at death?
We are all the same, Mr. President. We are bound together by one undeniable, nondestructive fabric: we are all members of one race: the human race.
And we should all be afforded the same rights when it comes to marriage.
So please stop wrestling with your conscious or a piece of paper or a pages in the Bible. This isn't about men having sex with men, or women having sex with women. This is about people who simply want to marry and be afforded the same rights as everyone else. This is why we live in America. This is why we have these kinds of freedom.
And above all else, no one should have the authority nor the right to determine what is a marriage, or what determines the sanctity of marriage. What matters is that people want to choose who they love, and if they choose to marry them, let them. And celebrate the marriage in the same manner as everyone else does. And allow them the same rights as we all have. I refuse to to separate "gay" and "straight." That would be unconstitutional now, wouldn't it?
And you should know of all people, Mr. President, should know all about what's constitutional - or not.
Thank you.
Let me ask you a question: Are we not all members of ONE race upon this earth? Yes, we are. The HUMAN race. And as such, we should all be entitled to equal rights. Who are you, or anyone else, to take a stand and offer your opinion as to who should be able to marry, or be entitled to health insurance or the rights to which we ALL should be entitled living in this country?
I recently read a story that you are "wrestling" with gay marriage. Why? Why or how does it affect you? It doesn't affect me or my son so why should it affect you?
Let me toss up my two cents. Why does it bother so many people that men fall in love with men and women fall in love with women, form solid relationships and stay together long-term? Is it the sexual part of that that bothers so many? Let's leave out the religious part of this scenario because I'm not so sure God is happy with the fact that people are being discriminated against for their sexual orientation.
Why shouldn't gay couples be able to marry like, well, other human beings? I'm not going to sit here and write "like regular people" because gay people ARE REGULAR PEOPLE. They are humans, they have thoughts,emotions, they have jobs and families and dogs and fish and cars and homes. Don't you? You just live in a way bigger home and have a really important job.
But do you see my point? Why should gay people be denied the fundamental rights that "couples" are afforded when they marry? If a husband lands in the hospital and is near death, the grieving wife is freely allowed to sit by him and pray for his recovery. If a gay man lands in the hospital and is near death, his "partner" or spouse is railroaded and sometimes turned away because he's not considered a "spouse" or immediate family. Is that fair? Gay people have the exact same emotions as you and I. They love, they laugh,they cry, they grieve, they smoke cigarettes, they make decisions, they have checkbooks, etc.
Gay people pay taxes.
What is the big deal about allowing gays to marry? IT ISN'T A BIG DEAL!!!!! It's only a big deal because someone DECIDED that oh, look what the bible says and oh, the rest of the human race has to abide by these rules and regulations of the bible. Seriously? Do you actually think God sits up there and frowns upon gays?
No, he does not. He gave us free will, independence and choices. If He didn't want us to have those things, then why did He give them to us? We can't judge God and blame him for anything - we as humans are the ones to blame because we have the freedom to choose.
And living in this country, the freedom to choose who we love, who we marry and with whom we raise children should not be an issued on a podium, on a piece of paper, read by you as the President or anyone else. When you got married, did anyone shred you to pieces? No. When you were elected President, however, it was a different story. The first BLACK President. Why in the WORLD did the color of your skin matter/ Does the color of your skin run the country? Nope. It's the man upon around which the skin is wrapped around who runs the country.
My point is that gay people are just like you and me on the inside. Some are flamboyant and loud and stand up for their rights - or what those rights really should be. Some are quiet and humble and stand in the background and wait for someone to say hey, it's OK to be you.
It should ALWAYS be OK to be who you are without someone pointing a finger, or passing judgment just because as a man or a woman, your chemical makeup in your body attracts you to the same gender.
Why is this such an issue? Why does "straight" and "gay" have to be separate and apart words? We are human beings. Period. We choose mates, some for life, some for a day, some for months. We choose either to have children or not. Human beings are either good or bad.
But for you to "wrestle" with allowing gay marriages and allowing HUMAN BEINGS to be afforded the same rights as any other married couple - now that's really sad and discriminatory in my opinion.
While the repeal of the "don't ask, don't tell" law was FINALLY initiated (and that was based upon the same principals about what I just wrote) your "wrestling" with gay marriage and the rights of gay couples still bothers me greatly.
It should be NO ONE'S business - at all - who we choose to love, who we choose to marry. Certainly, our friends and family can blah blah blah their opinions all they want but in the end, we as humans make our own choices and act freely and independently because God gave us those rights.
Shouldn't you, as President of the United States, act freely and independently and allow gay married couples the same rights as you and I have?
This isn't rocket science, Mr. President. This is simply about giving human beings the same rights as other human beings who are married, who love, who laugh, who cry, who eat, who sleep, who dream, who own big dogs and little dogs and play basketball with their kids and who pack lunches and make dinner and take their cars in for repairs and who pay taxes and buy holiday cards and presents and who celebrate life and who grieve at death?
We are all the same, Mr. President. We are bound together by one undeniable, nondestructive fabric: we are all members of one race: the human race.
And we should all be afforded the same rights when it comes to marriage.
So please stop wrestling with your conscious or a piece of paper or a pages in the Bible. This isn't about men having sex with men, or women having sex with women. This is about people who simply want to marry and be afforded the same rights as everyone else. This is why we live in America. This is why we have these kinds of freedom.
And above all else, no one should have the authority nor the right to determine what is a marriage, or what determines the sanctity of marriage. What matters is that people want to choose who they love, and if they choose to marry them, let them. And celebrate the marriage in the same manner as everyone else does. And allow them the same rights as we all have. I refuse to to separate "gay" and "straight." That would be unconstitutional now, wouldn't it?
And you should know of all people, Mr. President, should know all about what's constitutional - or not.
Thank you.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Rest In Peace Lt. Scott Milley, Sudbury, Massachusetts
My 10-year old cried Saturday morning as he and I and several others stood alongside Route 20 in Sudbury and watched as Lt. Scott Milley was brought out of Duckett's Funeral home and place with utmost care into the hearse. Military personnel surrounded the vehicle, and a group of motorcyclists lined the circle of the funeral home, saluting this young man who life was lost on Nov. 30th in Afghanistan. We watched in silence as the funeral procession began, and my son clutched a yellow ribbon in his hand.
My son's tears were born of compassion - such an amazing quality for a young boy to display. Compassion for the brothers and sisters of Lt. Scott Milley, compassion for Lt. Scott Milley's parents, his friends, all the military personnel, everyone whose lives this brave young man touched in such a short time.
It is indeed a true human being with a good heart who can step outside of his/her life - no matter how difficult the turmoil one may be experiencing at that moment - and take a look at someone else's life and feel heartache, sadness and compassion for those people who are suffering far, far more than they.
My son and I did just that Saturday morning. I cried as a mother because it is unfathomable to me the grief the Milley family is experiencing right now. Lt. Milley - in life and death - touched thousands of people - including ours because my son and I have resided in Sudbury for 7 1/2 years and felt the right thing to do was to stand where we stood, with our hands over our hearts and pay our last respects to a young man we did not know personally, but who we came to know through friends, through news stories, through pictures. We are a part of this town and the show of support, love, encouragement and faith of the residents in Sudbury for the Milley family has been overwhelming and astounding.
All of us at one time or another should step back and just for a few minutes - look around and see that while our worlds are being turned upside down - perhaps someone elses's has been broken apart in pieces and is is far worse than ours, and if we can find it in our hearts to show a little bit of compassion, perhaps we will have a better understanding that we all deal with our own difficulties, but for parents to lose a child - I believe that is the most difficult, heartbreaking and heartwrenching situation to deal with above all else.
Rest in peace, Lt. Scott Milley. God has an amazing protector for Heaven. I hope someday to meet you - not only to say thank you for protecting my son and I's freedom - but for being such a big part of so many lives in such a short time.
You touched mine and my son's from afar, and I am sure there are many others who will echo that same sentiment.
You will be so missed and loved by so many forever.
My son's tears were born of compassion - such an amazing quality for a young boy to display. Compassion for the brothers and sisters of Lt. Scott Milley, compassion for Lt. Scott Milley's parents, his friends, all the military personnel, everyone whose lives this brave young man touched in such a short time.
It is indeed a true human being with a good heart who can step outside of his/her life - no matter how difficult the turmoil one may be experiencing at that moment - and take a look at someone else's life and feel heartache, sadness and compassion for those people who are suffering far, far more than they.
My son and I did just that Saturday morning. I cried as a mother because it is unfathomable to me the grief the Milley family is experiencing right now. Lt. Milley - in life and death - touched thousands of people - including ours because my son and I have resided in Sudbury for 7 1/2 years and felt the right thing to do was to stand where we stood, with our hands over our hearts and pay our last respects to a young man we did not know personally, but who we came to know through friends, through news stories, through pictures. We are a part of this town and the show of support, love, encouragement and faith of the residents in Sudbury for the Milley family has been overwhelming and astounding.
All of us at one time or another should step back and just for a few minutes - look around and see that while our worlds are being turned upside down - perhaps someone elses's has been broken apart in pieces and is is far worse than ours, and if we can find it in our hearts to show a little bit of compassion, perhaps we will have a better understanding that we all deal with our own difficulties, but for parents to lose a child - I believe that is the most difficult, heartbreaking and heartwrenching situation to deal with above all else.
Rest in peace, Lt. Scott Milley. God has an amazing protector for Heaven. I hope someday to meet you - not only to say thank you for protecting my son and I's freedom - but for being such a big part of so many lives in such a short time.
You touched mine and my son's from afar, and I am sure there are many others who will echo that same sentiment.
You will be so missed and loved by so many forever.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Are You There God, It's Us - Paula and Jake
Open letter to God:
Dear God: You know, I am wondering if you just put on your Ipod some days to take a break from the prayers everyone tosses up to you. While I believe that justice prevailed in my eviction case and that pyschopath's lies were ultimately FINALLY seen to be just that - lies - (even though I did pray that Jake and I wouldn't get evicted); AND I asked you for help in getting us out of this horrendous place in which we reside (I got a call Friday that may allow my son and I to FINALLY move), you still haven't answered my biggest prayer.
I can't get to Point B without Point A. And since I don't have Point A, I'm going nowhere.
Why did my own mother forsake me? Am I that rotten a daughter? No. Have I made mistakes? Yes. But nothing that brought shame or humiliation upon her or my family. You know I've never been arrested, I don't drink so obviously I don't drive drunk with my child in the car, I don't do drugs (except for the Coumadin for my blood clots and the Lorazepam so I can sleep-sometimes), I work every day, I don't beat my child or expose him to violence, I choose my friends carefully, I've been with the same man for going on six years, I pay my bills on time even though I am burdened with debt and my Jurassic Park Honda Civic is falling apart at the seams (as cars begin to do when they hit 100,000 or more) and you KNOW I don't have the money to keep fixing it and I can't help but feel a bit of fear every time I drive it wondering if something goes wrong is it going to harm my son in any way.
Why won't my own mother who has more than a half a million dollars in the bank help me? What is she so afraid of?
And it's clear that she ISN'T going to help so what do I need to do to get a little help in a big way? Am I doomed to stay in this cereal box in which we live? Yes, I understand there are far, far worse off people in this world. I can't fix that. I'm a realist. I have to think about my son. Maybe someday I CAN make a difference. But RIGHT NOW, I need to make a difference for my son and myself.
And I just can't seem to catch one little break.
Maybe you aren't listening anymore. Maybe all you hear is blah blah blah.
Have you given up on us?
Dear God: You know, I am wondering if you just put on your Ipod some days to take a break from the prayers everyone tosses up to you. While I believe that justice prevailed in my eviction case and that pyschopath's lies were ultimately FINALLY seen to be just that - lies - (even though I did pray that Jake and I wouldn't get evicted); AND I asked you for help in getting us out of this horrendous place in which we reside (I got a call Friday that may allow my son and I to FINALLY move), you still haven't answered my biggest prayer.
I can't get to Point B without Point A. And since I don't have Point A, I'm going nowhere.
Why did my own mother forsake me? Am I that rotten a daughter? No. Have I made mistakes? Yes. But nothing that brought shame or humiliation upon her or my family. You know I've never been arrested, I don't drink so obviously I don't drive drunk with my child in the car, I don't do drugs (except for the Coumadin for my blood clots and the Lorazepam so I can sleep-sometimes), I work every day, I don't beat my child or expose him to violence, I choose my friends carefully, I've been with the same man for going on six years, I pay my bills on time even though I am burdened with debt and my Jurassic Park Honda Civic is falling apart at the seams (as cars begin to do when they hit 100,000 or more) and you KNOW I don't have the money to keep fixing it and I can't help but feel a bit of fear every time I drive it wondering if something goes wrong is it going to harm my son in any way.
Why won't my own mother who has more than a half a million dollars in the bank help me? What is she so afraid of?
And it's clear that she ISN'T going to help so what do I need to do to get a little help in a big way? Am I doomed to stay in this cereal box in which we live? Yes, I understand there are far, far worse off people in this world. I can't fix that. I'm a realist. I have to think about my son. Maybe someday I CAN make a difference. But RIGHT NOW, I need to make a difference for my son and myself.
And I just can't seem to catch one little break.
Maybe you aren't listening anymore. Maybe all you hear is blah blah blah.
Have you given up on us?
Sunday, November 21, 2010
I Wonder If President Obama Has Ever Been Evicted
This country is supposed to be "land of the free, home of the brave." This country operates under a justice system where one is "innocent until proven guilty."
I wonder if President Obama was ever served with an eviction notice. I wonder if he ever felt the fear of losing his home and perhaps having to live in his car.
Right now, for my son and I, freedom has contingencies attached to it. And bravery? How does one be brave in the face of execution by eviction? How does a single mother explain to her child that the words on this piece of paper are enough to take away our home? How does a single mother struggling to survive explain to her son about injustice, and abuse of power, about retaliation and about the bad people in this world who have nothing and will never have nothing because they are just bad, bad people?
Freedom means sleeping in peace. Freedom means waking up knowing my child is safe. Freedom is having a chance to make my son's dreams come true.
Those contingencies? They are landlord references, credit reports, criminal records (or not in my case), they are exceptions to the rules and regulations like if my son can finish fifth grade at his school so I don't have to traumatize him any more than he has been in the past six months, having enough money to move and having enough money to feed my son and clothe him.
Bravery. My son has been brave. He has weathered the possibility that we could have been homeless - all based upon lies. I don't know how he did that. I fell apart because I lacked bravery and courage to withstand the "weapons in the form of words" that were rocket-launched at my son and I; we were ambushed by the management company all because of the lies fed to them by an unstable and unbalanced woman, then sealed neatly in an envelope and delivered to me in my mailbox without explanation.
It was an execution on paper. That's what Notice of Termination of Tenancy is - an execution on paper. And where I live - you don't get a chance to defend yourself.
At all.
This management company took away my freedom to defend myself. They took away my right to prove my innocence. They took away my courage. They nearly destroyed me - and my child.
I am thinking right at this moment that I desperately need a break - a miracle if you will. I am consumed by the tremendous debt I carry - not unlike thousands of other people. I am sure the prayers to God are the same - help us, help our children. I know I am not alone.
But I am alone. It is just my son and I. I do not have family around me. I do not have the wealthy relative who will willingly give us money and wave a hand and say "don't worry about paying it back. I know you'll do the right thing."
I do not have wealthy friends who will reiterate the same.
I am alone. The debt has not been incurred by frivolous means. Statements show charges for groceries, for clothes, for those godforsaken car repairs, for school pictures and Christmas presents. There are no extravagant purchases. My ex-husband owes me close to $3,000 for non-child support stipulations spelled out very clearly in our divorce agreement. He has been chipping away at it. But had he been paying his half of what he agreed to do all along, I would not be in this financial black hole.
So now, that awful creatures that lurks in this financial black hole is reaching out its tentacles and wrapping themselves around me and threatening to choke the life out of me because on Friday, I received a call that my name came up on a list for a two-bedroom duplex here in town. I have been waiting for that call for nearly five years. But my elation was not there. I was gasping for breath as I was being choked by the financial octopus of debt -and fear.
