Category: Life and Stuff


9/11: Just One Account of a Day We Can Never Forget

Filed under: Life and Stuff — 2 Comments
September 11, 2010

It’d be easy to add up all the pain
And all the dreams you sat and watched go up in flames
Dwell on the wreckage as it smolders in the rain
But not me, I’m alive

And today you know that’s good enough for me
Breathing in and out’s a blessing, can’t you see?
Today’s the first day of the rest of my life
And I’m alive and well
“Alive and Well” – Kenny Chesney

A few years back I had written an account of my experiences on September 11, 2001. Like many New Yorkers who were there that day, it’s not an event one can easily forget.  Some friends of mine asked me to repost my 9/11 story on this blog. So here it is, with a bit of an update.

Today is the anniversary of the attacks on the World Trade Center. My experiences on that day more than likely are very similar to that of many who worked in the area at the time. I am pretty certain that no one will forget the day that planes were flown into buildings, the world shook and a city was terrorized, but not beaten.

Back in 2001 I lived in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn and worked three blocks away from the World Trade Center. My train stop coming into Manhattan was across the street from Tower One.

My plan to catch an earlier train than usual was thwarted by my more immediate desire to look good for our monthly board meeting. I remember running in my three inch platform heels and cursing my vanity as I watched the train leave the station. I didn’t realize at that moment how lucky I was. You see the train I took back then left the station every twelve minutes. Had I made the train I ended up missing, I would have literally been walking up the stairs to street level as the first plane hit Tower One.  Instead, I caught the next train, which had me arriving in Manhattan shortly after the first Tower had been hit. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know any of this.

During the ride in to the city, we were stuck between Brooklyn and Manhattan for a few minutes.  There was no announcement until we actually got to Manhattan and all they said was: “Due to a Smoke condition we will be bypassing the Courtland street station.  For the Wall Street area, please use the Rector Street or City Hall Stations”.  Everyone looked irritated. It seemed back then that every week there was a “Smoke Condition” at the Courtland Street Station. Usually, it meant a garbage can was on fire or some stupid kid was pulling some stupid prank effectively delaying the trains for what amounted to nothing, leaving harried employees irritated, and late for work – But not this time.

I got out at Rector Street because it was closer to where I worked than City Hall.

When I got out of the station I could smell the smoke.  I walked up to street level and saw smoke and fire coming from the first tower and paper wafting down to the ground from the building as well. All I could think was, “oh no, not again”.  I apparently said this out loud because a lady passing me by stopped to say, “oh no, it was just a freak accident – a small jet or something flew into the tower – it’s very weird – they think maybe the pilot had a heart attack.”

Now mind you, I was suspicious – Hey, I was there in 1993 too. But, I decided to just go on to work so I started making my way in the direction of the WTC. Downtown can be a bit difficult to navigate because it’s not the nice little neat grid that the rest of Manhattan is so I was trying to use the most familiar path I knew. I got to this park across the street from the second tower, which was full of people staring – some were crying – and made a right to head towards my job all the while hearing many folks talking in disbelief about the ‘freak accident’. I walked three steps (my back was towards the second tower) and suddenly heard three very loud crashing sounds. I, along with countless people, started to run.  At this point I was thinking that maybe the plane that had flown in to the first tower exploded (later, I learned that, in fact that noise was the sound of the second tower being hit). I was also, at that moment, thinking “don’t fall”… (I was wearing 3 inch platform shoes, had I fallen, I would have been trampled).

Once I made it to my building on William Street, I could see my co-workers staring up in disbelief in the direction of Tower One. We had a very good view of that tower from the corner of our building. One of my friends, having noticed me, out of breath, and I’m sure disheveled, asked me if I was okay.  As I began to nod my head “yes,” I put a hand through my hair to push it out of my face, and noticed there was glass in it. I also at that moment felt glass down my back. As one friend handed me her orange juice, another started to pick the glass out of my hair. I was a little freaked out at that moment, but not nearly as panicky as, should I ever have imagined myself in that situation, thought I’d be. I looked up towards the tower to see why folks had started gasping and noticed fairly large figures falling from the area above the smoke.  It took a while for it to register that those were people throwing themselves out of the tower.

I realized at that moment, that whatever the situation was, my parents needed to know that I was fine. No one’s cell phones were working, so I went upstairs to try the landlines.  I managed to reach my father’s answering machine.  One of my friends had offered to let me come to her apartment in the Village but I declined her offer, saying: “No offense, but I’m getting off this Island even if I have to swim.”  Another one of my co-workers was in her office crying and I looked in to see if she was okay.  She said that the Pentagon had been hit too.  Clearly these were no freak accidents.

And then we started hearing rumors of other planes.

I had decided I was going to cross the Brooklyn Bridge with three of my co-workers.  We all agreed to meet in the lobby by the elevators.  I got downstairs and met up with two of the three ladies I was going to walk home with.  I told them I wanted to let the girl who had offered me to stay with her in the village know I was going with them.  She and another co-worker were out in front of our building next to the revolving doors.  As I walked towards them, the building began to shake and the lights began to flicker on and off.  We heard a huge rumble and lots of crashing noises.  The folks outside ran into the building and we all ran towards the side door.  I linked hands with the two women who had been waiting for me and we ran outside.  I was the last in our human chain and looked behind me.  I saw a huge cloud of smoke heading our way.  I tried to yell to them that we’re better off inside the building.  They didn’t hear me. I broke off the chain and ran back into the building.  I found out later that another co-worker HAD heard me and followed me inside.  She said that had she been caught up in that cloud of smoke she most likely wouldn’t have made it as she was asthmatic.

Once the initial brunt of the cloud of smoke that once was Tower 2 passed, all those inside the building walked out to the street.  It was eerie.  You couldn’t see or hear anyone. The smoke/dust was so thick that you could be right next to a person and they would sound as if they were far away. I could vaguely hear crying and I swear I heard my own heart beating – for the first time, I was truly scared.  I thought I was never getting home.  I tried to keep myself in check though, as I tried to make my way to the South Street Seaport.

I turned left on Pearl Street.  The smoke/dust on that block seemed to have lifted a bit and I recognized a familiar face from work.  He took one look at me and said “are you okay?” and suddenly I couldn’t control the tears anymore and whimpered, “I want to go home.”   He asked me where home was and I said “Brooklyn”.  He was from Brooklyn too and told me that he was looking for another one of our co-workers and that once we found him, we’d all go home together.

The third person found us pretty quickly (they had told each other where to meet), and we headed for the Seaport.  At that time I worked for the New York City Economic Development Corporation and we were working on moving the Fulton Fish market to the Bronx.  The guys I was walking with were working on that deal so the folks at the fish market let us go into their offices for a quick rest before we started out to the bridge.

The folks in that office were very nice to us and kept trying to clean off my bag, my skirt, my shoes – giving me wet paper towels to wipe off my dust covered face. All I wanted was a working phone line. I HAD to get in touch with one of my parents to let them know I was STILL okay.  While we were there, the news was on and they were talking about rumors of other planes and were trying to confirm a plane crashing in PA.

At that moment I felt a sudden urgency to just get going.  I wanted off the Island of Manhattan.  We decided that since the Brooklyn Bridge is the most famous bridge in New York City, and would be the first target if they wanted to cut us off from the rest of the boroughs, we weren’t taking chances.  We walked to the Manhattan Bridge (which also goes into Brooklyn) instead.

As we got to the foot of the bridge on the Manhattan side, we saw a throng of people running in our direction.  We found out later that the Tower One had fallen as well.

The Twin Towers were gone.

As we crossed the bridge I kept looking back at the smoke coming from the spot where the towers used to be in disbelief.  Again, my thoughts were spoken aloud and I said to one of the guys “Wow, not to get all biblical or anything, but this reminds me of the story of Sodom and Gomorrah.”  My friend responded “well, we don’t want you to turn into a pillar of salt, so stop looking back. Let’s go home.”

When we got to the other side of the bridge, we all breathed a sigh of relief and just sat there on the grass watching as more people poured into Brooklyn.  The folks in Brooklyn were passing out water.  I bumped in to the lady me and my other two friends had been waiting for inside our building.  I was relieved she had made it out. She took one look at my feet and said “go into the store behind me and get yourself a pair of flip flops NOW.”  So I did.  My shoes had given me a couple of very large blisters at the bottom of my feet.  I was in pain, but relieved to be out of the city.

Bay Ridge was clear on the other side of Brooklyn and it would have taken me all day to get home if I had walked.  Luckily a nice gentleman was picking up folks and driving them as far as his daughter’s school, which was about fifty blocks away from where I lived.  I took the ride.  Then I got myself a cab.

I had managed thus far to keep myself together but as I turned the corner of my house (the cab had to let me off about five blocks away because there was traffic backed up to the Verazzano bridge which had been closed because of the day’s events, so I walked/ran the last five blocks), I started shaking.  Once I was inside, I just slid down to the floor and let it all out.  My roommate at the time came out of her bedroom and said “Thank God you’re okay. We’ve all been trying to reach you. Call your sister. She’s in a panic.”   Luckily, outgoing calls from landlines were working, so I was able to call my sister and let her know I was fine. With the exception of the message I’d left on my father’s home phone (which I later found out he hadn’t heard, having not been able to leave his office for two days), I still hadn’t reached either of my parents.

After taking the longest shower ever, I still felt as though I had glass in my hair and down my back, and no matter how many times I bathed, I could still smell the contents of the big ball of smoke I had walked through. It took days for me to feel physically normal again.

For the next few days I slept in the living room with the TV on.  By day two I had it on PBS because that was the only station NOT airing continuous images of the Twin Towers.  I had to take sleeping pills to be able to sleep.  Loud noises scared me.  I’m a pretty tough person, but for the first week or so after 9/11 I wasn’t me at all.

I went back to work the following week.  We were working out of offices in downtown Brooklyn.  Like I said, I worked for the Economic Development Corporation and we were clearly going to be busy for a very long time to come.  They told everyone to take their time, come back when we were ready.  But I had to be around people who understood how I felt.  No one in my personal life did because they hadn’t actually been there.

A week later we were back downtown and I can’t describe to you the odor or the sights.  There were national guardsmen walking the streets asking for ID to prove you had a reason to be below Canal Street.  I took to wearing my Work ID around my neck.

I was lucky, really.  I truly feel like I was blessed that day.  I have a sense that maybe my grandfather, who had passed a couple of months earlier, was watching over me on that day, making sure I got home alright.

I was also lucky in that while I knew a few of the people who perished (three firefighters), all my family and close friends managed to escape physically unscathed. Because of this, I was able to concentrate on the folks who did lose those close to them and on the work we had ahead of us.

I still wear the outfit I wore that day.  I consider it my lucky outfit actually.  And those 3 inch platform shoes were repaired over and over again, until, sadly, I had to retire them permanently in the summer of 2008. But for the seven years after 9/11/01, every time I’d wear them, I’d remember how they got me across the bridge on the scariest day of my life.

It’s been nine years and my heart still races and I still tear up when I think of the devastation of that day.  Like I said, I know I was lucky; I’m here to tell you all the story.  I know of way too many people not as lucky as I was.

Needless to say it’s a day I know I can never forget. And even though time has healed the fear, it’s still a shock to me to look at the skyline and see the empty space where the towers once stood. It amazes me that bureaucracy, greed, insensitivity and bullshit have essentially prevented the rebuilding of that area. But I still have hope, we will rebuild.

I know that so much has happened in the years since the towers fell. In my own life, I met and married a wonderful man and then he passed away. Other friends and family members have gotten married, had babies, and still others passed away.  I’ve had, and lost, two jobs since the one I had been working on back in 2001.  And yet, with all that passing of time, whenever the anniversary of the date rolls around, I still feel as though I can remember every sound, every smell, every emotion I felt on that day.

There are so many different stories folks who managed to escape that day, physically unscathed, will tell. I can pretty much guarantee each one will contain two elements:

– Gratitude at having been lucky enough to get out of there alive and unhurt.

– The need to  never forget the ones who weren’t as lucky as we were.

Update – 9/11/2011:

Ten years later, Ground Zero is finally starting to come to life again. Buildings are going up, memorials are opening. Some the infighting seems to be dying down and folks seem to be healing, much like the city itself. There is still work to be done. The manner in which the real heroes of that day, the first responders, are still being treated, is appauling. And while I’d like to go off on a rant here, I think, today, I just want to focus on the good and not on how badly I still want to bitch-slap every politician that refuses to give these heroic men and women the healthcare, and the respect they are due.

While there is no way that anything could replace all that was lost ten years ago, it is reassuring to see the sky line filling up again. That gaping hole in it was painful to look at. It will never be the same. No one, least of all those who went through that day, who lost loved ones, who lost the sense of security they felt walking the streets of downtown Manhattan, will ever forget what happened. To me, recalling that day never really changes. It’s been ten years, but it could have happened yesterday, the memory is that vivid. But the city is doing better. Life goes on, as it should. Remember those lost. Rejoice in being alive. Never forget.