I was, to say the least, blindsided by this good news. But I immediately felt despair because part of the paperwork to be filled out is a "landlord reference" which I know is standard, but I am terrified that the property manager will blackball me and I will not get the home I want so desperately. And get my son safe.
And there are variables. My 16 year old vehicle is beginning to break down little by little except that "little by little" has meant $500.00 out of my pocket within 3 weeks, 2 different times and now that pesky "check engine" light suddenly appeared like a supernova flash on my dashboard. My Honda Civic manual states it is a "malfunction control lamp" and further reading led me to a problem with one of the engine's emissions control. This is not surprising. The car is old (like me) and for all I know it's emitting some lethal gas into the atmosphere that will have the Save The Earth Police coming after me soon. Maybe that's not a bad thing?
But it is just another repair, another bill, and I am at the end of my rope. With no car, I cannot work. If I cannot work, I cannot move. And I cannot move, I can't get my son safe and try to piece back together everything that fell apart since July.
I prayed to God that we wouldn't get evicted. He answered my prayer but truly, the law prevailed because the property manager didn't have a case, it didn't have credible witnesses - or any witnesses at all - and it didn't have any hardcore evidence to support it's reasons for issuing me the Notice of Termination of Tenancy.
And now once again I feel shame and humiliation for thinking ahead that I now have to fight for this home that perhaps could be a new beginning for my son and I all because one person - one evil, vicious, soulless woman decided it would okay to steal what didn't belong to her and when I called the police to report the crime, she retaliated in the worst possible way with her lies - and the property manager believed her without ever hearing my defense. And since it never went to trial, I still never got a chance to defend myself.
I want this home. I want to get out of this awful place and away from the daily visits by the local police, away from the domestic violence and screaming and yelling and the trash left around the common areas because many of the people who reside in this place simply don't care about anyone - or themselves. I can't count how many times the police have taken people away from here - in the parking lots and out of apartments - in handcuffs. A woman left her two-year-son alone in the apartment because she wanted to go out. The fire department had to break down the door to get to the child. The child was clad only in a diaper and covered in its own feces. There are women getting beaten by their "baby's daddy" or by the "baby daddies" and won't report the violence out of fear, out of losing financial support, out of love. The SWAT team has been here a few times. One tenant was involved in a home invasion and the owner badly beaten and he was arrested here a few years ago. A rape occurred last year here - in a laundry room. I walked around with a baseball bats for months out of fear. I went to management and asked if perhaps security cameras could be installed in the laundry rooms for the future safety of tenants.
I was met with disdain and was told "you people don't get stuff like that."
I wonder if I had written to President Obama and asked HIM if he could arrange to have security cameras installed here. Would he have told me "you people don't get stuff like that?"
You people. I am a human being. So is my son. But somehow, the property manager who made that statement to me displayed a lack of concern as if I was nothing more than the bottom trash in a landfill.
You people.
Is this how they view us?
Frankly, if the police are called, I'm not sure exactly how management finds out unless they peruse the Cops and Courts section every day looking for transgressions by a tenant. I seriously doubt it. That would mean doing their job.
The tenant across the hall from me who started the nightmare from which I am still reeling - her own boyfriend was led out of here in handcuffs twice - arrested for assault and battery and defacing property and the second time he said he was going to kill himself in front of her. But he's still living here. And she has two kids who have been exposed to the countless domestics that have occurred within their apartment. And one of her sons is the one who stole my mail - and the tenant KNEW her son had stolen my mail because she admitted to it but she didn't give a shit. Her response was that she was going to beat her son and she told me to press charges so she could "lock her son up in a mental institution."
Nice mother. She ought to be locked up - not her son. Her son is a product of her and her actions and reactions and god only knows what she has exposed her children to in their young lives.
The walls are thin. You can hear everything. I hear my neighbor peeing every morning in the bathroom at the same time. I hear the same neighbor above me and next to me having sex. That's how thin the walls are. I don't explain to my son what the "noises" are. He doesn't need to know.
I understand this is common in many, many places.
But I have to get out so I can save my son. I want him to be safe above all else. I've told him there are more good people in the world than bad but all he has seen here is the bad.
And what does that say about the management company? It turns a deaf ear and blind eyes to the most serious situations as long as you pay your rent. Its philosophy is "if it doesn't affect you, shut up and don't complain." But yet there is a specific paragraph in the Occupancy Agreement about tenants' rights to "quiet enjoyment." Apparently, management's interpretation of that is far different than the tenants' interpretation. So instead, management distributes memos about "inappropriate disposal of chicken bones and diapers and trash," and makes statements like "this is your HOME. Take care of your HOME."
It is a double-edged sword. And management lies in wait to use it for any tenant who breaks the rules. But yet we are not allowed to defend ourselves.
I feel the fight going out of me but I think I have one last fight left. The one person who is most important person to me, the one person whom I love to infinity and beyond, the one person whom I desperately want to have a chance to find his niche in this world and be somebody and perhaps change the world and make his dreams come true:
My son.
It's always been about him because he is all I have in this world. There is no one to "take care of us," there is no one person in my life - or in my heart - that will rescue us and give us the life we want so desperately.
So I'm it. And my son is worth fighting for more than anything or anyone in this world.
And that's not being selfish - that's being a mother.
We need help in a big way. I just don't know how to reach out to strangers and ask. I know people have done it. But I don't know what to say: Help me save my son? His dad has colon cancer. His dad is only 46 years old. I don't know how much longer he will be on this earth. My health is teeter-tottery because of the severe emotional distress I've suffered for the past six months. I don't know what kind of damage lurks inside of me. I am afraid I will go to sleep at night and never wake up and that's how my son will find me.
I can't heal unless I can get out of here, relieve the awful financial burden I carry and get my son safe. The only saving grace is that he is doing very well in school. He is happy there, he has many friends. Kids are drawn to him like magnets. He has a heart of gold, he is compassionate and caring and kind. He reaches out to other kids when they need a friend. He is smart and wickedly funny. He has a thirst for knowledge and a million questions every day. He stares up at the sky and wonders if perhaps someday he will discover something new and amazing. He wants to work at NASA. When he tells me that, my heart does something extraordinary - it beats with the knowledge that perhaps I have instilled in him the ability to dream - and dream big.
And I want to make those dreams come true for my son.
But I need a fighting chance to do so and we need help.
I wonder if President Obama was ever served with an eviction notice. I wonder if he ever felt the fear of losing his home and perhaps having to live in his car.
Right now, for my son and I, freedom has contingencies attached to it. And bravery? How does one be brave in the face of execution by eviction? How does a single mother explain to her child that the words on this piece of paper are enough to take away our home? How does a single mother struggling to survive explain to her son about injustice, and abuse of power, about retaliation and about the bad people in this world who have nothing and will never have nothing because they are just bad, bad people?
Freedom means sleeping in peace. Freedom means waking up knowing my child is safe. Freedom is having a chance to make my son's dreams come true.
Those contingencies? They are landlord references, credit reports, criminal records (or not in my case), they are exceptions to the rules and regulations like if my son can finish fifth grade at his school so I don't have to traumatize him any more than he has been in the past six months, having enough money to move and having enough money to feed my son and clothe him.
Bravery. My son has been brave. He has weathered the possibility that we could have been homeless - all based upon lies. I don't know how he did that. I fell apart because I lacked bravery and courage to withstand the "weapons in the form of words" that were rocket-launched at my son and I; we were ambushed by the management company all because of the lies fed to them by an unstable and unbalanced woman, then sealed neatly in an envelope and delivered to me in my mailbox without explanation.
It was an execution on paper. That's what Notice of Termination of Tenancy is - an execution on paper. And where I live - you don't get a chance to defend yourself.
At all.
This management company took away my freedom to defend myself. They took away my right to prove my innocence. They took away my courage. They nearly destroyed me - and my child.
I am thinking right at this moment that I desperately need a break - a miracle if you will. I am consumed by the tremendous debt I carry - not unlike thousands of other people. I am sure the prayers to God are the same - help us, help our children. I know I am not alone.
But I am alone. It is just my son and I. I do not have family around me. I do not have the wealthy relative who will willingly give us money and wave a hand and say "don't worry about paying it back. I know you'll do the right thing."
I do not have wealthy friends who will reiterate the same.
I am alone. The debt has not been incurred by frivolous means. Statements show charges for groceries, for clothes, for those godforsaken car repairs, for school pictures and Christmas presents. There are no extravagant purchases. My ex-husband owes me close to $3,000 for non-child support stipulations spelled out very clearly in our divorce agreement. He has been chipping away at it. But had he been paying his half of what he agreed to do all along, I would not be in this financial black hole.
So now, that awful creatures that lurks in this financial black hole is reaching out its tentacles and wrapping themselves around me and threatening to choke the life out of me because on Friday, I received a call that my name came up on a list for a two-bedroom duplex here in town. I have been waiting for that call for nearly five years. But my elation was not there. I was gasping for breath as I was being choked by the financial octopus of debt -and fear.
I was, to say the least, blindsided by this good news. But I immediately felt despair because part of the paperwork to be filled out is a "landlord reference" which I know is standard, but I am terrified that the property manager will blackball me and I will not get the home I want so desperately. And get my son safe.
And there are variables. My 16 year old vehicle is beginning to break down little by little except that "little by little" has meant $500.00 out of my pocket within 3 weeks, 2 different times and now that pesky "check engine" light suddenly appeared like a supernova flash on my dashboard. My Honda Civic manual states it is a "malfunction control lamp" and further reading led me to a problem with one of the engine's emissions control. This is not surprising. The car is old (like me) and for all I know it's emitting some lethal gas into the atmosphere that will have the Save The Earth Police coming after me soon. Maybe that's not a bad thing?
But it is just another repair, another bill, and I am at the end of my rope. With no car, I cannot work. If I cannot work, I cannot move. And I cannot move, I can't get my son safe and try to piece back together everything that fell apart since July.
I prayed to God that we wouldn't get evicted. He answered my prayer but truly, the law prevailed because the property manager didn't have a case, it didn't have credible witnesses - or any witnesses at all - and it didn't have any hardcore evidence to support it's reasons for issuing me the Notice of Termination of Tenancy.
And now once again I feel shame and humiliation for thinking ahead that I now have to fight for this home that perhaps could be a new beginning for my son and I all because one person - one evil, vicious, soulless woman decided it would okay to steal what didn't belong to her and when I called the police to report the crime, she retaliated in the worst possible way with her lies - and the property manager believed her without ever hearing my defense. And since it never went to trial, I still never got a chance to defend myself.
I want this home. I want to get out of this awful place and away from the daily visits by the local police, away from the domestic violence and screaming and yelling and the trash left around the common areas because many of the people who reside in this place simply don't care about anyone - or themselves. I can't count how many times the police have taken people away from here - in the parking lots and out of apartments - in handcuffs. A woman left her two-year-son alone in the apartment because she wanted to go out. The fire department had to break down the door to get to the child. The child was clad only in a diaper and covered in its own feces. There are women getting beaten by their "baby's daddy" or by the "baby daddies" and won't report the violence out of fear, out of losing financial support, out of love. The SWAT team has been here a few times. One tenant was involved in a home invasion and the owner badly beaten and he was arrested here a few years ago. A rape occurred last year here - in a laundry room. I walked around with a baseball bats for months out of fear. I went to management and asked if perhaps security cameras could be installed in the laundry rooms for the future safety of tenants.
I was met with disdain and was told "you people don't get stuff like that."
I wonder if I had written to President Obama and asked HIM if he could arrange to have security cameras installed here. Would he have told me "you people don't get stuff like that?"
You people. I am a human being. So is my son. But somehow, the property manager who made that statement to me displayed a lack of concern as if I was nothing more than the bottom trash in a landfill.
You people.
Is this how they view us?
Frankly, if the police are called, I'm not sure exactly how management finds out unless they peruse the Cops and Courts section every day looking for transgressions by a tenant. I seriously doubt it. That would mean doing their job.
The tenant across the hall from me who started the nightmare from which I am still reeling - her own boyfriend was led out of here in handcuffs twice - arrested for assault and battery and defacing property and the second time he said he was going to kill himself in front of her. But he's still living here. And she has two kids who have been exposed to the countless domestics that have occurred within their apartment. And one of her sons is the one who stole my mail - and the tenant KNEW her son had stolen my mail because she admitted to it but she didn't give a shit. Her response was that she was going to beat her son and she told me to press charges so she could "lock her son up in a mental institution."
Nice mother. She ought to be locked up - not her son. Her son is a product of her and her actions and reactions and god only knows what she has exposed her children to in their young lives.
The walls are thin. You can hear everything. I hear my neighbor peeing every morning in the bathroom at the same time. I hear the same neighbor above me and next to me having sex. That's how thin the walls are. I don't explain to my son what the "noises" are. He doesn't need to know.
I understand this is common in many, many places.
But I have to get out so I can save my son. I want him to be safe above all else. I've told him there are more good people in the world than bad but all he has seen here is the bad.
And what does that say about the management company? It turns a deaf ear and blind eyes to the most serious situations as long as you pay your rent. Its philosophy is "if it doesn't affect you, shut up and don't complain." But yet there is a specific paragraph in the Occupancy Agreement about tenants' rights to "quiet enjoyment." Apparently, management's interpretation of that is far different than the tenants' interpretation. So instead, management distributes memos about "inappropriate disposal of chicken bones and diapers and trash," and makes statements like "this is your HOME. Take care of your HOME."
It is a double-edged sword. And management lies in wait to use it for any tenant who breaks the rules. But yet we are not allowed to defend ourselves.
I feel the fight going out of me but I think I have one last fight left. The one person who is most important person to me, the one person whom I love to infinity and beyond, the one person whom I desperately want to have a chance to find his niche in this world and be somebody and perhaps change the world and make his dreams come true:
My son.
It's always been about him because he is all I have in this world. There is no one to "take care of us," there is no one person in my life - or in my heart - that will rescue us and give us the life we want so desperately.
So I'm it. And my son is worth fighting for more than anything or anyone in this world.
And that's not being selfish - that's being a mother.
We need help in a big way. I just don't know how to reach out to strangers and ask. I know people have done it. But I don't know what to say: Help me save my son? His dad has colon cancer. His dad is only 46 years old. I don't know how much longer he will be on this earth. My health is teeter-tottery because of the severe emotional distress I've suffered for the past six months. I don't know what kind of damage lurks inside of me. I am afraid I will go to sleep at night and never wake up and that's how my son will find me.
I can't heal unless I can get out of here, relieve the awful financial burden I carry and get my son safe. The only saving grace is that he is doing very well in school. He is happy there, he has many friends. Kids are drawn to him like magnets. He has a heart of gold, he is compassionate and caring and kind. He reaches out to other kids when they need a friend. He is smart and wickedly funny. He has a thirst for knowledge and a million questions every day. He stares up at the sky and wonders if perhaps someday he will discover something new and amazing. He wants to work at NASA. When he tells me that, my heart does something extraordinary - it beats with the knowledge that perhaps I have instilled in him the ability to dream - and dream big.
And I want to make those dreams come true for my son.
But I need a fighting chance to do so and we need help.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
And The Truth Shall Set You Free
It's over.
I won. My son and I are not getting evicted. The trial was scheduled for tomorrow - along with 75 other eviction cases.
At first I didn't know how to react. The ball of stress was so tightly wound around my insides that even the news that truth prevailed - my truth - couldn't loosen its python grip - yet.
The management company's attorneys called my attorney today because they realized they had nothing. They did not have credible witnesses. They had no hard-core evidence. All they had was hearsay and lies and fabrications and the crazy rantings of the tenant that started all of this when she and her son stole my mail. Unreal, huh? And they came after me because I exercised my right as a tenant to call the police and report the theft. And the day after I did this, the tenant retaliated and went to management with her lies and management believed her. I'm tempted to publish all the allegations made against me because some of the stuff is so out into left field that a five year old could punch enough holes in it to make the management company look like fools but right now, I just want to put this behind me somehow. Maybe I'll write a book. No one should be subjected to this kind of abuse of power, this harassment and retaliation by a management company all because I exercised my enumerated rights as a tenant.