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It Takes a Village – A Back to School Rant

Filed under: Life and Stuff — 3 Comments
September 1, 2010


Don’t know much about history


Don’t know much Biology


Don’t know much about a History Book


Don’t know much about the French I took..


Sam Cooke – “What a Wonderful World”


There’s a whole lot of talk about improving the education system in this country – A lot. And the truth is, while I agree that there is no excuse for the poor performance of students in this country verses students in others, I have to wonder, who really is to blame?


I have the unique experience of not only having worked for the Department of Education for four and a half years, but also, of having been a student in the system way back when and knowing some amazing teachers both past and present. What I’ve noticed, especially more recently is a huge divide between the bureaucracy and the folks they’re supposed to be working with to make things happen in the schools.


The thing is, there’s this unholy, totally irrational, and completely wrong trend of shit trickling down from the folks in charge placing the blame on the teachers.


I’m not saying that there aren’t some bad apples. There are. But for every bad apple, there are a whole lot of good teachers out there who are shouldering the blame for poor performance where, truly, it’s not their fault.


Seriously, when the hell did teachers go from the folks who are supposed to impart knowledge onto young minds to glorified babysitters who are supposed to raise other peoples’ kids? Where the hell are the parents in all of this? And really, how are ridiculous test scores supposed to gauge any kind of real progress and how are business men even remotely qualified to judge teachers?


I’m not a full fledged product of the public school system, true. My mother, an immigrant, was fearful of the public school system in Brooklyn, so until we moved to Staten Island, which back in the early 80’s had the best public schools in the five boroughs (and I believe, still does), my mother sent me to private school. And true, I pretty much slept through the eight and ninth grades despite having been put in the ‘honor’s’ classes, and still managed to have an A- average (hey, my Spanish teacher hated me and gym counted – I wasn’t all in to the whole gym thing), I honestly think the system back then wasn’t so bad. But they keep screwing with it, trying to make it ‘better,’ and blaming the wrong people for it not working they way they’d like it to.


And yeah, I had some pretty bad teachers back then (hello Mr. Ralph Stefanile screw you and your lazy ass bull shit “I don’t give make up exams or accept make up home works, even if you did have chicken pox, and 104 fever for two weeks”). But I had some AMAZING teachers as well (Mrs. DeBetta, Mr. Nikides, Mrs. Iervese – You taught me well and I am eternally grateful).


But as good, or as bad as the teachers were, ultimately, it was my mother and her relentless drive to make me do better that fueled my success in school. The teachers were there to teach. And while some of them were better at it than others, my good performance in school was due to my mother.


I get extremely pissed off at the parents who whine about working all day and not having time to deal with their kid’s home work, etc. My mother worked too – as did my step father. They worked their asses off – Full time. They were both immigrants. They learned the language and did what they had to do to make their American dream come true, and still work at that to this day.


My mother, at one point in my life, worked three jobs, went to school and STILL managed to not only have a life of her own, but raise me and make sure I did my home work. Her attitude was: “If I can come here, an immigrant, and learn the language, there is no reason that YOU, who were born here, shouldn’t be able to do the same.” Basically, if I came home with less than a 90 in English or History, my mother considered it failing. I was allowed 85 in math and science only because, she knew those weren’t my strengths, but still, since they were taught in English, I should be able to at least understand enough to get B’s.


The woman was relentless when it came to my education. My mother was one of those parents who went to every parent teacher conference and followed up in the weeks between by calling the teachers to see how I was doing. Did I mention she had a full time job, and by the time I was in the sixth grade an infant to take care of?


My mother knew my grades before I did most of the time. She already had rewards/punishments in place depending on how well/poorly (by her standards) I did.


I remember in the ninth grade, my first report card. I did well in English, History, Math and Science, but got a 75 in Spanish. I went to my friend’s house after school and basically told his mom that she probably wouldn’t see me until next marking period because my mom wasn’t going to be happy with my report card. She took a look at it and said “seriously, if my son brought these grades home, I’d probably buy him a car right now!”


My mother made school a priority. Nothing else mattered. I had to do well. That was my job. So when I was a senior in High School, the last semester I’d ever have to walk the hallowed halls of Wagner High, I took Economics, with the absolute worst son of a bitch teacher – Mr. Stefanile. He told us at the start of the semester that he did not give make-up quizzes or tests or accept late home work assignments, no matter the excuse.


Lucky me, first, I got Strep throat, making me miss a few home works and a quiz and then a few weeks later ended up with Chicken Pox, making me miss about ten more home work assignments and the mid-term exam. So when the report card came out, and I had a failing grade, my mother literally almost murdered me. She totally blamed me and didn’t believe that any teacher would be THAT bad. We fought, I mean FOUGHT, to the point where I actually cursed at her for not believing me and dared her to call him. I then ran out of the house deciding to stay at a friend’s house (a ballsy move, considering my mother had ‘grounded’ me for the failing grade-and the cursing).


The next day, after school, I came home, to see my mother at the kitchen table. She called me in and started ranting about the lazy son of a bitch! She said she’d spoken to him and he’d confirmed having received both doctor’s notes, all the home work assignments I had attempted to hand in, but said that he would not break his rules, that in his experience, students could cheat on home work assignments and make-up tests and it wouldn’t be fair to the other students. My mother suggested that he create a different test, or quiz me or give me some form of make-up assignment. He said he didn’t have time to cater to one student just because I’d had the misfortune of ill health. Then, my mother, her voice getting louder said,(and please try to imagine this being said with the “Natasha” accent – cause really, my mom’s got the best accent ever!), “I told him, MY Taxes pay YOUR salary, either give my daughter make-up exam or I WILL speak to your supervisor!!” Apparently the douche bag told her she was free to speak to the AP, and then told her if I aced the final exam, that he would consider giving me a passing grade so I can graduate (oh yeah, I couldn’t graduate without Economics). Clearly, I graduated (thanks to the AP, who knew my academic record and refused to let a lazy teacher screw it up) and went on to New York University, but still, that dude was a BAD teacher.


But that was ONE teacher in FOUR years of High School.


As I got older and saw so many of my friends and relatives who decided to become a part of the Education system, because they LOVE kids and wanted to shape young minds, being so mistreated by not only the Department of Education, but by their own Union as well as students’ parents,  I honestly couldn’t understand.


Folks like to think that a teacher only works ten months a year and that their days end around 3pm. I know for a fact this is not true. The teachers I know are forever working. When they aren’t in the classroom they are thinking about the classroom, planning lessons, or, even during their summer breaks, planning for the coming year. Teachers have such a difficult job to begin with. They are underpaid, under appreciated and overwhelmed by class sizes that would drive any normal person crazy. And then on top of it they have to deal with a bureaucratic system that treats them as though a) they were all some uniform drones, and b) as though they, the least paid folks with the most responsibility, are all complete morons. And parents who think that somehow it is up to THEM to raise their kids.


One of my friends told me a story about a student in her class who was doing poorly. She tried to contact the parents in every way possible, to no avail. One day the student became violent and threw a chair at her. The student was suspended. Only THEN did the parents come in to the school and instead of sitting down with my friend, decided to attack her for not being a good enough teacher.


And then there’s the administration. Each year they give the teachers a new ‘plan’ by which to teach. Teachers now are so mired in paperwork, it’s insane. And while I know there have been reports of better test performances over the past few years, I’m not sure how much the kids are actually learning.  Add to that the fact that so many arts programs and extra curricular programs have been cut thanks to crappy budgeting (really, how many millions spent on ridiculous ‘consultants’ have there been? Had you consulted actual principals and teachers – you know the folks dealing with the day to day, and the craptastic new ‘programs’ your billion dollar consultants and their spreadsheets come up with,  I’m sure they’d have told you where that money would have been better spent), what the hell are the kids really learning?


Sure they can read well enough to pass some stupid exam, but do they really understand anything? And the writing? OH MY GOD! One task I had to perform while at the DOE was editing student submissions thanking teachers. I have never in my life seen so many poorly written, misspelled notes in my life. And the grammar – A tragedy! If this is our future, I am very much afraid.


And then there is the wasting of money on the bad teachers. This is one area where neither the parents, nor the DOE are to blame – the Union has been responsible for the retention of really bad teachers for years. I know that recently there have been steps taken to expedite the removal of bad teachers from the classroom and the payroll, which is one of the most positive steps I have seen taken by the DOE. The bad apples in the bunch seem to ruin it the most for the good ones. It’s heartbreaking to see the good teachers being compared to the bad ones and put, essentially, in the same position. I understand that the Union is there to represent all teachers, but they don’t seem to differentiate between the good ones and the ones that should never have been permitted in the classroom to begin with. It’s a travesty, how much money has been spent on trying to get rid of teachers that, essentially phone it in, or are barely doing anything for the good of the students. And the people that suffer the most for it are the kids themselves.


There’s that old adage “It takes a village to raise a child.” But what happens when the villagers are all working against each other? That’s what seems to be the issue here. The bureaucrats seem to be clueless, and in an effort to keep their jobs, tend to blame the teachers. The parents refuse to take responsibility and will either blame the teachers or the bureaucracy or, in some extreme cases, would rather have their kids misdiagnosed with ADD or some other disorder (and I’m not saying that there aren’t kids who genuinely are afflicted, what I’m saying is that too many parents would prefer that to be the case than try to work with their kids and educators). And the Union, well, from what I see, all they care about is getting dues paid.


It scares me, truly, when I hear awesome teachers say “that’s it, I give up, I’m quitting.” Not because they don’t love their jobs, but because they hate the system. Instead of laying blame and pressure on the folks who are actually trying to do right by the students, maybe folks need to actually start to care about the kids. It’s not about numbers, it’s not about blame. IT’S ABOUT THE KIDS! Any educator I know who has tried to stick it out while the right and left hands try to figure out what the hell they’re doing, has done so solely based on their love of kids and the desire to make things right for them. If parents, the Union and the DOE don’t figure out a way to stop pointing fingers and work together, the kids will suffer.


President Obama has urged parents to take a more active roll in their children’s education. In speeches given across the country, as early as his campaign, and as recently as this past July, President Obama has said “Parents, if you don’t parent, we can’t improve our schools. If your child is misbehaving at school, don’t curse out the teacher… It’s not the teachers’ fault that your child is misbehaving. That’s some home training. Don’t blame the teachers and the government and the schools if you’re not doing your job.”


Good students are raised at home. Good schools are run by folks who care. Good teachers should not be forced to leave out of fear of retaining their sanity due to bureaucracy, bad parenting and micromanaging. There has to be a way for everyone to work together to make things right for the kids that are going to be leading this country in the future. Folks need to figure out how to get past their own ego-driven bullshit and make it happen

							


			

				
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A New Sensation and How I Finally Learned What it Really Feels Like to Hate Someone…

								

										

						Filed under: Life and Stuff — 3 Comments					

					
August 17, 2010

				

			


			

				
A side of you well hid

When it’s all said and done

It’s real and it’s been fun

But was it all REAL fun?


You’re just a fuck

I can’t explain it ’cause I think you suck

I’m taking pride

In telling you to fuck off and die


“F.O.D” – Green Day


I’m generally a very optimistic person. I tend to see the best in people. Sometimes, my rose-colored view is misguided, and I have to deal with the disappointment. It’s not unusual. And for the most part, I’ve always been able to handle my disappointment well. I’d get angry and then I’d get over it. Eventually, I’d simply forget the person existed, or pretend they didn’t and ultimately, I’d become indifferent to them or any history we might have had together. I’ve even managed to forgive folks who have hurt me to the point where most folks would think I was foolish to forgive, but the truth is, I’m not big on holding a grudge. I am, however, pretty big on the whole idea of ‘moving on’ and ‘letting go.’ I don’t like negative energy, and so I try to dispel it as quickly as I can so I can enjoy my life.


I’m also not the type of person to ever use the word “hate,” or, at least not direct it at another human being. I learned early how harmful the word can be. As a child, during some temper-tantrum driven rantings, I would use the word “hate.” Eventually, tired of punishing me (or sending me to my room after a sound, and well deserved, spanking), my mother and step-father finally sat me down and tried to explain to me the true meaning of “hate.” They gave examples from history like the Holocaust, explaining that real hate is vile, destructive and horribly dark, and that while it may be an easier word to throw around in anger than, say, ‘dislike,’ any alternative would be better than that four letter word. They explained that if I ever actually understood what it meant to genuinely feel ‘hate,’ I’d never use it carelessly again when referring to another human being. And that truly anyone who would warrant that much negative emotion isn’t worth the stain on the soul that feeling it would place there.


They were right.


I couldn’t possibly ever have known. And I’m sure that I never really did know what the word actually meant, having, not truly ever felt it before.


That is until now.