There are laws in place to protect tenants. There are laws in place to protect the landlords and the management companies. But when a situation occurs like mine and management abuses its power and exercises complete and sheer ludicriousy, stupidity and lack of common sense all because someone like me actually KNOWS her rights and had the truth all along, and had the evidence to prove the lies were lies, and had the evidence to prove that the "witnesses" were also lying, then management does not stand a chance in court.
What judge in his or her right mind would evict a single, working parent with a child, both of whom have resided in the same town for seven and a half years and was never late with rent, has never been arrested, and who has abided by the rules and regulations among all the other reasons I had?
I would hope that all judges would go "yah, right" to the management company of this property at which I reside.
This was a clear abuse of power. This was a clear and evident act of harassment and retaliation against me for exercising my rights as a tenant. And the psychopathic pathological liar across the hall from me? Too bad she won't get a chance to further perjure herself.
No one should be subjected to this kind of treatment by any landlord or management company with out clear, convincing evidence and credible witnesses.
And the management company here lacked all of the above. And they knew it.
The best part of the truth is it's always the same. It never changes. And I've held on to the truth for six months and even though I did not get a chance to speak the truth in open court, I know in my heart that truth prevailed. And perhaps some serious prayers to God, too.
And let me tell you something else. You find out who your friends are - your genuine, extraordinary friends who stick beside you through your darkest days, through your rantings and hashing and re-hashings, and who never lose faith in you - even when you've lost it yourself. Those people in my life - they always knew the truth. And they still do.
This tenant across the hall from me - she's supposed to be moving. She hasn't yet. But who knows - it could have been just another lie. But if it's not, then good riddance. Let her go steal someone else's mail and let her weave her lies around someone else. For someone like that - her whole life will always be one big lie.
I feel for her children. I still retained my compassion even throughout all this nightmare that she caused me. But there's that part of me that genuinely feels sad for her kids.
Right now, though, my son is sitting at the kitchen table working on his homework. And tonight, he will sleep peacefully without nightmares. Jeff Gordon will remain on his walls, and the memories of the Red Sox 2004 World Series championship will continue to surround him. His bed will stay where it is and his stuffed cow named Sam secure in his arms.
Tonight, I will just lay in bed and try to forget about the last six months. And pray that I don't have a stroke and die in my sleep. Because I'd be really pissed if I woke up dead.
Yes, I still have my sense of humor. I lost a lot of things in the past six months but that I did not lose.
And the truth shall set you free.
One more thing:
Proverbs 19.5: "A false witness shall not be unpunished, and he that speaketh lies shall not escape."
Amen.
I won. My son and I are not getting evicted. The trial was scheduled for tomorrow - along with 75 other eviction cases.
At first I didn't know how to react. The ball of stress was so tightly wound around my insides that even the news that truth prevailed - my truth - couldn't loosen its python grip - yet.
The management company's attorneys called my attorney today because they realized they had nothing. They did not have credible witnesses. They had no hard-core evidence. All they had was hearsay and lies and fabrications and the crazy rantings of the tenant that started all of this when she and her son stole my mail. Unreal, huh? And they came after me because I exercised my right as a tenant to call the police and report the theft. And the day after I did this, the tenant retaliated and went to management with her lies and management believed her. I'm tempted to publish all the allegations made against me because some of the stuff is so out into left field that a five year old could punch enough holes in it to make the management company look like fools but right now, I just want to put this behind me somehow. Maybe I'll write a book. No one should be subjected to this kind of abuse of power, this harassment and retaliation by a management company all because I exercised my enumerated rights as a tenant.
There are laws in place to protect tenants. There are laws in place to protect the landlords and the management companies. But when a situation occurs like mine and management abuses its power and exercises complete and sheer ludicriousy, stupidity and lack of common sense all because someone like me actually KNOWS her rights and had the truth all along, and had the evidence to prove the lies were lies, and had the evidence to prove that the "witnesses" were also lying, then management does not stand a chance in court.
What judge in his or her right mind would evict a single, working parent with a child, both of whom have resided in the same town for seven and a half years and was never late with rent, has never been arrested, and who has abided by the rules and regulations among all the other reasons I had?
I would hope that all judges would go "yah, right" to the management company of this property at which I reside.
This was a clear abuse of power. This was a clear and evident act of harassment and retaliation against me for exercising my rights as a tenant. And the psychopathic pathological liar across the hall from me? Too bad she won't get a chance to further perjure herself.
No one should be subjected to this kind of treatment by any landlord or management company with out clear, convincing evidence and credible witnesses.
And the management company here lacked all of the above. And they knew it.
The best part of the truth is it's always the same. It never changes. And I've held on to the truth for six months and even though I did not get a chance to speak the truth in open court, I know in my heart that truth prevailed. And perhaps some serious prayers to God, too.
And let me tell you something else. You find out who your friends are - your genuine, extraordinary friends who stick beside you through your darkest days, through your rantings and hashing and re-hashings, and who never lose faith in you - even when you've lost it yourself. Those people in my life - they always knew the truth. And they still do.
This tenant across the hall from me - she's supposed to be moving. She hasn't yet. But who knows - it could have been just another lie. But if it's not, then good riddance. Let her go steal someone else's mail and let her weave her lies around someone else. For someone like that - her whole life will always be one big lie.
I feel for her children. I still retained my compassion even throughout all this nightmare that she caused me. But there's that part of me that genuinely feels sad for her kids.
Right now, though, my son is sitting at the kitchen table working on his homework. And tonight, he will sleep peacefully without nightmares. Jeff Gordon will remain on his walls, and the memories of the Red Sox 2004 World Series championship will continue to surround him. His bed will stay where it is and his stuffed cow named Sam secure in his arms.
Tonight, I will just lay in bed and try to forget about the last six months. And pray that I don't have a stroke and die in my sleep. Because I'd be really pissed if I woke up dead.
Yes, I still have my sense of humor. I lost a lot of things in the past six months but that I did not lose.
And the truth shall set you free.
One more thing:
Proverbs 19.5: "A false witness shall not be unpunished, and he that speaketh lies shall not escape."
Amen.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Countdown To Eviction
3 days.
Today was a horrible day. I am back in that black hole and I want to stay here but I know I can't.
All I have is the truth.
There are no guarantees.
Hate is an awful emotion. It eats you alive like some deadly flesh eating parasite. I am trying not to let it take hold of me. It is difficult.
Someone told me today that something good will come out of all of this.
Today, I didn't feel that way. All I feel is black.
Maybe tomorrow will be different.
I am still here - that is all that matters.
Today was a horrible day. I am back in that black hole and I want to stay here but I know I can't.
All I have is the truth.
There are no guarantees.
Hate is an awful emotion. It eats you alive like some deadly flesh eating parasite. I am trying not to let it take hold of me. It is difficult.
Someone told me today that something good will come out of all of this.
Today, I didn't feel that way. All I feel is black.
Maybe tomorrow will be different.
I am still here - that is all that matters.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Countdown to Eviction
5/4 days.
I forgot about everything just for a few hours on Day 5. Until last night when it was time for me to go to sleep. I wrote about all those drawers I stuff my emotions into every day - they all emptied out last night. If emotions were paint, you could see inside my brain, there were a lot of blacks and grays spilling out like swollen streams and rivers from their individual compartments inside my head.
One of my best friends said I need more color in my life. She told me that I've let these horrible people steal my joy. She told me I've lost my color. She told me I've lost the light in the eyes.
She's right. I look in the mirror and I don't see anything but pain and fear and uncertainty. I see worry lines cropping up on my face every day. I still don't eat write because there are days when I am just so sick with sorry that nothing stays in my stomach for very long.
I see failure as a mother which transcends everything. I see despir because of the mountain of debt I've incurred trying to survive and raise my son alone. I see hopelessness because I don't see a way out of this awful place.
Another one of my best friends said "you don't belong there. You're educated, your extremely intelligent and you could leave."
She doesn't understand that in order to get to B,C,D,E & F, you have to A. And that's money and family and networks of support.
I don't have any of that. I have a mother who is in a financial position to have gotten my son and I into a safe place but she refused. I never asked her for anything. And the one time I did - this past summer when this nightmare began - she refused. I finally got the courage to write to her and ask her why.
She has not responded. I do no expect her to because I don't think she knows how to answer that question. I thought she would see only her grandson - my son - and think only of his safety. I thought she would know that getting us out of here and into a home where I am not burdened by income limitations, lease violations and drugs and guns and psychopaths - I thought she would not even blink when I asked for her help.
I was wrong. And knowing that - my own mother would not help me - is right up there are feeling like a failure as a mother myself. Perhaps inside of my mother, she feels the same kind of failure herself because all four of her children - including me - ended up in varying degrees of failure at something. The only exception is my brother who fled our family when he was 18 and never looked back. But he carries around a burden inside of him because he never speaks of what our family was like. He never speaks of the lies my father told, of how my father treated our mother, how my father became a millionaire but wouldn't get his own children braces because he thought it was a waste of money, how he didn't have the time to take us to different colleges and find out what we wanted to do. No, our father crushed all our dreams. And my mother stood by and never said a word.
So who is to blame? One or the other? Or both?
Perhaps my mother is too afraid to admit she too, failed, and resists the temptation to admit same but simply refusing to help me because she feels entitled to what she earned as a result of a 55 year marriage that ended in divorce and "she got what she deserved."
I've been in therapy for nearly three years now trying to find out why all four of us - all grown adults - never got what we deserved when we were kids. We never went to summer camp. We didn't get to play Little League or taking swimming lessons or music lessons or do normal kid stuff. My mother didn't drive because she drank. And when she did get her license, she still wouldn't drive because she knew she'd have to give up alcohol. She chose to keep drinking.
My father was never home and when he was he was, he buried himself in his work and spent more time talking to his business partners and employees than he did with his own kids. We all lived individually and we all fended for ourselves. We had no tools to work with so we grasped whatever we could find outside our house.
None of us ever had a chance. My oldest sister - she ended up a Rx drug addict. In and out of rehab for 20 years. I think she's clean now but she's slid back so many times I don't know if she will cave in again. We talk once a week now and her voice sounds clear and her speech is not slurred by the zombie-like quality of too many drugs.
My brother owns his own, highly successful business - he is a CPA. He does taxes for celebrities. He owns three homes. His wife makes six figures at a hospital in Miami as its CEO. He made sure his daughters found the colleges right for their chosen career paths. He did all the right things for his family. I think when he met his wife he learned what family really meant. And he started acquiring the right tools to become a good, decent, caring, unconditional loving father.
He doesn't speak to any of us. He is ashamed of his father because he knows the truth. And I think in some deep dark way, he is also ashamed of his mother for not standing up for herself - or for her children.
I wandered through life all during elementary school, through junior high, through high school. I just wanted to play baseball or be as close to the sport as I could get. I loved the game. My father told me I could never play because I was a girl. I wish I had known then what I know now - I would have sued my father to make him pay for me to play Little League.
I had straight A's in school. I discovered I had a talent for writing - writing was the easiest thing in the world for me. On a piece of white paper, I created a new life for myself. I created colors that Crayola would envy. I created people that didn't talk, and animals that could. The universe became the center of all my stories because it doesn't have a beginning and an ending - I did that myself.
But baseball was the game I loved and I wanted to know more. And I wanted to write about the game and tell about the players, the hits that snuck through for a single and scored the winning run, the strikeout with the bases loaded and the sheer frustration of a talented hitter, and the joyful elation of the pitcher. I wanted to write about the fans, the coaches, the umpires, everything relative to that game. I wanted to understand why a curve ball curved, why a breaking ball broke, and how a human being could rear back and throw a little white, red-seamed ball 100 miles an hour in what -- 1.5 seconds if that?
I was mesmerized by the science of the game. Baseball became a passion.
But to my father, it was a waste of time. When I got a job with a newspaper, he had no interest in reading my stories. Nevermind I had to beg my friends and their parents for rides to games just so I could cover those games.
There was no encouragement, no support for my talent. And when it was time for college, my father said I"m not paying for you to go to college and go into lockerrooms. Find something else to do."
And that knocked me off my road and while I spent many years as a reporter, I ultimately left journalism because I didn't have a college degree. And when I did get my college degree, it was in criminal justice. Journalism and criminal justice are entertwined: Both careers deal in truth and facts.
And the truth was, I will always be a writer. And I will always think like a cop.
The truth. And the facts. And supporting evidence.
And on November 18th - I hope with all my heart I get a chance to tell the truth and state the facts and show my evidence to the judge.
And I hope the judge sees that this eviction case against my son and I is bogus and ridiculous and rule in my favor so that I can continue to keep a roof over my son's head.
I dream about that white knight rescuing my son and I. I dream about having a home where my son can laugh loudly anytime, where he has a place for his friends to meet and they too, can laugh loudly without worrying about being evicted for causing "serious disturbances."
Where I can plant flowers of every color imaginable and maybe have a few dogs to curl up with me on a couch.
A place where my son can still have some of his childhood and be a kid.
Where is our rescuer? Or am I just too jaded and too cynical and too destroyed by what's been done to my son and I to actually hope and believe that someone like that exists?
I don't know right now.
I forgot about everything just for a few hours on Day 5. Until last night when it was time for me to go to sleep. I wrote about all those drawers I stuff my emotions into every day - they all emptied out last night. If emotions were paint, you could see inside my brain, there were a lot of blacks and grays spilling out like swollen streams and rivers from their individual compartments inside my head.
One of my best friends said I need more color in my life. She told me that I've let these horrible people steal my joy. She told me I've lost my color. She told me I've lost the light in the eyes.
She's right. I look in the mirror and I don't see anything but pain and fear and uncertainty. I see worry lines cropping up on my face every day. I still don't eat write because there are days when I am just so sick with sorry that nothing stays in my stomach for very long.
I see failure as a mother which transcends everything. I see despir because of the mountain of debt I've incurred trying to survive and raise my son alone. I see hopelessness because I don't see a way out of this awful place.
Another one of my best friends said "you don't belong there. You're educated, your extremely intelligent and you could leave."
She doesn't understand that in order to get to B,C,D,E & F, you have to A. And that's money and family and networks of support.
I don't have any of that. I have a mother who is in a financial position to have gotten my son and I into a safe place but she refused. I never asked her for anything. And the one time I did - this past summer when this nightmare began - she refused. I finally got the courage to write to her and ask her why.
She has not responded. I do no expect her to because I don't think she knows how to answer that question. I thought she would see only her grandson - my son - and think only of his safety. I thought she would know that getting us out of here and into a home where I am not burdened by income limitations, lease violations and drugs and guns and psychopaths - I thought she would not even blink when I asked for her help.
I was wrong. And knowing that - my own mother would not help me - is right up there are feeling like a failure as a mother myself. Perhaps inside of my mother, she feels the same kind of failure herself because all four of her children - including me - ended up in varying degrees of failure at something. The only exception is my brother who fled our family when he was 18 and never looked back. But he carries around a burden inside of him because he never speaks of what our family was like. He never speaks of the lies my father told, of how my father treated our mother, how my father became a millionaire but wouldn't get his own children braces because he thought it was a waste of money, how he didn't have the time to take us to different colleges and find out what we wanted to do. No, our father crushed all our dreams. And my mother stood by and never said a word.
So who is to blame? One or the other? Or both?
Perhaps my mother is too afraid to admit she too, failed, and resists the temptation to admit same but simply refusing to help me because she feels entitled to what she earned as a result of a 55 year marriage that ended in divorce and "she got what she deserved."
I've been in therapy for nearly three years now trying to find out why all four of us - all grown adults - never got what we deserved when we were kids. We never went to summer camp. We didn't get to play Little League or taking swimming lessons or music lessons or do normal kid stuff. My mother didn't drive because she drank. And when she did get her license, she still wouldn't drive because she knew she'd have to give up alcohol. She chose to keep drinking.