I knew, that somewhere deep inside me, there was a very dark place. I guess my optimistic view on life, and my general positive attitude never fully allowed me to delve that deep. Or maybe I was afraid of what lurked down there. I mean really, I know we’re all capable of hate, just as much as we are capable of love. And there have been times, lashing out in anger, that I THOUGHT I felt it. But, my temper, which is slow to rise, quick to burst and then even quicker to calm, usually made me realize that ‘hate’ wasn’t at all what I was feeling; disgust, dislike, loathing – maybe – but never hate.


Hate is dark. Hate is violent. Hate sits in your gut, screaming to get out. Hate is indescribable. Hate makes you want to punch something, preferably the person at which the feeling is directed. Hate keeps you up at night. Hate is pretty much the most negative thing I have ever felt. And I doubly hate the person that made me feel this way for introducing me to the emotion.


They say in order to truly hate someone, you must’ve really loved them. And I did – silly me. I can’t say I wasn’t warned. I mean when someone literally tells you that you are misguided for seeing the good in them, that they are indeed the devil, and capable of being horrific to the people who love them most, you should probably believe them. My mistake was believing the good, and not fully realizing the bad – I will NEVER make that mistake again.


I realize that someone who would callously, carelessly and cruelly throw away the people in his life who genuinely loved him and cared for him, and had for so long, for what appears to be a more shallow, less meaningful experience, probably has issues that stem from his own self-loathing. And I guess I should pity the poor, pathetic fool for not seeing himself through the eyes of those who love him. But I don’t. I can’t. I’m too hurt and angry to feel anything other than hatred for the way he mistreated the people he pretended to care about. Seriously, how dumb could I have been as to trust someone who throws out the word ‘love’ within minutes of meeting someone?


And it’s funny, because I’d been warned by so many people. But I thought “oh you just don’t know this person like I do-really, he’s got a good heart. He’s a good friend.”


Turns out, they were right. I was wrong.


I truly regret ever having met this person and honestly wish I never would see him or hear of him again. And while I freely take my own share of the blame for being stupid enough to believe the show he put on – making us all believe he was someone very different than the person he turned out to be – I hate him more.


Truly, it shocks me he isn’t an actor by trade. He’d have won many awards for the show of being a human being he put on.


If there is any real humor in hatred, it’s the irrationality of it all. Hatred IS irrational. I’m sure that the person at whom all this anger and distain is directed at couldn’t care less that I feel this way. And I’m even more aware of the fact that the only person that’s hurting in this situation is me – Which only serves to further fuel my anger.  


I know, that time and distance will lessen the anger and hurt I feel. But I also know, that no matter what happens in the future, I will never be the same person I was, having felt this level of pain and this undeniable hatred. Something inside me has shifted, and it’s sad. I managed so long in life to not have felt this horrible thing I feel right now. But there’s no going back now. I’ve felt it. It feels like shit.


The only saving grace in this entire experience is that, while I know one day I’ll get past all of this, Karma is a bitch.


I told him, in what essentially amounts to a ‘fuck off’ E-Mail, I wished him all the best. I lied. I don’t. I wish him exactly what he deserves – Nothing more, nothing less.  While I sit here stewing in an irrational anger that will soon pass, this person has lost way more than I ever will. And if he continues to treat people who care for him as though they are irrelevant and inconsequential, well, then he will indeed get everything he deserves – which considering recent events, is nothing remotely resembling anything good.


(To anyone who IS reading this, trust me, if you have to ask, it’s not you.)

							


			

				
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Ladies: Check Yourself, Before you Wreck Yourself

								

										

						Filed under: Life and Stuff — 4 Comments					

					
August 5, 2010

				

			


			

				
They’ll hate you if you’re pretty


They’ll hate you if you’re not


They’ll hate you for what you lack, baby


They’ll hate you for what you’ve got


“Mean Girls” – Sugarland


“Bitches be CRAZY!”


How many times have we heard that expression?


I hate generalizations, but, some of the things I’ve witnessed, experienced or even done in my lifetime thus far, make me believe that that statement is, actually, at times, not totally untrue.


Growing up in Brooklyn, my neighborhood – or at least the five block radius in which my mother allowed me to roam- had a lot of boys, only two girls – Me, a total tomboy, and ‘Sara’, my polar opposite.  When I’d head outside to play with my friends, my mom would make sure I was dressed neatly in jeans and a clean tee shirt, my long hair plaited in braids. After an afternoon playing stickball, roller skating or bike riding, I’d come home with my hair a complete mess, my jeans filthy and more often than not, a skinned knee or elbow. Sara, on the other hand, would stand on the sidelines in her pretty, frilly dress, playing with her baby dolls and preening in the mirror.


There was one boy in the neighborhood we both had a crush on – ‘Scott.’ He was adorable. For the five years I lived in that neighborhood, he was my best friend in the world. Sara was non too happy about all the time we spent together, and started a rumor that I was a lesbian. Yep. At nine years old. Now, I may have been late to the party, but at nine, I had no clue what the hell a lesbian was! But Sara, who apparently watched way too many soap operas, (at NINE years old!!), started whispering to all the boys that during one of her slumber parties, I tried to kiss her or something. Here’s the funniest part – aside from the fact that I was so boy crazy my mother, to this day, likes to joke about how I “flirted with the doctor who delivered me,” she also NEVER let me stay overnight at slumber parties. I wasn’t allowed to go to any – EVER. And in so far as Sara’s parties, she figured, we lived across the street. When they were all getting ready to go to bed, I was to come home.


The boys on the block knew what was up. They didn’t believe little miss prissy (hey, that’s what THEY called her). She was eventually ostracized until she publicly apologized to me.  But even then, most of the boys stayed away from her. As for me? Not only did Scott start telling everyone that I was his girlfriend, I also learned a valuable lesson about how crazy some of the members of my sex can be when it comes to our male counterparts.


As I got older and started wearing makeup and doing my hair, and, well, giving a shit about my appearance, I still managed to maintain that ‘tomboy’ attitude. What you see really is what you get. I’m not good at playing coy. I detest playing games. I have a lot of male friends. And I’ve seen a lot of psychotic behavior that actually leads me to believe that their assessment of women being nuts is not completely off. Some, genuinely are, off the rails crazy.


Now, I’m not saying that I am immune to the ‘crazy’ gene. I know one ex who would definitely claim I had the psycho in me. Of course, this would be the same guy who cheated on me repeatedly. We’d break up, I’d take him back. Wash, rinse, repeat -four years of this – can you blame me for going nuts? Of course, the difference is, I didn’t go nuts on the women he cheated on me with – Most of the time I just went full psycho on his cheating ass. That said, I eventually realized that he wasn’t the one hurting me. I was, by letting him come back time after time. He’s out of my life now and the psycho hasn’t reared her ugly head in over ten years.