My father was never home and when he was he was, he buried himself in his work and spent more time talking to his business partners and employees than he did with his own kids. We all lived individually and we all fended for ourselves. We had no tools to work with so we grasped whatever we could find outside our house.
None of us ever had a chance. My oldest sister - she ended up a Rx drug addict. In and out of rehab for 20 years. I think she's clean now but she's slid back so many times I don't know if she will cave in again. We talk once a week now and her voice sounds clear and her speech is not slurred by the zombie-like quality of too many drugs.
My brother owns his own, highly successful business - he is a CPA. He does taxes for celebrities. He owns three homes. His wife makes six figures at a hospital in Miami as its CEO. He made sure his daughters found the colleges right for their chosen career paths. He did all the right things for his family. I think when he met his wife he learned what family really meant. And he started acquiring the right tools to become a good, decent, caring, unconditional loving father.
He doesn't speak to any of us. He is ashamed of his father because he knows the truth. And I think in some deep dark way, he is also ashamed of his mother for not standing up for herself - or for her children.
I wandered through life all during elementary school, through junior high, through high school. I just wanted to play baseball or be as close to the sport as I could get. I loved the game. My father told me I could never play because I was a girl. I wish I had known then what I know now - I would have sued my father to make him pay for me to play Little League.
I had straight A's in school. I discovered I had a talent for writing - writing was the easiest thing in the world for me. On a piece of white paper, I created a new life for myself. I created colors that Crayola would envy. I created people that didn't talk, and animals that could. The universe became the center of all my stories because it doesn't have a beginning and an ending - I did that myself.
But baseball was the game I loved and I wanted to know more. And I wanted to write about the game and tell about the players, the hits that snuck through for a single and scored the winning run, the strikeout with the bases loaded and the sheer frustration of a talented hitter, and the joyful elation of the pitcher. I wanted to write about the fans, the coaches, the umpires, everything relative to that game. I wanted to understand why a curve ball curved, why a breaking ball broke, and how a human being could rear back and throw a little white, red-seamed ball 100 miles an hour in what -- 1.5 seconds if that?
I was mesmerized by the science of the game. Baseball became a passion.
But to my father, it was a waste of time. When I got a job with a newspaper, he had no interest in reading my stories. Nevermind I had to beg my friends and their parents for rides to games just so I could cover those games.
There was no encouragement, no support for my talent. And when it was time for college, my father said I"m not paying for you to go to college and go into lockerrooms. Find something else to do."
And that knocked me off my road and while I spent many years as a reporter, I ultimately left journalism because I didn't have a college degree. And when I did get my college degree, it was in criminal justice. Journalism and criminal justice are entertwined: Both careers deal in truth and facts.
And the truth was, I will always be a writer. And I will always think like a cop.
The truth. And the facts. And supporting evidence.
And on November 18th - I hope with all my heart I get a chance to tell the truth and state the facts and show my evidence to the judge.
And I hope the judge sees that this eviction case against my son and I is bogus and ridiculous and rule in my favor so that I can continue to keep a roof over my son's head.
I dream about that white knight rescuing my son and I. I dream about having a home where my son can laugh loudly anytime, where he has a place for his friends to meet and they too, can laugh loudly without worrying about being evicted for causing "serious disturbances."
Where I can plant flowers of every color imaginable and maybe have a few dogs to curl up with me on a couch.
A place where my son can still have some of his childhood and be a kid.
Where is our rescuer? Or am I just too jaded and too cynical and too destroyed by what's been done to my son and I to actually hope and believe that someone like that exists?
I don't know right now.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Countdown to Eviction
6 days.
Trial prep today. I have never been "on trial" before. I have never been arrested in my life.
I am not a criminal. But management wrote "Management has determined that you have engaged in criminal activity." Since when did the property management company become a law enforcement agency?
It's yes or no or I don't understand the question can you repeat.
I have been asked thousands of questions in my life and I have asked millions of questions myself.
But not in a courtroom.
My attorney said I talk like a police officer. It's a hard habit to break when you spent four years working for a police department and 20 years prior as a reporter. Facts. Black and white. That's it. Half of my life was devoted to facts and truth. Nothing more, nothing less. If I wrote feature stories, I got to add color. But that's how I think. Who, what, where, when, why and how. Pretty basic.
I have a B.S. in Criminal Justice. It's the just the way my brain works and how I am wired.
My attorney thinks like an attorney - by the law, how the law applies, case law, etc. I understand him and I understand what he said about my thinking and talking like a cop.
This is about keeping my apartment and keeping a roof over my son's head until we can get out.
Do I still think about being rescued by that white knight? Absolutely.
Who wouldn't in my situation?
Trial prep today. I have never been "on trial" before. I have never been arrested in my life.
I am not a criminal. But management wrote "Management has determined that you have engaged in criminal activity." Since when did the property management company become a law enforcement agency?
It's yes or no or I don't understand the question can you repeat.
I have been asked thousands of questions in my life and I have asked millions of questions myself.
But not in a courtroom.
My attorney said I talk like a police officer. It's a hard habit to break when you spent four years working for a police department and 20 years prior as a reporter. Facts. Black and white. That's it. Half of my life was devoted to facts and truth. Nothing more, nothing less. If I wrote feature stories, I got to add color. But that's how I think. Who, what, where, when, why and how. Pretty basic.
I have a B.S. in Criminal Justice. It's the just the way my brain works and how I am wired.
My attorney thinks like an attorney - by the law, how the law applies, case law, etc. I understand him and I understand what he said about my thinking and talking like a cop.
This is about keeping my apartment and keeping a roof over my son's head until we can get out.
Do I still think about being rescued by that white knight? Absolutely.
Who wouldn't in my situation?
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Countdown to Eviction
7 days.
I found myself slipping a little today back into the black hole I entered on October 3, 2010.
Depression is not just a word. It is an unbelievable, torturous, maelovent presence in our minds that destroys our bodies and sometimes our lives. It is an "unseen" - it is not something that shows up on an x-ray, an MRI or in a blood test. But once you are caught in that swirling vortex of depression, the physical ailments that accompany depression will show up. But most people don't understand depression in any form.
I used to be one of them. I was Miss Independent. I always had a job, I always took care of myself. My health was always very good. And when I had my son, my life changed forever. But I still managed to raise him by myself. But on July 2, 2010, I lost all my coping skills and I started sliding into a really big abyss that swallowed me up when my best friend hauled me off to the hospital three months later on October 3, 2010 because she knew I had hit rock bottom. I was in my closet, crying hysterically and trying to hide in my clothes hanging up.
I lost my coping skills, I lost my identity, I lost myself.
Our bodies are made up of naturally occurring chemicals. And all of mine went completely and utterly haywire on July 2, 2010 thanks to the property management company that oversees the low-income housing complex in which I have resided for seven years that served me with an eviction notice on July 2, 2010.
The chaos continued inside of me as on August 20, 2010, an emergency ultrasound revealed three blot clots in my leg. I did not fit the profile. I did not have surgery. I did not incur trauma to any part of my body. The only trauma I was experiencing was the trauma of the lies that had been told against my son and I, and the management company's refusal to hear my side and allow me to defend myself.
So now my health was in more jeopardy and I kept on sliding toward that big black abyss.
For two weeks after October 3, 2010, I attended a Partial Hospitalization Program. I sat in "groups" during the day and listened to other people. I shared my own situation and found sympathy. I cried rivers of tears.
No one judged me for coming apart. No one looked at me with hatred or disgust.
No one thought I was crazy.
Everyone understood why I was there.
I lost 40 pounds in two months. I stopped sleeping. I sat for long, long period of times at my computer, wishing I could get sucked into it and be spit out someplace where I felt safe. I almost lost my job because I was making so many mistakes because I was terrified my son and I were going to be homeless. I lived (and still do) in fear that the other tenant would hurt my son and I. I lived in fear that management would turn a deaf ear if something truly awful went wrong in my apartment.
I contemplated suicide only because I finally understood why people commit suicide. It is a means to escape the pain that threatens our existence 24/7/365. It can be grief. It can be monstrous financial burdens. It could be a thousand different reasons. For me, I was trying to decide if I wanted to live with the pain anymore: the pain of feeling like a failure as a mother, the pain of being a financial failure because I could not provide for my son, and the failure as a mother to protect my son from someone like the tenant who made all those horrendous allegations against my son and I.
But I could not take myself of this world for one reason and one reason only: my son. I could not leave him no matter how badly I was hurting because I know he would have to live with the unbearable pain of losing me.
I am not back to myself by any means. I still have to endure the trial on November 18, 2010 but I will face my accusers. And I will tell the truth.
I will never be the same again. There is no going back to the "old" me. Until I get out of this place and into a real home for my son and I, out of the "low income housing" stigma that has been attached to me for seven years, I will never completely heal.
I have, however, learned how to compartmentalize every emotion inside of me. I hide each emotion I possess in a different drawer inside my mind. I have lots of space and lots of drawers.
But I still function every day. I get up at the same time every morning. I drink my coffee, pack my son's lunch, get him up and ready for school, make him breakfast and get him on the bus. I go to work. I do my job. I leave, I pick up my son and I come back to this living hell. I help my son with his homework. I make supper. I read to my son or he reads to me. We talk about where the universe begins and ends and how one day he wants to work at NASA. I kiss my son goodnight every night and every night I tell him how much I love him - infinity, he replies. You love me infinity, Mom. And I say yes and kiss him goodnight.
Then it is my turn to sleep. Or what passes for sleep.
I can see the drawers in my mind opening. I can feel all my emotions spilling out onto the floor in my brain. Love, pain, anger, bitterness, sadness, sorrow, failure, the tears of frustration, hopelessness, defenselessness, weakness, and the little strength I have left in me - you name it and it ends up on the floor.
And it is a tiring task trying to put all those emotions back into their respective drawers. I spend a good portion of the night attempting to re-compartmentalize.
And I wake up exhausted every single morning.
But I get up and do it all again.
I would give anything for one night's sleep without worry or fear of losing my apartment even though I hate living here. We have nowhere to go. We have no one to take us in. There are no "white knights" riding up to my door to rescue me and my son. I am not a dreamer. I am a realist.
And the reality is I am poor but highly educated. My brain went haywire but I didn't lose my intelligence - or my sense of humor.
My health is not good but every morning I open my eyes I say thanks that I am still here and didn't die in my sleep - or worse - that my son finds me dead.
I wish for the white knight. I wish for serenity and peace.
I wish that I could provide a better life for my son.
I could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now.
I found myself slipping a little today back into the black hole I entered on October 3, 2010.
Depression is not just a word. It is an unbelievable, torturous, maelovent presence in our minds that destroys our bodies and sometimes our lives. It is an "unseen" - it is not something that shows up on an x-ray, an MRI or in a blood test. But once you are caught in that swirling vortex of depression, the physical ailments that accompany depression will show up. But most people don't understand depression in any form.
I used to be one of them. I was Miss Independent. I always had a job, I always took care of myself. My health was always very good. And when I had my son, my life changed forever. But I still managed to raise him by myself. But on July 2, 2010, I lost all my coping skills and I started sliding into a really big abyss that swallowed me up when my best friend hauled me off to the hospital three months later on October 3, 2010 because she knew I had hit rock bottom. I was in my closet, crying hysterically and trying to hide in my clothes hanging up.
I lost my coping skills, I lost my identity, I lost myself.
Our bodies are made up of naturally occurring chemicals. And all of mine went completely and utterly haywire on July 2, 2010 thanks to the property management company that oversees the low-income housing complex in which I have resided for seven years that served me with an eviction notice on July 2, 2010.
The chaos continued inside of me as on August 20, 2010, an emergency ultrasound revealed three blot clots in my leg. I did not fit the profile. I did not have surgery. I did not incur trauma to any part of my body. The only trauma I was experiencing was the trauma of the lies that had been told against my son and I, and the management company's refusal to hear my side and allow me to defend myself.
So now my health was in more jeopardy and I kept on sliding toward that big black abyss.
For two weeks after October 3, 2010, I attended a Partial Hospitalization Program. I sat in "groups" during the day and listened to other people. I shared my own situation and found sympathy. I cried rivers of tears.
No one judged me for coming apart. No one looked at me with hatred or disgust.
No one thought I was crazy.
Everyone understood why I was there.
I lost 40 pounds in two months. I stopped sleeping. I sat for long, long period of times at my computer, wishing I could get sucked into it and be spit out someplace where I felt safe. I almost lost my job because I was making so many mistakes because I was terrified my son and I were going to be homeless. I lived (and still do) in fear that the other tenant would hurt my son and I. I lived in fear that management would turn a deaf ear if something truly awful went wrong in my apartment.
I contemplated suicide only because I finally understood why people commit suicide. It is a means to escape the pain that threatens our existence 24/7/365. It can be grief. It can be monstrous financial burdens. It could be a thousand different reasons. For me, I was trying to decide if I wanted to live with the pain anymore: the pain of feeling like a failure as a mother, the pain of being a financial failure because I could not provide for my son, and the failure as a mother to protect my son from someone like the tenant who made all those horrendous allegations against my son and I.
But I could not take myself of this world for one reason and one reason only: my son. I could not leave him no matter how badly I was hurting because I know he would have to live with the unbearable pain of losing me.
I am not back to myself by any means. I still have to endure the trial on November 18, 2010 but I will face my accusers. And I will tell the truth.
I will never be the same again. There is no going back to the "old" me. Until I get out of this place and into a real home for my son and I, out of the "low income housing" stigma that has been attached to me for seven years, I will never completely heal.
I have, however, learned how to compartmentalize every emotion inside of me. I hide each emotion I possess in a different drawer inside my mind. I have lots of space and lots of drawers.
But I still function every day. I get up at the same time every morning. I drink my coffee, pack my son's lunch, get him up and ready for school, make him breakfast and get him on the bus. I go to work. I do my job. I leave, I pick up my son and I come back to this living hell. I help my son with his homework. I make supper. I read to my son or he reads to me. We talk about where the universe begins and ends and how one day he wants to work at NASA. I kiss my son goodnight every night and every night I tell him how much I love him - infinity, he replies. You love me infinity, Mom. And I say yes and kiss him goodnight.
Then it is my turn to sleep. Or what passes for sleep.
I can see the drawers in my mind opening. I can feel all my emotions spilling out onto the floor in my brain. Love, pain, anger, bitterness, sadness, sorrow, failure, the tears of frustration, hopelessness, defenselessness, weakness, and the little strength I have left in me - you name it and it ends up on the floor.
And it is a tiring task trying to put all those emotions back into their respective drawers. I spend a good portion of the night attempting to re-compartmentalize.
And I wake up exhausted every single morning.
But I get up and do it all again.
I would give anything for one night's sleep without worry or fear of losing my apartment even though I hate living here. We have nowhere to go. We have no one to take us in. There are no "white knights" riding up to my door to rescue me and my son. I am not a dreamer. I am a realist.
And the reality is I am poor but highly educated. My brain went haywire but I didn't lose my intelligence - or my sense of humor.
My health is not good but every morning I open my eyes I say thanks that I am still here and didn't die in my sleep - or worse - that my son finds me dead.
I wish for the white knight. I wish for serenity and peace.
I wish that I could provide a better life for my son.
I could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Countdown To Eviction
8 days.
Lies have two colors: White and black evil.
White lies - the ones we tell to save our behinds from minor scrapes. The kind of lies we told as teenagers to avoid punishment by parents. Simple lies that do not hurt anyone, simple lies that do not hurt us. Even as adults, white lies are told to avoid hurting friends or loved ones but still, they are not deliberate or malicious or intentional.
Then there are the black evil lies. The kinds of lies that are told by someone who does not possess a soul, who does not possess emotion. Black evil lies are full of hate, malice and revenge.
And these are the very kinds of lies that destroyed my life on July 2, 2010.
The black evil she told lies are underscored by sheer viciousness and hatred all because I wanted to protect my son, all because I chose to call the police and report the crime she and her son had committed against us but for which I am being evicted.