Now, I am well aware that most women who go all crazy, do so out of their own personal insecurities. The problem is, they refuse to realize, the issue doesn’t lie with the men in their lives (IE: if your guy is cheating on you, it’s not because you’re not good enough, or the other woman is prettier, it’s because you’re letting him cheat on you by staying with him. Get some self respect and get the fuck out of there – my lesson learned). Nor does it lie with all the other women on the planet.  The problem with these women is they refuse to deal with their insecurities and instead choose to lay the blame for their issues on external influences and people, rather than fix themselves.


Seriously? Is any guy REALLY worth losing your shit over? How little self respect and pride can one human being have? And  how far gone do you have to be to let your personal insecurities lead to crazy psychotic jealousy driven rampages that more often result in damage done not to the person you’re raging against, but rather, to yourself.


Perfect skin, perfect hair, perfumed hearts everywhere


Tell myself that inside she’s ugly


Maybe I’m just jealous, I can’t help but hate her


Secretly, I wonder if my boyfriend wants to date her


“Girl Next Door” – Saving Jane


I never fully understood jealousy.  I can envy another woman’s figure, hair, job (hey, who wouldn’t want to look like Angelina Jolie? Right?). But to be outright so damned jealous as to try to sabotage any aspect of that woman’s life? It makes no sense to me.  And really how does trying to hurt a woman you’re jealous of benefit you?  Has truly psychotic behavior ever really garnered any kind of positive results?


Recently, a friend of mine was involved with a woman – let’s call her ‘Betty’ – who clearly was insecure and immature, and, well, psychotic. I’m not sure how he remained blind to Betty’s psychosis for as long as he had, but I guess after she took his phone, sent a couple of vile texts to a female friend of his – we’ll call her ‘Veronica’ – who she felt ridiculously threatened by (even though she’d been told, apparently, that a) Veronica is married, and b) she is one of his dearest friends); erased all of Veronica’s texts as well as a few texts from a few other female friends; and then deleted all of Veronica’s information from his phone – one could only hope he got the hint.


Because apparently that wasn’t going far enough, this Betty chick decided it would be perfectly fine to badmouth Veronica to the guy’s co workers – who she, Betty, had only met a few nights before, but who Veronica had known for years – blowing up their phones with ridiculous text messages in an effort to discredit Veronica in the eyes of these folks. I’m pretty sure psycho Betty didn’t expect the guys to show Veronica the texts. Nor, I’m sure, did she expect these guys to laugh at the ridiculousness of her depictions of Veronica’s character.  If nothing else, a good laugh was had at Betty’s expense, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t her intention.


Truth is, I’d pity Betty, if I were a nicer person. Which, I’m not. Sorry. If she were trying to impress, she actually achieved the opposite. The only person I really feel bad for is the guy she was so desperately trying to hold on to by doing all this crap.


I think I’m jealous of your girlfriend


Although she’s just a girl that is your friend


I think I’m jealous of your girlfriend


She shares a special part of you


“Girlfriend” – Alicia Keys 


I understand that it’s difficult for a woman dating a guy who has female friends who they are close with to realize that not every woman he knows is sleeping with him. The thing is, guys DO have female friends. Yes, it’s true, men and women CAN be friends. 


One of my best friends in the world was dating a woman who was convinced that he and I had slept together.


CONVINCED.


It never happened.


Her paranoid jealousy had gotten so bad, we rarely got to see one another. On the rare occasion he’d manage to get away from her, he would contact me,  secretly,  just to be able to speak with me – more often than not, to bitch about her.


One day, I noticed his screen name pop up on AIM. I decided to IM him, just to say ‘hello.’ The response I received was strange, it wasn’t just the “I miss you” that got me. It was the “I miss your body” thing that had me ask “Who is this?” The girl confessed it was her. She admitted that she wanted to know the truth once and for all “Did you two sleep together?” So I confessed, I said “yes.” She said “I KNEW IT!” I said “yeah, we fell asleep on the couch in the basement while watching a movie with his mom.” 


The day they broke up for good ranks as one of the happiest days of my life. Not even kidding. And the woman he ended up marrying – One of my favorite people ever.  


Back off baby, get out of my face


Please just give me some space


Well you never did nothing but leave a bad taste


And I’d only stand in your way


“Back off Baby” – Todd Carey


 My point is: Psycho never wins.


Guys fear, loathe and detest the psycho. They WILL run from it screaming.


Now, I’m not the most secure woman in the world. However, aside from the time I lost my shit because of a cheating boyfriend, I have never gone nuts to keep a guy around. It’s not in me to do so, which may be the reason why I can’t pity the women who are prone to these types of actions. Maybe I’m too simplistic in my belief that if a guy really loves you, or really wants to be with you, you don’t need to go all “single white female” to get him to stay with you. And if you feel he’s not all yours, then why the hell would you want to keep him around anyway?


Why are so many women so prone to propping up the men in their lives, effectively belittling themselves, so much so, that they are willing to make complete fools of themselves to keep these guys around? I don’t care who the guy is, or what his position in life is. I feel that if you’ve got to expend THAT much energy to keep a guy’s attention, or if you’re so insecure that you feel you need to screw with another person’s life in an attempt to either make your life seem better, or to some how get rid of what you perceive to be an obstacle to your relationship, a) the guy isn’t right for you, and b) you need to figure out your own shit before you attempt at being in a relationship.


So ladies – especially those of you desperately trying to hold on to a guy by any means (un)necessary – LET IT GO. If you find yourself plotting ways to get rid of any threat you perceive (whether it be real or the figment of your deranged mind), get counseling. Seriously. Not only do you make it really difficult for those of us who have some semblance of pride and self respect to defend the notion that not ALL ‘bitches be crazy,’ you also do yourself way more harm than good.


So please, for the love of all things holy, get a grip. You’re making us all look bad. And I’m sure I’m speaking on behalf of those of us who live in the real world and not on the set of “Days of our Lives” when I say we’re all tired of having to clean up the messes you all leave behind.

							


			

				
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The Single Life – It Could Be Worse

								

										

						Filed under: Life and Stuff — 3 Comments					

					
August 4, 2010

				

			


			

				
The world is full of people who are searching


And every heart is trying to find a home


Just like everything I think that I’m deserving


Of a love that takes away the word “alone.”


-Toby Lightman “Alone


 


“What the hell is wrong with men?” said a friend of mine over dinner during a girl’s night a few months ago.


This question was prompted by the fact that she realized that all of us, who are of varying ages, sizes and ethnicities, are ALL single, and have been for quite some time.


Looking back on that moment, I have to wonder, what indeed is wrong? Is it the men we choose to spend our time with, or is it us?


As women we tend to internalize everything. If a guy we’re interested in turns us down, we tend to agonize over what it was about us that turned him off. If a guy we find unattractive is interested in us, we wonder what made him think we were the one. It’s as if we’re forever playing the roll of Goldilocks in a never ending nightmare dating version of the Three Bears fairytale.


Growing up female, we’re often told that women have to look and act a certain way to attract any man.


I’ve found that to be inherently untrue. I’ve seen perfectly beautiful women, with stunning personalities and gorgeous figures cry their eyes out over some douche bag who doesn’t deserve her while some less attractive woman with the personality of a doorknob ends up with the object of the other woman’s obviously misdirected affections.


So it’s not always about looks. It’s not always about personality. And if I hear the term “things happen for a reason” one more time, I swear I’m going to pull my hair out (which would be sad, because I kind of like having hair on my head).


“All guys are douche bags.” This was said by not one, but two, of my male friends, during an outing a few weeks ago, after I explained to them my own lack of a romantic partner. “But then again, you women are crazy,” was added by one of them. After which we got into a debate over what exactly it is that attracts a man to a woman and visa versa.  A debate, mind you, neither one of us won because, well, relationships are minefields, and we’re all walking on tiptoes trying desperately not to get blown up.


I’m no expert in relationships. To be honest, I’m not even sure how the hell it was I ever got married (other than to explain that the man I married was just amazing, and perceptive, and got me.. but I digress). All I know is I look at the fabulous women in my life, all of them beautiful, and I can’t help but wonder why it is that at any given moment one, if not all, of us are telling the rest about some guy who we thought was worthy of our attention, who didn’t appreciate us.


I used to believe that maybe my lack of luck in love was because I was heavy, or maybe my personality was too outrageous, or maybe I just wasn’t pretty enough.  I mean I look at my girlfriends and they are fucking beautiful. The way I used to see it was:  If THEY’RE having dating issues, what the hell chance do I have at success? I’m not even exaggerating when I say the woman whose quote begins this blog, should be a model.  As a person? She is one of the most caring, intelligent, loving, fun and thoughtful individuals I know. And yet, she and I have had many conversations, late into the evening, bemoaning our single status and wondering what the hell it is about us that has kept us single for so long.


Recently, after a guy I’d been interested in let me know he’d never thought of me as anything more than a friend,  which of course led up to the inevitable feelings of rejection and such, not one, but two of my friends mentioned the fact that neither of them actually thought I really liked HIM, rather, maybe it was the idea of who he could be and the fact that maybe the attraction was more due to the fact that he was just there. Both friends thought I could do infinitely better, what’s even more interesting was a couple of HIS friends felt the same way.


One of my friends suggested I read, Be Honest–You’re Not That Into Him Either: Raise Your Standards and Reach for the Love You Deserve (kind of a response to He’s Just Not That Into You).  While I haven’t read it yet, I get the idea… maybe my friends were right.


 Looking back, while the guy I was interested was certainly not a douche bag, it’s clear, based on the number of arenas where we weren’t compatible, that he really wasn’t for me. I was simply pining for the idea of being with someone who had way too many attributes I realized I’d have to ‘deal with’ should we have ever actually gotten together. Things I’m not sure, looking back, that I COULD have dealt with. Basically, while he’s a wonderful guy, he really wasn’t wrong to not want to be with me. I’m guessing he saw the differences I was willing to accept as things he couldn’t deal with.


The thing is, I’ve seen this situation way too many times to not wonder, how many heartaches can we all be spared if we didn’t decide, right away, that somehow, it’s okay for us to settle for someone who wasn’t completely right for us?  Don’t get me wrong, no one is perfect, least of all me. I am completely aware of all my imperfections, I’d even go so far as to say I am painfully aware of them.  But there have to be some deal breakers. I mean I’m not a demanding woman (although some say I could be a little more demanding, a little less accepting). I pretty much take folks at face value. But really, how much bullshit does one have to put up with to spare themselves from being alone?


One friend was dating a guy who would constantly do stupid things and then somehow try to make HIS actions, HER fault. And she stuck with him – For years.  One day, while listening to her try to explain to me how his blowing her off to go drinking with the guys was somehow HER fault, I asked her if she ever got tired of making excuses for the guy. I mean seriously, she’s intelligent, beautiful and successful and here she was, knee deep in Kleenex, with puffy eyes trying to excuse the inexcusable behavior of a self-centered asshole who was using his own insecurities about her success as a good enough reason to go to a strip club – Really? Eventually, she dumped his ass. And yes, she’s still single now, but when she looks back at the amount of crap she took from this guy, she’s mortified by the fact that she didn’t value herself enough to realize sooner that she could do so much better.


And it’s not just my female friends. My guy friends do the same thing. They stick with women who don’t value them any more than some of the guys my girl friends date. Besides the single guys who bemoan the women who can’t see them for the good guys they are (while ignoring the good women who DO see them for how awesome they are), I have watched my guy friends date (and in some cases marry) some of the most horrible examples of the feminine side of the human race I have ever seen (effectively making me understand why they think women are crazy). I asked one guy why he stuck with a woman who clearly wanted nothing more than to control him, and he said “she’s the best I can get.” I wanted to smack him. But then I realized, that as long as he felt that way, it was true. I believed he could do better for himself, but until he did, he’d continue to be miserable in a relationship with a woman who was clearly (at least to me and everyone around him) was wrong for him.


The problem with all of us, men and women alike, is that we’re too quick to settle, I think. I know I’ve been guilty of it, and I’ve seen my friends do the same. We’re all very good at propping one another up, telling each other, when faced with heartbreak, that we can do ‘better’. But until we really believe it, it won’t happen.


That said, I do believe it now. No more settling. I may be single, and it may suck, but if the only alternative is being with someone who doesn’t appreciate me or who I can’t fully appreciate myself, I’m better off.  In the words of Miss Amanda Jones from “Some Kind of Wonderful” (one of my favorite movies of all time by the way), “I would rather be alone for the right reason than with someone for the wrong ones.”

							


			

				
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Sorry really DOES seem to be the hardest word – And sometimes, it’s not nearly enough.

								

										

						Filed under: Life and Stuff — Leave a comment					

					
July 29, 2010

				

			


			

				
I’ll be falling all about my own thing

And I know you’re the heaviest weight

When you’re not here that’s hung

Around my head


-Dave Matthews Band “I’ll Back You Up”


Ever regret something so much you just wish it, and everything that led up to it never happened? Yeah, me too.