The black evil lies brought me to my knees because I know the truth and I was never given a chance to tell the truth.
On November 18, 2010, I will tell the truth. And it will be up to a judge to decide my fate. Will a judge believe her lies? Will it believe that management has grounds upon which to evict my son and I?
My logical side says no. My logical side believes that the judge will not evict us.
But justice has no guarantees.
All I have is the truth. I am armed with truth and with evidence and photographs and logic and knowledge.
I want to believe that justice will prevail in my favor and I can try and piece my life back together. But there is a part of me that I know will never be the same. There is a part of me that has winked out and died. I only hope the rest of me does not do the same.
Truth and justice for all.
Lies have two colors: White and black evil.
White lies - the ones we tell to save our behinds from minor scrapes. The kind of lies we told as teenagers to avoid punishment by parents. Simple lies that do not hurt anyone, simple lies that do not hurt us. Even as adults, white lies are told to avoid hurting friends or loved ones but still, they are not deliberate or malicious or intentional.
Then there are the black evil lies. The kinds of lies that are told by someone who does not possess a soul, who does not possess emotion. Black evil lies are full of hate, malice and revenge.
And these are the very kinds of lies that destroyed my life on July 2, 2010.
The black evil she told lies are underscored by sheer viciousness and hatred all because I wanted to protect my son, all because I chose to call the police and report the crime she and her son had committed against us but for which I am being evicted.
The black evil lies brought me to my knees because I know the truth and I was never given a chance to tell the truth.
On November 18, 2010, I will tell the truth. And it will be up to a judge to decide my fate. Will a judge believe her lies? Will it believe that management has grounds upon which to evict my son and I?
My logical side says no. My logical side believes that the judge will not evict us.
But justice has no guarantees.
All I have is the truth. I am armed with truth and with evidence and photographs and logic and knowledge.
I want to believe that justice will prevail in my favor and I can try and piece my life back together. But there is a part of me that I know will never be the same. There is a part of me that has winked out and died. I only hope the rest of me does not do the same.
Truth and justice for all.
Proverbs 19.5: A false witness shall not be unpunished, and he that speaketh lies shall not escape.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Countdown To Eviction
9 days.
I didn't think too much about Nov. 18th today. My eviction file is sitting on my desk, It has taken on a life of its own: two snakes intertwined around each other just waiting to strike. My file contains the venomous poison of a cobra by virtue of the other tenant's lies against me; and the twisted, strangled squeezing feeling of hopelessness and despair that the management python of this complex left me with since July 2nd.
There is a genuine fear to thinking you are going to lose your home, especially when you have a child. It is unlike any fear I've ever known. I have always taken care of myself, paid my rent and lived my life. But when I had my son and realized he would be completely dependent upon me for many years, it turned my life upside down and inside out. Little did I realize how hard this life would be. And how hard I fought to protect my son from the evil people in this world.
I have not talked about the upcoming court date in front of my son. He is immersed in creating a book report, doing long division and asking me questions as to how the color gets into the lead of a colored pencil and how that portion gets in the wood that the pencil is made of. He asked me tonight if a gun is shot underwater, will its speed be the same as if shot above water? He wants to know why the planets line up symmetrically and why everything just works the way things do. I give him as best answers as I can. Sometimes I have to look stuff up because I genuinely don't know the answer. I try not to blow off my son's questions because when I look at him, I see me. But I never had anyone to ask these questions of. I had to find it out on my own, by myself. But when my son asks me these deep, thoughtful, insightful questions, I am amazed that perhaps that need to know comes from me.
the need to know. Some people are just born with this inate burning desire to know, to possess knowledge, to ask questions just because.
It is obvious that the management company here lacks a vocabulary that consists of the words who what where when why and how.
Innocent until proven guilty. Nope. Not to these people. let's get rid of the white, college educated, above average intelligent WHITE tenant who has a job and doesn't sleaze off of the state and protect the minority tenant because if management tried to evict her, can you say discrimination lawsuit?
well, can you say reverse discrimination? I never in my life encountered this kind of situation. It has the appearance of reverse discrimination but I've not yet told the entire story but when all the pieces are put together, and the truth is laid out in neat rows, one will be able to clearly see reverse discrimination.
I try not to think about that. I try to think of my son's endless barrage of questions instead of what may be in 9 days. I can't imagine having to pack up my things in 24 hours and having a sheriff watch over me. I can't imagine getting in my car and not having a place to sleep. I can't imagine having to tell my son that his room will be the backseat of my jurassic park 16 year old car.
When you raise a child alone because you have no family around you and you become mother and father all rolled into one person, you tend to be braver and more courageous because you get used to facing everything alone.
But when I close my eyes at night, I pray that someone will rescue us. I pray that someone will come into our lives and take us away from this awful place and give us a real home. A place where I can heal and find serenity in a garden. A place where my son can laugh at the top of his lungs, and jump until the ground shakes - and no one will complain. I want to walk in my front door and never look down at my feet again. I want to be able to sleep without my baseball bat cradled in my arms. I want to not get up four and five and six times at night just to check my door.
I do not like to live in fear.It is eating me alive.
Fear is a flukey snarky hinky thing to live with. It can be innocuous (like fear of ants or creepy crawly things in general) or fear can be the intangible rope that squeezes the life out of you every single second you try to breathe.
Welcome to my world.
I didn't think too much about Nov. 18th today. My eviction file is sitting on my desk, It has taken on a life of its own: two snakes intertwined around each other just waiting to strike. My file contains the venomous poison of a cobra by virtue of the other tenant's lies against me; and the twisted, strangled squeezing feeling of hopelessness and despair that the management python of this complex left me with since July 2nd.
There is a genuine fear to thinking you are going to lose your home, especially when you have a child. It is unlike any fear I've ever known. I have always taken care of myself, paid my rent and lived my life. But when I had my son and realized he would be completely dependent upon me for many years, it turned my life upside down and inside out. Little did I realize how hard this life would be. And how hard I fought to protect my son from the evil people in this world.
I have not talked about the upcoming court date in front of my son. He is immersed in creating a book report, doing long division and asking me questions as to how the color gets into the lead of a colored pencil and how that portion gets in the wood that the pencil is made of. He asked me tonight if a gun is shot underwater, will its speed be the same as if shot above water? He wants to know why the planets line up symmetrically and why everything just works the way things do. I give him as best answers as I can. Sometimes I have to look stuff up because I genuinely don't know the answer. I try not to blow off my son's questions because when I look at him, I see me. But I never had anyone to ask these questions of. I had to find it out on my own, by myself. But when my son asks me these deep, thoughtful, insightful questions, I am amazed that perhaps that need to know comes from me.
the need to know. Some people are just born with this inate burning desire to know, to possess knowledge, to ask questions just because.
It is obvious that the management company here lacks a vocabulary that consists of the words who what where when why and how.
Innocent until proven guilty. Nope. Not to these people. let's get rid of the white, college educated, above average intelligent WHITE tenant who has a job and doesn't sleaze off of the state and protect the minority tenant because if management tried to evict her, can you say discrimination lawsuit?
well, can you say reverse discrimination? I never in my life encountered this kind of situation. It has the appearance of reverse discrimination but I've not yet told the entire story but when all the pieces are put together, and the truth is laid out in neat rows, one will be able to clearly see reverse discrimination.
I try not to think about that. I try to think of my son's endless barrage of questions instead of what may be in 9 days. I can't imagine having to pack up my things in 24 hours and having a sheriff watch over me. I can't imagine getting in my car and not having a place to sleep. I can't imagine having to tell my son that his room will be the backseat of my jurassic park 16 year old car.
When you raise a child alone because you have no family around you and you become mother and father all rolled into one person, you tend to be braver and more courageous because you get used to facing everything alone.
But when I close my eyes at night, I pray that someone will rescue us. I pray that someone will come into our lives and take us away from this awful place and give us a real home. A place where I can heal and find serenity in a garden. A place where my son can laugh at the top of his lungs, and jump until the ground shakes - and no one will complain. I want to walk in my front door and never look down at my feet again. I want to be able to sleep without my baseball bat cradled in my arms. I want to not get up four and five and six times at night just to check my door.
I do not like to live in fear.It is eating me alive.
Fear is a flukey snarky hinky thing to live with. It can be innocuous (like fear of ants or creepy crawly things in general) or fear can be the intangible rope that squeezes the life out of you every single second you try to breathe.
Welcome to my world.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Countdown To Eviction
10 days.
In 10 days I will find out if my son and I will be homeless. I thought I lived in a country where I was innocent until proven guilty. Apparently, when you live in low income housing that is run by a management company who decides your fate based on false allegations, lies and hearsay, that is not the case. The management company which runs the low income apartment complex at which I reside became judge, jury and executioner on July 2, 2010 when my son and I were served with a Notice of Termination of Tenancy.
For seven and a half years, I have resided in a place that is the size of a cereal box. I have paid my rent on time every month for seven years. I have abided by the rules and regulations. I live in a town where the school system is one of the best in the state and for seven years, I have attempted to carve out a niche for myself - and most importantly - for my son because I know he will get the kind of education that will be the foundation upon which he can build his future.
That future was put into jeopardy July 2, 2010.
Here in Massachusetts, there are two kinds of eviction: Non payment of rent which is self explanatory and "fault" which apparently the innocent until proven guilty application of law doesn't apply to this complex.
I am not a drug trafficker. I am not a a bank robber or a murderer or a terrorist. I do not have a criminal record. I am and have been a single working mother who has simply tried to keep a roof over my son's head, teach him right from wrong, and instill the importance of character, integrity and honesty in him so he may grow up to be a good, decent person.
I am a good mother. I would die for my son if I knew it meant keeping him safe. But when I was served with this eviction notice, I felt like I had failed to protect my son.
This eviction stems from another tenant who, when I met her this past February, raised all my red flags as a 23 year journalist - and as a mother. This is about someone whom I felt was a threat to my son.
This is about my gut instinct which proved me right.
And for that, I am being evicted.
I know my rights as a tenant. Just because I live in low income housing does not mean I should be stereotyped because of my address. I did not choose to live here - I had no choice. But I have a right to quiet enjoyment and more so, I have a right to protect my son.
And when I attempted to exercise those two rights, I was retaliated against not only by this other tenant, but worse by the management company.
The truth of what really happened has taken on a life of its own. It's become a living, breathing entity that I covet carefully as each day draws nearer to Nov. 18th.
The basis for my entire career was the truth. And in one moment, one person was able to convince management that I was this horrible person who did all these horrible things to her.
And not once did they question what they heard, what she said or bothered to come to me to find out the truth.
On November 18, 2010, I must put all emotion aside and tell the truth. I have evidence. I have photographs. I have witnesses.
I have the truth all neatly organized into manilla files.
But those files do not contain what has happened to my son and I inside ourselves. They do not contain the tears I have shed, the horrendous emotional stress my body has withstood since July. I carry around three blood clots in my leg that were discovered amid this nightmare. I lost 40 pounds without blinking. I stopped sleeping, I stopped eating. I was spiraling down and my son was watching me come completely unglued because I am terrified we will be homeless.
Those files do not contain the hopelessness I felt and still feel because I failed to protect my son.
I may never heal. All I know is that I hate to come home. I still do not sleep peacefully. I lose track of time. I am forgetful. I wonder each day if I am simply not going to wake up one morning because the stress of this situation killed me and my son will find me dead in my bed. And management will simply close its file on me forever. Wouldn't they just love that.
My son locked himself in a school bathroom one day because he did not want to come back here to our apartment. He turns inward and becomes sullen and despondent when he walks into our building.
I am not the vibrant person I used to be. I am desperate to get out of here but I do not have the financial means to do so. I have no family within 100 miles of me. My friends are not able to take us in and I would not impose on anyone. But more important to me - I refuse to uproot my son and cause him more trauma than he has already experienced in his 10 years, perhaps more so in the past six months.
I refuse to run. If I am going down, I am going down fighting.
And I am going to tell the truth on November 18th.
And when this is over, I am going to tell my story in hopes that no one will ever have to go through what my son and I are going through. I will tell my story so that every tenant understands that she or he have rights and that no management company has the right to destroy a life with one sweep of a pen.
I live in America. I am innocent until proven guilty. I have the right to face my accuser.
I will tell the truth.
And I would do it all over again just to protect my son.
In 10 days I will find out if my son and I will be homeless. I thought I lived in a country where I was innocent until proven guilty. Apparently, when you live in low income housing that is run by a management company who decides your fate based on false allegations, lies and hearsay, that is not the case. The management company which runs the low income apartment complex at which I reside became judge, jury and executioner on July 2, 2010 when my son and I were served with a Notice of Termination of Tenancy.
For seven and a half years, I have resided in a place that is the size of a cereal box. I have paid my rent on time every month for seven years. I have abided by the rules and regulations. I live in a town where the school system is one of the best in the state and for seven years, I have attempted to carve out a niche for myself - and most importantly - for my son because I know he will get the kind of education that will be the foundation upon which he can build his future.
That future was put into jeopardy July 2, 2010.
Here in Massachusetts, there are two kinds of eviction: Non payment of rent which is self explanatory and "fault" which apparently the innocent until proven guilty application of law doesn't apply to this complex.
I am not a drug trafficker. I am not a a bank robber or a murderer or a terrorist. I do not have a criminal record. I am and have been a single working mother who has simply tried to keep a roof over my son's head, teach him right from wrong, and instill the importance of character, integrity and honesty in him so he may grow up to be a good, decent person.
I am a good mother. I would die for my son if I knew it meant keeping him safe. But when I was served with this eviction notice, I felt like I had failed to protect my son.
This eviction stems from another tenant who, when I met her this past February, raised all my red flags as a 23 year journalist - and as a mother. This is about someone whom I felt was a threat to my son.
This is about my gut instinct which proved me right.
And for that, I am being evicted.
I know my rights as a tenant. Just because I live in low income housing does not mean I should be stereotyped because of my address. I did not choose to live here - I had no choice. But I have a right to quiet enjoyment and more so, I have a right to protect my son.
And when I attempted to exercise those two rights, I was retaliated against not only by this other tenant, but worse by the management company.
The truth of what really happened has taken on a life of its own. It's become a living, breathing entity that I covet carefully as each day draws nearer to Nov. 18th.
The basis for my entire career was the truth. And in one moment, one person was able to convince management that I was this horrible person who did all these horrible things to her.
And not once did they question what they heard, what she said or bothered to come to me to find out the truth.
On November 18, 2010, I must put all emotion aside and tell the truth. I have evidence. I have photographs. I have witnesses.
I have the truth all neatly organized into manilla files.
But those files do not contain what has happened to my son and I inside ourselves. They do not contain the tears I have shed, the horrendous emotional stress my body has withstood since July. I carry around three blood clots in my leg that were discovered amid this nightmare. I lost 40 pounds without blinking. I stopped sleeping, I stopped eating. I was spiraling down and my son was watching me come completely unglued because I am terrified we will be homeless.
Those files do not contain the hopelessness I felt and still feel because I failed to protect my son.
I may never heal. All I know is that I hate to come home. I still do not sleep peacefully. I lose track of time. I am forgetful. I wonder each day if I am simply not going to wake up one morning because the stress of this situation killed me and my son will find me dead in my bed. And management will simply close its file on me forever. Wouldn't they just love that.
My son locked himself in a school bathroom one day because he did not want to come back here to our apartment. He turns inward and becomes sullen and despondent when he walks into our building.
I am not the vibrant person I used to be. I am desperate to get out of here but I do not have the financial means to do so. I have no family within 100 miles of me. My friends are not able to take us in and I would not impose on anyone. But more important to me - I refuse to uproot my son and cause him more trauma than he has already experienced in his 10 years, perhaps more so in the past six months.
I refuse to run. If I am going down, I am going down fighting.
And I am going to tell the truth on November 18th.
And when this is over, I am going to tell my story in hopes that no one will ever have to go through what my son and I are going through. I will tell my story so that every tenant understands that she or he have rights and that no management company has the right to destroy a life with one sweep of a pen.
I live in America. I am innocent until proven guilty. I have the right to face my accuser.
I will tell the truth.
And I would do it all over again just to protect my son.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Help I'm a Loser I'm Drunk & I've Fallen and Lost My Leg
I am surfing all my favorite news sites this morning while drinking my coffee when I happen upon a story in the New York Post www.nypost.com about a jackass named Dustin Dibble (sounds like an evil scheming punybrained character out of a Harry Potter movie) who has just lost his "controversial $2.3 million dollar jury verdict award."
Wait for it .... wait for it ..... WHY DID Mr. Dibble lose his $$ ?????
Our justice system at its finest: Mr. Dibble, a former college basketball star (and moron) had apparently gone on a four-hour drinking binge on April 23, 2006, then managed to topple his drunk ass onto the subway tracks at Union Square in New York only to be run over by a train and lose one of his legs. A (clearly intoxicated jury) awarded Mr. Dibble $2.3 million dollars, finding that the MTA (NYC Transit Authority) was liable for the loss of Dibble's leg because the train operator should have taken measures to stop the train and therefore avoid running over Dumb Dibble's drunk ass (or leg in this instance) which was splayed across the subway tracks.
How many "are you serious" comments were just spoken after the above paragraph?
Mr. Dibble's sleaze-asarus attorney, who sued the MTA, convinced a jury that the train operator was at fault "based on the basis of a mathematical formula used a purported average reaction time as a factor in calculating whether defendant's train operator could have stopped the train to avoid running over an intoxicated 22-year old."
Thankfully, the MTA's legal eagles sprinted to the courts with their appeal clutched in their fists and four years later, the NY State Appellate Court (obviously a group of sober judges thank God) overturned the jury's award and threw out Dumb Dibble's lawsuit.
Can we say justice prevails all at the same time?
It is interesting to note, however, that the appeals panel of five judges did not focus on Dumb Dibble's "drunkeness" but rather based their decision on whether the train operator could have stopped in time to avoid running over Dibble's leg. Interesting, but logical view. And of course, Dibble's attorney Andrew Smiley plans to appeal the appeal and so on and so on and so on.
Just one more way to clog up our already clogged justice system.
Let's work backward here. If Mr. Dibble had stayed home and drank himself into a stupor in front of his TV, then (a) he would still have his leg; (b) the docket slot for his ridiculous lawsuit could have been given to another more reasonable case; and (c) New Yorkers would not have had to look at Dumb Dibble's sorry mug - AT ALL.
But yet Dumb Dibbles OWN CONSCIOUS CHOICE (no one holding a gun to his head here) CHOSE to go drinking, CHOSE to drink for 4 hours and CHOSE to take a subway. Couldn't he have CHOSEN to sit down instead of teetering at the edge of the platform? Well, that's a gimme either way. But the point is that when people drink, they make a conscious, voluntary choice to do so. And in my view, whatever the consequences are of their action - choosing to drink, choosing to get drunk and fall onto subway tracks and lose limb or life - is their own liability, fault and responsibility.
For this man to actually have believed in his twisted mind that the train operator was at fault for the loss of his leg is incomprehensible. Dibble was actually quoted as saying "I didn't choose to lose my leg."
No you dumb ass moron you CHOSE to make a decision to drink yourself into oblivion and as a result of your choice (which I need to remind you yet again and that no one was forcing you to drink, no one was holding a gun to your head while you were drinking and no one was forcing your hand to your mouth to gulp down alcohol during your binge) you lost your leg.
The fault is yours, Dibble. NO ONE ELSE. Your own stupidity and recklessness caused the loss of your leg. I have no sympathy for you.
Using the old adage here: Dibble, you don't have a leg to stand on.
Kudos to the appeals court for meting our proper justice against morons like Dibble.
Wait for it .... wait for it ..... WHY DID Mr. Dibble lose his $$ ?????
Our justice system at its finest: Mr. Dibble, a former college basketball star (and moron) had apparently gone on a four-hour drinking binge on April 23, 2006, then managed to topple his drunk ass onto the subway tracks at Union Square in New York only to be run over by a train and lose one of his legs. A (clearly intoxicated jury) awarded Mr. Dibble $2.3 million dollars, finding that the MTA (NYC Transit Authority) was liable for the loss of Dibble's leg because the train operator should have taken measures to stop the train and therefore avoid running over Dumb Dibble's drunk ass (or leg in this instance) which was splayed across the subway tracks.
How many "are you serious" comments were just spoken after the above paragraph?
Mr. Dibble's sleaze-asarus attorney, who sued the MTA, convinced a jury that the train operator was at fault "based on the basis of a mathematical formula used a purported average reaction time as a factor in calculating whether defendant's train operator could have stopped the train to avoid running over an intoxicated 22-year old."
Thankfully, the MTA's legal eagles sprinted to the courts with their appeal clutched in their fists and four years later, the NY State Appellate Court (obviously a group of sober judges thank God) overturned the jury's award and threw out Dumb Dibble's lawsuit.
Can we say justice prevails all at the same time?
It is interesting to note, however, that the appeals panel of five judges did not focus on Dumb Dibble's "drunkeness" but rather based their decision on whether the train operator could have stopped in time to avoid running over Dibble's leg. Interesting, but logical view. And of course, Dibble's attorney Andrew Smiley plans to appeal the appeal and so on and so on and so on.
Just one more way to clog up our already clogged justice system.
Let's work backward here. If Mr. Dibble had stayed home and drank himself into a stupor in front of his TV, then (a) he would still have his leg; (b) the docket slot for his ridiculous lawsuit could have been given to another more reasonable case; and (c) New Yorkers would not have had to look at Dumb Dibble's sorry mug - AT ALL.
But yet Dumb Dibbles OWN CONSCIOUS CHOICE (no one holding a gun to his head here) CHOSE to go drinking, CHOSE to drink for 4 hours and CHOSE to take a subway. Couldn't he have CHOSEN to sit down instead of teetering at the edge of the platform? Well, that's a gimme either way. But the point is that when people drink, they make a conscious, voluntary choice to do so. And in my view, whatever the consequences are of their action - choosing to drink, choosing to get drunk and fall onto subway tracks and lose limb or life - is their own liability, fault and responsibility.
For this man to actually have believed in his twisted mind that the train operator was at fault for the loss of his leg is incomprehensible. Dibble was actually quoted as saying "I didn't choose to lose my leg."
No you dumb ass moron you CHOSE to make a decision to drink yourself into oblivion and as a result of your choice (which I need to remind you yet again and that no one was forcing you to drink, no one was holding a gun to your head while you were drinking and no one was forcing your hand to your mouth to gulp down alcohol during your binge) you lost your leg.
The fault is yours, Dibble. NO ONE ELSE. Your own stupidity and recklessness caused the loss of your leg. I have no sympathy for you.
Using the old adage here: Dibble, you don't have a leg to stand on.
Kudos to the appeals court for meting our proper justice against morons like Dibble.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Ramblings Rumblings and Random Rote
Oh, is it mid-June already? Time seems to be passing me by with a few winks of sleep and a few blinks of my eyes. Let's see what has happened lately:
A major league baseball umpire named Jim Joyce made an ultra extra bad call gaffe that cost pitcher Andres Galarrga a perfect game BUT (believe it or not) Joyce apologized for getting the call wrong. So did commissioner Bug Selig reverse the call and give Galarrga his perfect game?
No. Selig you wet fish wake up. Perfect game? Umpire admits to blow call? Can you get your head out of your MLB butt and change it? Not. I'd sue.
*********************************************************
A teacher at an ultra-Christian school in Florida was fired because she disclosed she was OH MY GOD pregnant (can you hear my gasp of outrage LOL) before she married. Now I am rolling my eyes. She was dismissed because of "fornication" LMFAO - having sex before marriage blah blah blah. She is fighting the dismissal.
C'mon do these people actually think that Jesus didn't EVER have sex? I don't think so.
Jeez, I wonder if that school found out I laugh myself silly after I have an orgasm - WTF would they do with me? I'd be labeled a freak of nature or spawn of the (laughing devil).
********************************************************
The BP oil spill continues. I think President Obama should make those suits at BP put on Speedos and a wetsuit and get the fuck down in the ocean and use the spit out of their fast-talking corporate mouths to plug up the ginormous leak. And when they come up for air, toss their asses in jail for allowing that rig to stay in its drilling position without the proper monthly inspections. Deep water sharks are coming to shore to escape the choking oil. Species of ocean li\fe, birds and other inhabitants are dying off in numbers because they are breathing in the fatal oil and the birds are so slicked with oil they are being weighed down and drowned in the ocean. That's beyong sick. BP should be fined billions for this horrific disaster.
Fry them all.
*******************************************************
A Florida attorney attempting to visit her client in prison set off a metal detector because of the metal underwire in her bra. She was denied entrance to the prison and opted for removal of the offending article of lingerie that was setting of alarms. When she returned to the entrance braless, she was again denied entry because her bra-less-ness (is that like law-less-ness???) was prohibited.
This is rich. Prisoners who were born men but want to be women get hormonal injections to grow breasts and then parade around in their 2 dollar canteen white cotton bras (oh, ewwwww) but this attorney is denied access to her client because she as a female wore a bra but then removed it because she was banned from wearing it because of the metal.
You know, you men have no idea what it's like to try and fit breasts into (a) a thing that goes over our shoulders, around our backs, cuts into our skin and stabs us in our sleep nevermind determining cut, color, cup size, band size, straps or strapless, \racerback, standard back, criss-cross or demi cups. Or how about those things that can be "glued" on to our breasts that aren't really bras at all but simply something likened to potholders with a support beam?
All you all have to do is tuck your package into tidy whities or boxer shorts or those tight-ass nylon crotch grabbing undies that are scientifically proven to lower sperm count by the way and off you go. Your choice of color is simple and so OK, you need to make adjustments every now and then (baseball players being the exception to the norm because they are ALWAYS moving their junk around on national TV every opportunity they get) but seriously, picking out and wearing a bra can cause breaches in national security if a woman can't find size and color for her girls.
**************************************************************************
Last but not least, I seem to have a penchant for men who like to keep me at arm's length. Last boyfriend of nearly five years may as well have kept me locked away in a dungeon for all he took me out and exposed me to sunshine - or any kind of warmth for that matter. I am convinced that when he dies, they will cut his lying cheatin' chest open and find a big ass glacier inside where his heart should be. And no funeral pyre is ever going to melt it, either. I guarantee.
Current "I don't know what to call him" is keeping me at arm's length because he said "girlfriends are dangerous" and therefore, I make a very good atempt at not acting like a girlfriend.
But how do you "not" act like you care when you really want to say hey, you know, I want to talk to you more than I do, I want to see you more than I do and I want to hear you laugh more than I do ----- without sounding or acting like a girlfriend?
Sometimes I feel I am intruding upon his life and I am not sure where I fit in - if at all. And there are other times when we laugh ourselves sick (or just laugh uh-huh) and it feels just right.
I just wish I could tell him why those damned peonys nearly caused me to faint dead away and the meaning those flowers held for me but I wonder if my explanation would fall on deaf ears. I don't know.
There's a part of me that really wants to find out but it's hard to get that close to someone when he keeps me at arm's length. It's one thing to keep a fishing pole out in front of you - at arm's length - but it's another thing when it's someone's arm that's continuing to keep me that far away.
I miss going fishing
A major league baseball umpire named Jim Joyce made an ultra extra bad call gaffe that cost pitcher Andres Galarrga a perfect game BUT (believe it or not) Joyce apologized for getting the call wrong. So did commissioner Bug Selig reverse the call and give Galarrga his perfect game?
No. Selig you wet fish wake up. Perfect game? Umpire admits to blow call? Can you get your head out of your MLB butt and change it? Not. I'd sue.
*********************************************************
A teacher at an ultra-Christian school in Florida was fired because she disclosed she was OH MY GOD pregnant (can you hear my gasp of outrage LOL) before she married. Now I am rolling my eyes. She was dismissed because of "fornication" LMFAO - having sex before marriage blah blah blah. She is fighting the dismissal.
C'mon do these people actually think that Jesus didn't EVER have sex? I don't think so.
Jeez, I wonder if that school found out I laugh myself silly after I have an orgasm - WTF would they do with me? I'd be labeled a freak of nature or spawn of the (laughing devil).
********************************************************
The BP oil spill continues. I think President Obama should make those suits at BP put on Speedos and a wetsuit and get the fuck down in the ocean and use the spit out of their fast-talking corporate mouths to plug up the ginormous leak. And when they come up for air, toss their asses in jail for allowing that rig to stay in its drilling position without the proper monthly inspections. Deep water sharks are coming to shore to escape the choking oil. Species of ocean li\fe, birds and other inhabitants are dying off in numbers because they are breathing in the fatal oil and the birds are so slicked with oil they are being weighed down and drowned in the ocean. That's beyong sick. BP should be fined billions for this horrific disaster.
Fry them all.
*******************************************************
A Florida attorney attempting to visit her client in prison set off a metal detector because of the metal underwire in her bra. She was denied entrance to the prison and opted for removal of the offending article of lingerie that was setting of alarms. When she returned to the entrance braless, she was again denied entry because her bra-less-ness (is that like law-less-ness???) was prohibited.
This is rich. Prisoners who were born men but want to be women get hormonal injections to grow breasts and then parade around in their 2 dollar canteen white cotton bras (oh, ewwwww) but this attorney is denied access to her client because she as a female wore a bra but then removed it because she was banned from wearing it because of the metal.
You know, you men have no idea what it's like to try and fit breasts into (a) a thing that goes over our shoulders, around our backs, cuts into our skin and stabs us in our sleep nevermind determining cut, color, cup size, band size, straps or strapless, \racerback, standard back, criss-cross or demi cups. Or how about those things that can be "glued" on to our breasts that aren't really bras at all but simply something likened to potholders with a support beam?
All you all have to do is tuck your package into tidy whities or boxer shorts or those tight-ass nylon crotch grabbing undies that are scientifically proven to lower sperm count by the way and off you go. Your choice of color is simple and so OK, you need to make adjustments every now and then (baseball players being the exception to the norm because they are ALWAYS moving their junk around on national TV every opportunity they get) but seriously, picking out and wearing a bra can cause breaches in national security if a woman can't find size and color for her girls.
**************************************************************************
Last but not least, I seem to have a penchant for men who like to keep me at arm's length. Last boyfriend of nearly five years may as well have kept me locked away in a dungeon for all he took me out and exposed me to sunshine - or any kind of warmth for that matter. I am convinced that when he dies, they will cut his lying cheatin' chest open and find a big ass glacier inside where his heart should be. And no funeral pyre is ever going to melt it, either. I guarantee.
Current "I don't know what to call him" is keeping me at arm's length because he said "girlfriends are dangerous" and therefore, I make a very good atempt at not acting like a girlfriend.
But how do you "not" act like you care when you really want to say hey, you know, I want to talk to you more than I do, I want to see you more than I do and I want to hear you laugh more than I do ----- without sounding or acting like a girlfriend?
Sometimes I feel I am intruding upon his life and I am not sure where I fit in - if at all. And there are other times when we laugh ourselves sick (or just laugh uh-huh) and it feels just right.
I just wish I could tell him why those damned peonys nearly caused me to faint dead away and the meaning those flowers held for me but I wonder if my explanation would fall on deaf ears. I don't know.
There's a part of me that really wants to find out but it's hard to get that close to someone when he keeps me at arm's length. It's one thing to keep a fishing pole out in front of you - at arm's length - but it's another thing when it's someone's arm that's continuing to keep me that far away.
I miss going fishing
Friday, May 21, 2010
Coward Has A New Name, New Definition: Gina Giovangelo
Dear Ms. Giovangelo: The writers of Webster's Dictionary will be contacting you soon as the word "coward" will have a new definite (your name) and your mug shot next to the word so the entire English-speaking/reading world will know that's exactly what you are.
The other night you ran over and dragged Lillian White in her wheelchair as you were speeding down a Hyannis Street. She is - or was now because of you - a mother of seven children and she had grandchildren. You ran her down and you never stopped. You kept driving when you knew you had hit a human being.
And a passenger in your car reported that you had been drinking cognac in a hotel room prior to your murdering Lillian White (oh excuse me, "hit and run") and that your vehicle hit something so hard your airbags deployed but you kept going.
Coward.
And now, at your arraignment today - after the judge released you on $10,000 bail (another one of our illustrious judicial decision makers who made a dumb ass decision) and that you denied involvement in Lillian White's murder - you left the courtroom and never came back.
Coward.
So here's my question to you cowardly Gina Giovangelo: If you were not involved, then why did you flee your arraignment? And, worse, you may have had assistance from your thugs that you hang with because obviously their brain lights are just as dim as yours that you and your crazies went to a car dealership to try and purchase a "getaway" vehicle.
No, wait, my bad, you don't have any brains. Because you killed a woman without stopping, you fled the scene, tried to hide the vehicle you were driving and you fled your arraignment. And worse, you were probably drunk which makes you a loser AND a coward.
I'd say that aforementioned re-defines the word coward now, wouldn't you?
They're coming for you Gina Coward Giovangelo. And I hope they throw the book at you so hard that your head is snapped back from your neck because maybe that kind of hit - the kind that Lillian White suffered and died as a result of your cowardice - will bring you back to reality.
You are responsible for the death of a human being and you didn't even stop.
Coward has a new name.
The other night you ran over and dragged Lillian White in her wheelchair as you were speeding down a Hyannis Street. She is - or was now because of you - a mother of seven children and she had grandchildren. You ran her down and you never stopped. You kept driving when you knew you had hit a human being.
And a passenger in your car reported that you had been drinking cognac in a hotel room prior to your murdering Lillian White (oh excuse me, "hit and run") and that your vehicle hit something so hard your airbags deployed but you kept going.
Coward.
And now, at your arraignment today - after the judge released you on $10,000 bail (another one of our illustrious judicial decision makers who made a dumb ass decision) and that you denied involvement in Lillian White's murder - you left the courtroom and never came back.
Coward.
So here's my question to you cowardly Gina Giovangelo: If you were not involved, then why did you flee your arraignment? And, worse, you may have had assistance from your thugs that you hang with because obviously their brain lights are just as dim as yours that you and your crazies went to a car dealership to try and purchase a "getaway" vehicle.
No, wait, my bad, you don't have any brains. Because you killed a woman without stopping, you fled the scene, tried to hide the vehicle you were driving and you fled your arraignment. And worse, you were probably drunk which makes you a loser AND a coward.
I'd say that aforementioned re-defines the word coward now, wouldn't you?
They're coming for you Gina Coward Giovangelo. And I hope they throw the book at you so hard that your head is snapped back from your neck because maybe that kind of hit - the kind that Lillian White suffered and died as a result of your cowardice - will bring you back to reality.
You are responsible for the death of a human being and you didn't even stop.
Coward has a new name.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Illegal Immigration - It's Good To Be Obama's Auntie
An immigration judge in Boston ruled Friday that Zeituni Onyango, the "58-year-old half sister of Obama's father, Barack Obama Sr." could remain in the U.S. despite the fact that (a) she is and has been an illegal immigrant in the USA since 2000; (b) she repeatedly failed to leave the country in 2003 and 2005 as court-ordered www.boston.com and (c) will continue to live in public housing in Boston and welsh off of us United States citizen taxpayers.
Oh isn't it grand to be the president's auntie?
Leonard J. Shapiro took into consideration that Auntie Zeituni has an auto-immune disease and her health is poor and if she returned to her native Kenya, she would be subjected to tribal violence.
Really now. And I'm supposed to care about that why?
Shapiro has now effectively opened up the biggest can of worms and shook a thousand hornets' nests dizzy with his ruling which will now allow Auntie Z to get a work permit, apply for a social security number, get a driver's license, green card and CONTINUE to receive state-funded benefits that I pay for as a taxpayer.
And guess what? Every single illegal immigrant who has been turned down for political asylum or denied application for permanent residency is going to request a hearing in front of Judge Shapiro to grant each one of them an allowance to remain in the United States.
And if Shapiro doesn't grant them ALL the same allowance, how many lawsuits are going to be filed by these illegals because they are going to claim (oh this is a good one) - DISCRIMINATION. Discrimination because they aren't related to the president of the United States.
I wonder who answered Shapiro's phone at home when Obama called him to make SURE he granted Auntie Z her permanent residency.
My eyes will not stop rolling right about now.
Just how far does judicial discretion go? I get that Auntie Z has health problems. But how many other illegals are going to attempt to prove same to use as the reason for staying in the United States?
How many illegal immigrants in Massachusetts are going to use this case as a foundation upon which to build their case (after case after case) to gain recognition that their flight from their homeland (and subsequent landing in Massachusetts of all places) and deportation back to their homeland could put them in political "tribal" jeopardy or some other malarkey-ous reason.
The word "lame" has just taken on an entirely new meaning. And Shapiro is just a plain lame-brain.
This is not good.
This is DEFINITELY not good.
Can you say firestorm? I knew you could.
Shapiro is off his judicial rails allowing Auntie Z to remain in the United States. And just for shits and giggles, suppose Auntie Z was healthy and Shapiro was presented with this case under those circumstances? But of course, Auntie Z's attorney would have made it known (AHEM) that her client (AHEM) IS the President's auntie so of COURSE Shapiro would have to allow her to remain in the United States.
Kick out the president of the united states's auntie for being in this country illegally for the past 10 years and living illegally in public housing, committing housing fraud, welfare fraud, food stamp fraud, Mass Health fraud, nevermind getting free medical care, welfare, food stamps, etc. etc. etc.?
Oh go on now. Kick out that there president's auntie? That wouldn't be thar polite and neighborly now, would it?
Shore is good to be the president's auntie now ain't it.
Excuse me while I go throw up.
Oh isn't it grand to be the president's auntie?
Leonard J. Shapiro took into consideration that Auntie Zeituni has an auto-immune disease and her health is poor and if she returned to her native Kenya, she would be subjected to tribal violence.
Really now. And I'm supposed to care about that why?
Shapiro has now effectively opened up the biggest can of worms and shook a thousand hornets' nests dizzy with his ruling which will now allow Auntie Z to get a work permit, apply for a social security number, get a driver's license, green card and CONTINUE to receive state-funded benefits that I pay for as a taxpayer.
And guess what? Every single illegal immigrant who has been turned down for political asylum or denied application for permanent residency is going to request a hearing in front of Judge Shapiro to grant each one of them an allowance to remain in the United States.
And if Shapiro doesn't grant them ALL the same allowance, how many lawsuits are going to be filed by these illegals because they are going to claim (oh this is a good one) - DISCRIMINATION. Discrimination because they aren't related to the president of the United States.
I wonder who answered Shapiro's phone at home when Obama called him to make SURE he granted Auntie Z her permanent residency.
My eyes will not stop rolling right about now.
Just how far does judicial discretion go? I get that Auntie Z has health problems. But how many other illegals are going to attempt to prove same to use as the reason for staying in the United States?
How many illegal immigrants in Massachusetts are going to use this case as a foundation upon which to build their case (after case after case) to gain recognition that their flight from their homeland (and subsequent landing in Massachusetts of all places) and deportation back to their homeland could put them in political "tribal" jeopardy or some other malarkey-ous reason.
The word "lame" has just taken on an entirely new meaning. And Shapiro is just a plain lame-brain.
This is not good.
This is DEFINITELY not good.
Can you say firestorm? I knew you could.
Shapiro is off his judicial rails allowing Auntie Z to remain in the United States. And just for shits and giggles, suppose Auntie Z was healthy and Shapiro was presented with this case under those circumstances? But of course, Auntie Z's attorney would have made it known (AHEM) that her client (AHEM) IS the President's auntie so of COURSE Shapiro would have to allow her to remain in the United States.
Kick out the president of the united states's auntie for being in this country illegally for the past 10 years and living illegally in public housing, committing housing fraud, welfare fraud, food stamp fraud, Mass Health fraud, nevermind getting free medical care, welfare, food stamps, etc. etc. etc.?
Oh go on now. Kick out that there president's auntie? That wouldn't be thar polite and neighborly now, would it?
Shore is good to be the president's auntie now ain't it.
Excuse me while I go throw up.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Greatest Sports Collapses
Add the Boston Bruins to the list of "greatest sports collapses" in history.
Boston hockey fans thought it was finally going to happen tonight, that their beloved Bruins would come to the "Gahden" and skate to win and advance to the next round of the playoff, inching closer to the coveted Stanley Cup.
Can you all see me rolling my eyes from here? Can you feel the mad and disgust rolling off of me in tsunami waves?
Tonight I witnessed yet another greatest sports collapse: The Boston Bruins, who had built a 3 games to none lead over the Philadephia Flyers in their best of 7 series, lost four straight games, the fourth being tonight's game - a 4-3 loss which has now effectively ended the Bruins' season.
Oh, and do I rub salt in fans' wounds by saying the B's lost this deciding game - AT HOME? The Garden was as silent as Grant's tomb. Disbelief was etched on the faces of all.
My first thought after the buzzer sounded? The B's are the New York Yankees of 2004. I remember that year - and that series as clear as granite quarry water.
The Boston Red Sox had dropped 3 straight games to New York of the American League Championship series and Red Sox Nation was already thinking 2005.
But the Sox did the unthinkable. Call it a miracle or call it whatever you want but the Red Sox won four straight games over the Yankees and (god I have goosebumps writing this LOL) advanced to the World Series against the St. Louis Cardinals, won four more consecutive games and erased the curse of the Bambino and 86 years of sheer frustration.
The Flyers did that tonight although I can't tell you when they last won a Stanley Cup nor do I really care.
What I CAN tell you is the that the Bruins have NOT won the Stanley Cup since the 1971-72 season when they defeated the New York Rangers.
And now the 38 year drought has turned to a 39 year drought.
So I am adding insult to the injury by mentioning a few more noted greatest sports collapses:
1. 1964 Phillies. A 6 1/2 game lead in September evaporated as the Phillies dropped 11 games in a row and finished tied for second.
2. Houston Oilers v. Buffalo Bills in the 1992 AFC wildcard game. Oilers built a 35-3 lead into the 3rd quarter but unraveled like a rolling ball of yarn, ultimately losing 41-38 to the Bills. Ouch.
3. Ugh. I remember this all too well. 1978 Red Sox. How about a nice 14 game (yes, 14 game) comfortable lead in the AL East go down the tubes between late July, August & September when the Sox finished 17 1/2 games out of 1st place. El Foldo was the expression someone used. No shit.
4. 1942 Detroit Red Wings. Ha, they did what the Bruins did tonight. Except the Red Wings collapsed in the Stanley Cup series. The Red Wings led 3 games to none over the Toronto Maple Leafs and forgot to show up for the next four games as they, too, lost all of them and watched the Maple Leafs carry that Cup around the Leafs' home ice. Footnote: The Red Wings actually took a slim 1-0 lead into the third period but allowed 3 goals in 10 minutes to effectuate their collapse.
5. And of course, my favorite as aforementioned, the New York Yankees in the 2004 ALCS series. Gotta love that one, though, if you are a member of Red Sox Nation.
But tonight, Bruins fans everywhere are shaking their heads, coming up with every excuse in the book for this horrific collapse (most likely the blame will be placed upon numerous injuries to key players) but realizing that the B's have now earned themselves a permanent place in the record books and not in a good way, either.
I've been a Boston fan so long that I can't help but think eh, wait till next year but if you could see the eye rolling' going on here supports my jadedness and cynicalness about that saying. OK, so I did get 2 World Series in 3 years. But damn, that nice shiny ginormous Stanley Cup would have been a really nice way to kick off a 2010 win streak for Boston teams.
Not!
Boston hockey fans thought it was finally going to happen tonight, that their beloved Bruins would come to the "Gahden" and skate to win and advance to the next round of the playoff, inching closer to the coveted Stanley Cup.
Can you all see me rolling my eyes from here? Can you feel the mad and disgust rolling off of me in tsunami waves?
Tonight I witnessed yet another greatest sports collapse: The Boston Bruins, who had built a 3 games to none lead over the Philadephia Flyers in their best of 7 series, lost four straight games, the fourth being tonight's game - a 4-3 loss which has now effectively ended the Bruins' season.
Oh, and do I rub salt in fans' wounds by saying the B's lost this deciding game - AT HOME? The Garden was as silent as Grant's tomb. Disbelief was etched on the faces of all.
My first thought after the buzzer sounded? The B's are the New York Yankees of 2004. I remember that year - and that series as clear as granite quarry water.
The Boston Red Sox had dropped 3 straight games to New York of the American League Championship series and Red Sox Nation was already thinking 2005.
But the Sox did the unthinkable. Call it a miracle or call it whatever you want but the Red Sox won four straight games over the Yankees and (god I have goosebumps writing this LOL) advanced to the World Series against the St. Louis Cardinals, won four more consecutive games and erased the curse of the Bambino and 86 years of sheer frustration.
The Flyers did that tonight although I can't tell you when they last won a Stanley Cup nor do I really care.
What I CAN tell you is the that the Bruins have NOT won the Stanley Cup since the 1971-72 season when they defeated the New York Rangers.
And now the 38 year drought has turned to a 39 year drought.
So I am adding insult to the injury by mentioning a few more noted greatest sports collapses:
1. 1964 Phillies. A 6 1/2 game lead in September evaporated as the Phillies dropped 11 games in a row and finished tied for second.
2. Houston Oilers v. Buffalo Bills in the 1992 AFC wildcard game. Oilers built a 35-3 lead into the 3rd quarter but unraveled like a rolling ball of yarn, ultimately losing 41-38 to the Bills. Ouch.
3. Ugh. I remember this all too well. 1978 Red Sox. How about a nice 14 game (yes, 14 game) comfortable lead in the AL East go down the tubes between late July, August & September when the Sox finished 17 1/2 games out of 1st place. El Foldo was the expression someone used. No shit.
4. 1942 Detroit Red Wings. Ha, they did what the Bruins did tonight. Except the Red Wings collapsed in the Stanley Cup series. The Red Wings led 3 games to none over the Toronto Maple Leafs and forgot to show up for the next four games as they, too, lost all of them and watched the Maple Leafs carry that Cup around the Leafs' home ice. Footnote: The Red Wings actually took a slim 1-0 lead into the third period but allowed 3 goals in 10 minutes to effectuate their collapse.
5. And of course, my favorite as aforementioned, the New York Yankees in the 2004 ALCS series. Gotta love that one, though, if you are a member of Red Sox Nation.
But tonight, Bruins fans everywhere are shaking their heads, coming up with every excuse in the book for this horrific collapse (most likely the blame will be placed upon numerous injuries to key players) but realizing that the B's have now earned themselves a permanent place in the record books and not in a good way, either.
I've been a Boston fan so long that I can't help but think eh, wait till next year but if you could see the eye rolling' going on here supports my jadedness and cynicalness about that saying. OK, so I did get 2 World Series in 3 years. But damn, that nice shiny ginormous Stanley Cup would have been a really nice way to kick off a 2010 win streak for Boston teams.
Not!
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Relationships Are Like Baking Chocolate Chip Cookies
Did I catch your attention? The cookie subject line does have merit.
A telephone conversation I had with someone - a guy who has this whacky soft duck type hat that's bright orange and yellow that is just about the damnedest sexiest thing I've ever seen :) - gave me food for thought (now that's a novel concept) - about whether you should analyze a friendship/relationship or just let it be.
So I got to thinking that friendships/relationships are like baking chocolate chip cookies: If you keep opening the oven door to check on the cookies every minute, trying to "analyze" if they are done or by poking them with your finger, chances are pretty good these cookies are going to be undercooked and gross and get tossed out or overcooked, burned and - you got it - tossed out.
BUT ... if you are patient and just leave the cookies to bake in their own damned time, chances are pretty good you'll end up with something really, really delicious.
See what I mean? Friendships/Relationships - at least those in the early stages of however either involved party wants to deem the existence of their status or definition of "togetherness" - shouldn't be scrutinized every minute, shouldn't be analyzed or questioned or bolstered with statements like "I don't want you to think ..." or "I know you said this, that or whatever ..." and the old standby "I don't want anything from you and I don't expect anything from you."
I'm guilty as charged with sometimes analyzing or overanalyzing my own spur of the moment texts of pornographic humor, comments and statements that may or may not be construed as an attempt to wrap myself around someone like a boa constrictor.
That was NOT my intent but tonight, I did exactly that (not the wrapping part although I would like to wrap myself around him in a different way ha ha ha) and made "the phone call" and blabbed a lot of blah blah blah that this guy with the duck hat definintely heard (I know he was listening) but when I listened to the blather that was coming out of my mouth I realized that I should end the call before I choke on my own analysis and drown in my duh-ness.
Duh!
Go figure. It's hard sometimes to gauge where you stand with someone - if you even have a place to stand at all. But sometimes the place upon which we find common ground, common interests and a lot of laughter seems to be the right place to stand as long as you don't build walls or box someone in with a lot of conditions and expectations. That's how relationships - new and old - get ruined.
Certainly, we all want a solid foundation upon which to build - whether it be a house or a friendship or a relationship but not everyone has the same goal or ideal or has a clue how to handle something new, someONE new that perhaps makes them look at things in a different light.
May I interject that it sucks the major league big one when you have been in a long-term relationship and you find out you've been duped. Not just duped but blatantly and humiliatingly taken for the worst ride possible. Can you see my hand up there in the air? Does the term "been there, done that" mean something? And what's worse is when you find out about the "duping" in the most innocent (or bizarre way in my case) and then your world unravels and you stand back in shock wondering how did I not see this? Or how did I not KNOW this?
When you bake chocolate chip cookies, the smell is inviting and overwhelmingly tantalizing and you can't wait to jam about two or three into your mouth. It's the same with relationships. New ones, steady long-term ones. Everything looks good and smells good and sometimes you're lucky enough to get something really delish and tasty and you just keep coming back for more and that taste is amazing every single time.
Then there are times when you spit out a relationship like it's bad, burnt overdone blackened chocolate chip cookies mixed with bad medicine and you feel like you'll never get that taste out of your mouth because one person ruined your ability to find that "delish" factor ever again.
I certainly didn't think I'd ever get that nasty taste out of my mouth. And it wasn't even my less-than-a-year marraige that put it there!
My chocolate chip cookie baking fiasco began when I entered into a five-year relationship with somone who ultimately gave humiliation, duped and sledgehammered - with an extra heaping helping of duped - entirely new meanings and made me question whether I EVER wanted to bite into any more damned chocolate chip cookie relationships because my mouth, and my heart, were just too damned scarred by eating those burnt cookies he cleverly disguised as good ones for five years.
Then one day when I was least expecting it, a guy with killer blue eyes offered me purple Hostess Snoballs. You know - those sickeningly sweet round dome shaped balls of chocolate with that marshmallow covering (it's like the covering on a baseball except way, way better tasting) with cream in the middle.
Ya those.
And for whatever reason, I took a leap of faith and took a bite. (Kinda like a fish taking the bait LOL except I haven't been thrown back - yet :)
I don't know what kind of meaning it holds for him, but for me, well, let's just say those sugar-filled heartstopping chocolate domes of cream and calorie-laden marshmallow high fructose corn syrup purple things taste pretty damned good so far.
And tonight after I hung up the phone and sat down to write this blog - I vowed not to analyze - or overanalyze - anything anymore because some things - and people - should be taken (and accepted) just the way they are: in little, tasty pieces.
No more, no less.
Got milk?
A telephone conversation I had with someone - a guy who has this whacky soft duck type hat that's bright orange and yellow that is just about the damnedest sexiest thing I've ever seen :) - gave me food for thought (now that's a novel concept) - about whether you should analyze a friendship/relationship or just let it be.
So I got to thinking that friendships/relationships are like baking chocolate chip cookies: If you keep opening the oven door to check on the cookies every minute, trying to "analyze" if they are done or by poking them with your finger, chances are pretty good these cookies are going to be undercooked and gross and get tossed out or overcooked, burned and - you got it - tossed out.
BUT ... if you are patient and just leave the cookies to bake in their own damned time, chances are pretty good you'll end up with something really, really delicious.
See what I mean? Friendships/Relationships - at least those in the early stages of however either involved party wants to deem the existence of their status or definition of "togetherness" - shouldn't be scrutinized every minute, shouldn't be analyzed or questioned or bolstered with statements like "I don't want you to think ..." or "I know you said this, that or whatever ..." and the old standby "I don't want anything from you and I don't expect anything from you."
I'm guilty as charged with sometimes analyzing or overanalyzing my own spur of the moment texts of pornographic humor, comments and statements that may or may not be construed as an attempt to wrap myself around someone like a boa constrictor.
That was NOT my intent but tonight, I did exactly that (not the wrapping part although I would like to wrap myself around him in a different way ha ha ha) and made "the phone call" and blabbed a lot of blah blah blah that this guy with the duck hat definintely heard (I know he was listening) but when I listened to the blather that was coming out of my mouth I realized that I should end the call before I choke on my own analysis and drown in my duh-ness.
Duh!
Go figure. It's hard sometimes to gauge where you stand with someone - if you even have a place to stand at all. But sometimes the place upon which we find common ground, common interests and a lot of laughter seems to be the right place to stand as long as you don't build walls or box someone in with a lot of conditions and expectations. That's how relationships - new and old - get ruined.
Certainly, we all want a solid foundation upon which to build - whether it be a house or a friendship or a relationship but not everyone has the same goal or ideal or has a clue how to handle something new, someONE new that perhaps makes them look at things in a different light.
May I interject that it sucks the major league big one when you have been in a long-term relationship and you find out you've been duped. Not just duped but blatantly and humiliatingly taken for the worst ride possible. Can you see my hand up there in the air? Does the term "been there, done that" mean something? And what's worse is when you find out about the "duping" in the most innocent (or bizarre way in my case) and then your world unravels and you stand back in shock wondering how did I not see this? Or how did I not KNOW this?
When you bake chocolate chip cookies, the smell is inviting and overwhelmingly tantalizing and you can't wait to jam about two or three into your mouth. It's the same with relationships. New ones, steady long-term ones. Everything looks good and smells good and sometimes you're lucky enough to get something really delish and tasty and you just keep coming back for more and that taste is amazing every single time.
Then there are times when you spit out a relationship like it's bad, burnt overdone blackened chocolate chip cookies mixed with bad medicine and you feel like you'll never get that taste out of your mouth because one person ruined your ability to find that "delish" factor ever again.
I certainly didn't think I'd ever get that nasty taste out of my mouth. And it wasn't even my less-than-a-year marraige that put it there!
My chocolate chip cookie baking fiasco began when I entered into a five-year relationship with somone who ultimately gave humiliation, duped and sledgehammered - with an extra heaping helping of duped - entirely new meanings and made me question whether I EVER wanted to bite into any more damned chocolate chip cookie relationships because my mouth, and my heart, were just too damned scarred by eating those burnt cookies he cleverly disguised as good ones for five years.
Then one day when I was least expecting it, a guy with killer blue eyes offered me purple Hostess Snoballs. You know - those sickeningly sweet round dome shaped balls of chocolate with that marshmallow covering (it's like the covering on a baseball except way, way better tasting) with cream in the middle.
Ya those.
And for whatever reason, I took a leap of faith and took a bite. (Kinda like a fish taking the bait LOL except I haven't been thrown back - yet :)
I don't know what kind of meaning it holds for him, but for me, well, let's just say those sugar-filled heartstopping chocolate domes of cream and calorie-laden marshmallow high fructose corn syrup purple things taste pretty damned good so far.
And tonight after I hung up the phone and sat down to write this blog - I vowed not to analyze - or overanalyze - anything anymore because some things - and people - should be taken (and accepted) just the way they are: in little, tasty pieces.
No more, no less.
Got milk?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Over the Edge
What makes humans snap and unleash anger and violence that defines imagination? What is it that we carry around inside of us that reaches its limit in a breadth of a second and causes us to take our own lives, the lives of others or both? What makes us cross the line between reality and fantasy and causes us to act and/or react in ways that boggle even the most intelligent persons on the planet.
Serial killers methodically kill. They set, they stage, they display their victims and more oftentimes than not, they keep souvenirs of their victims. What is it that defines or shapes these specific types of people into what they become, who they kill and how they explain their actions? Just how long before they begin their killing sprees to they hear (if at all) the sound of the "snap" of whatever holds reality together for them inside their heads? Do they feel any emotion when they are carving out the internal organs of their victims and delicately, strategically placing them into a pentagram design, the pentagram automatically used as evidence to deign the killer as a devil worshipper and end speculation as to the "why" of the crimes. Or so it seems.
What if it were a tic tac toe design? Or a children's hopscotch drawing? Or someone's backyard pool? Then how would the serial killer be defined? People would ask what makes someone do something so horrific like that?
Let me break this down a bit: Terrorists inflict pain and suffering upon those they deem as "infidels." Their motivations are religious, or political or both. Some of these people wake up in the morning already having decided that they are going to commit suicide and take as many "infidels" with them as possible.
Who the f--k does that? Do these people cook breakfast, have a sip of their coffee (or whatever they drink in those countries that grow terrorists like Iowa grows corn) and take a shower before they strap a bomb around their bodies and go blow themselves up and kill hundreds of people in the process?
I genuinely believe those people were wired all wrong from the moment they were conceived. There was no snap, crackle or pop. When I get up in the morning, all I think about is getting my coffee and making my son's lunch for school. Maybe those terrorists think I am wired wrong but at least I get to FINISH my coffee - IN ONE PIECE!
What about the jealous husband who suddenly stabs his wife to death with a serrated knife and cuts off her head because his supper wasn't on the table at exactly 5:37 p.m. and then calmly sits down to eat his supper? When he is done, he calls 911 to report the crime. When questioned, he calmly tells police he was sick and tired of his supper being late. No other explanation is given and the husband shows no remorse. Did the husband hear the "snap" of the wires in his brain when he short-circuited and murdered his spouse?
What is it that sends us over the edge in a single moment?
A man I will identify as "Chris" told his 14-year old son he was going to kill himself with a rifle. The son called the police and what ensued was a five hour standoff between the police and this man. When it ended, "Chris" was taken to a local hospital for a mental health evaluation then released, only to be arrested the following day on several charges including not having a permit for his gun.
But there is far more to this than what has been reported by the media. What thought process, or block of logical thinking made this man contemplate ending his life? Perhaps his relationship with his wife was failing. Perhaps life had run circles around him and bound him so tightly that he felt like death would release him and give him solid ground upon which to stand. Perhaps a long time drug addiction (as rumored) had begun the short-circuitry of his wires years ago and he felt the "snap" coming, and verbalized his desire to die, but for whatever reason, thankfully did not inflict harm upon himself, his son or anyone else.
Why? What separates those who go over the edge completely from those who take one step off the edge, lean over, look down into the abyss but yet hold on to whatever thread of reality they have left in their minds?
And what defines reality for those of us who remain far away from the edge every single day and never even get close enough to look over?
Humans are artwork undefined. We are made up of a blending of colors and designs and some of us remain unfinished. Even our creator - whoever or whatever that may be is still an unknown.
Our designs as humans are scientists', researchers' and doctors' dreams come true: We are made up of natually occuring chemicals that run rampant in our bodies that can go to Defcon 5 in less than a millisecond. We have molecules and neutrons and electrons and protons and neurons and a lot of other "ons" that keep the medical journals full and psychologists and psychiatrists ready with their pens and script pads to ensure damage control with pills when all hell breaks loose in our bodies and brains.
But when that "snap" happens - for whatever the reason, for whatever small chemical hiccup that occurs as simply as if we've tripped over a shoelace, or as destructive as a Mt. Vesuvius-like explosion somewhere in the farthest, darkest corner of a brain that causes someone to remove themselves from life and/or take the lives of others with them is and will remain as inexplicable as the action itself.
Serial killers methodically kill. They set, they stage, they display their victims and more oftentimes than not, they keep souvenirs of their victims. What is it that defines or shapes these specific types of people into what they become, who they kill and how they explain their actions? Just how long before they begin their killing sprees to they hear (if at all) the sound of the "snap" of whatever holds reality together for them inside their heads? Do they feel any emotion when they are carving out the internal organs of their victims and delicately, strategically placing them into a pentagram design, the pentagram automatically used as evidence to deign the killer as a devil worshipper and end speculation as to the "why" of the crimes. Or so it seems.
What if it were a tic tac toe design? Or a children's hopscotch drawing? Or someone's backyard pool? Then how would the serial killer be defined? People would ask what makes someone do something so horrific like that?
Let me break this down a bit: Terrorists inflict pain and suffering upon those they deem as "infidels." Their motivations are religious, or political or both. Some of these people wake up in the morning already having decided that they are going to commit suicide and take as many "infidels" with them as possible.
Who the f--k does that? Do these people cook breakfast, have a sip of their coffee (or whatever they drink in those countries that grow terrorists like Iowa grows corn) and take a shower before they strap a bomb around their bodies and go blow themselves up and kill hundreds of people in the process?
I genuinely believe those people were wired all wrong from the moment they were conceived. There was no snap, crackle or pop. When I get up in the morning, all I think about is getting my coffee and making my son's lunch for school. Maybe those terrorists think I am wired wrong but at least I get to FINISH my coffee - IN ONE PIECE!
What about the jealous husband who suddenly stabs his wife to death with a serrated knife and cuts off her head because his supper wasn't on the table at exactly 5:37 p.m. and then calmly sits down to eat his supper? When he is done, he calls 911 to report the crime. When questioned, he calmly tells police he was sick and tired of his supper being late. No other explanation is given and the husband shows no remorse. Did the husband hear the "snap" of the wires in his brain when he short-circuited and murdered his spouse?
What is it that sends us over the edge in a single moment?
A man I will identify as "Chris" told his 14-year old son he was going to kill himself with a rifle. The son called the police and what ensued was a five hour standoff between the police and this man. When it ended, "Chris" was taken to a local hospital for a mental health evaluation then released, only to be arrested the following day on several charges including not having a permit for his gun.
But there is far more to this than what has been reported by the media. What thought process, or block of logical thinking made this man contemplate ending his life? Perhaps his relationship with his wife was failing. Perhaps life had run circles around him and bound him so tightly that he felt like death would release him and give him solid ground upon which to stand. Perhaps a long time drug addiction (as rumored) had begun the short-circuitry of his wires years ago and he felt the "snap" coming, and verbalized his desire to die, but for whatever reason, thankfully did not inflict harm upon himself, his son or anyone else.
Why? What separates those who go over the edge completely from those who take one step off the edge, lean over, look down into the abyss but yet hold on to whatever thread of reality they have left in their minds?
And what defines reality for those of us who remain far away from the edge every single day and never even get close enough to look over?
Humans are artwork undefined. We are made up of a blending of colors and designs and some of us remain unfinished. Even our creator - whoever or whatever that may be is still an unknown.
Our designs as humans are scientists', researchers' and doctors' dreams come true: We are made up of natually occuring chemicals that run rampant in our bodies that can go to Defcon 5 in less than a millisecond. We have molecules and neutrons and electrons and protons and neurons and a lot of other "ons" that keep the medical journals full and psychologists and psychiatrists ready with their pens and script pads to ensure damage control with pills when all hell breaks loose in our bodies and brains.
But when that "snap" happens - for whatever the reason, for whatever small chemical hiccup that occurs as simply as if we've tripped over a shoelace, or as destructive as a Mt. Vesuvius-like explosion somewhere in the farthest, darkest corner of a brain that causes someone to remove themselves from life and/or take the lives of others with them is and will remain as inexplicable as the action itself.
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