I know that old adage about all mistakes actually being lessons learned, and so you shouldn’t regret the mistakes, because you must’ve learned something from it. I guess for the most part, most of my mistakes have inevitably resulted in me becoming wiser; okay if not wiser, then, maybe a little more cautious?


But some mistakes are just mistakes. No rhyme or reason to them. They just suck. They leave you feeling horrible. They cost you more than you even thought you could lose.  And they leave a scar so deep you’re pretty sure it’ll never heal.


I’ve definitely made mistakes in my life. Looking back though, I realize that they’ve turned me into the person I am, and for the most part, I actually like myself.  But some mistakes make no sense to me at all. Impulsive stupidity, leading to normally avoidable situations, when your brain is screaming “what the HELL are you doing?” and yet you press on with no regard for the damage your actions cause. Those are the ones I find most difficult to forgive myself for, the ones I actually see no point in.  The people you hurt may forgive you, and sometimes the relationship you thought you screwed up may improve… or sometimes you can be forgiven, but lose a friendship that meant more to you than even you were aware of.


Guilt is a horrible feeling. Knowing that the only person you can blame for the pain you feel is yourself sucks. As human beings we are prone to making mistakes. More often than not, an apology and a promise to learn from the mistake is all that needs to be done to make it right. But sometimes, on very rare occasions, apologies are insufficient and nothing can be done to correct the situation. It happened. It’s done. And so you take the blame and all the guilt that goes along with it and try not to let it overcome you.


You go about your life. You enjoy moments with friends and family.  Days, weeks, years go by and you’re fine. But there are moments when you’re alone, and something triggers you to remember, and then whatever amount of time has passed disappears, and you’re there again, and that feeling of remorse overwhelms you and you start to wish you could take it all back. You forget that there were good times before you screwed up. You start to wish you’d never met the person you caused pain. You start to wish that none of it ever happened because that pain, however fleeting the feeling, is so real, and still so raw that you’re willing to forget everything that surrounded the event that caused it just to not feel it anymore.


But you can’t go back and change things. All you can do is hope that no matter the circumstance, you never, intentionally or not, do something that you can’t forgive yourself for. Because no matter how excusable the mistake, no matter the forgiveness of others you may have wronged, you have to look yourself in the mirror and face the consequences of your actions. You have to deal with the regret and the pain of whatever loss incurred due to your actions. It’s a crappy place to be.


Maybe that’s the lesson.

							


			

				
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Losing my Religion and Why I’m Pretty Sure There’s a Special Place in Hell for Douchebags Like Pat Roberston and Jerry Falwell

								

										

						Filed under: Life and Stuff, politics — 2 Comments					

					
June 23, 2010

				

			


			

				
I think we’re all afraid,

That we might be alone,

Alone down here,

We all want to have some faith,

At least that’s true in my case,

To just believe..


-Tyrone Wells, “More”


I’ve never been a particularly religious person.


Please don’t take that statement to mean that I don’t believe that there is a God or some force out there greater than us, because I do. I just don’t believe that any man/woman or child on this planet has any right to tell me how to worship/pray to or honor this being or force.


I’m of a belief that one’s relationship to God or the Universe (or the Force) whatever it is you believe in,  is a very personal thing and having someone, anyone, try to force their way of belief on another person is actually against everything that a true God would wish for.


Religion: re.li.gion. (noun) people’s beliefs and opinions concerning the existence, nature, and worship of a deity  or   deities, and divine involvement in the universe and human life; an institutionalized or personal system of beliefs and practices relating to the divine; a set of strongly-held beliefs, values, and attitudes that somebody lives by; an object, practice, cause, or activity that somebody is completely devoted to or obsessed by.


(A friend of mine once told me she believed that my religion was music because that’s the only activity I seem to engross myself in, well, religiously. Of course this was right after she’d seen me at a Dave Matthews Band concert where they played six out of my top ten favorite songs, which is rare, so that may have been the reason I was having a major “hallelujah” moment, but I digress.)


I see these people on the street handing out pamphlets or bibles saying “you gotta let Jesus into your heart” or “God will save you” – the reality is they’re just trying to get more members for their church (more members = more money) – says so right there on the pamphlet.  Every morning when I used to take the ferry to work, there was a guy who would lecture to us passengers about how if we don’t let Jesus and God in to our lives, we’re going to all burn in hell – so we should all go on and follow his religion. My most memorable interaction with one of the “ferry preachers” happened one early morning in the ferry terminal. A woman came up to me, tapped my shoulder and asked “do you believe in Christ?” And I said “I’m Jewish.” She said “So was he.” And then begins to tell me about “Jews for Jesus.”  (This may sound ignorant of me, but,  wasn’t Christianity started by, well, Jews, for Jesus??) I begged her forgiveness as it was early and I was enjoying my first cup of coffee, and asked her to kindly leave me alone.


I am aware that religion plays a huge role in the lives of many people. And I would never judge their beliefs or the way in which they choose to practice these beliefs. It’s just never been the right path for me. Trust me, many a Rabbi has tried and then been frustrated with my incessant questioning of the rules and regulations they told me God wanted me to follow.


I guess that might be one of the biggest issues I have with religion. There are all these rules that seem to dictate how God wants us to pray, eat, sleep, dress, behave, raise our kids, treat our pets, rest, (how much money to donate to the religious institutions we belong to…) My question is, who made up these rules? The Rabbis? Priests? Bishops? Deacons? And if that’s the case, who made these  folks the experts?  (I know they all go to their own religion’s form of Seminary school – but where did the things they’re learning come from?). And who wrote the bible? And how do we know that ANYTHING in there is even true? Weren’t these tomes written years after the events happened? I mean I’ve read the Old Testament quite a few times (seriously, I even lived with a guy who was studying to be a Rabbi – exhausted the crap out of him with all my questions too) and while the stories seem like great cautionary tales, I just don’t know how much of it all I can believe.


Ever notice how many wars are started in the name of God? And please don’t get me started on the hypocrisy of so called “holy men.”


And then there’s the attitude that so many folks seem to have when it comes to God.


Folks like to blame God for just about everything wrong in their lives. Folks also tend to forget to thank God for the good.  We blame God for war, for strife, for hurricanes, the economy, death, cancer, heartbreak – you name it. But forget to thank him for any good fortune that comes our way.


(I mean seriously who were those repressed douche bags who said Katrina was God’s way of punishing New Orleans for being a sinful city? Really, what God would punish New Orleans for being sinful before giving Osama Bin Laden – and all his murderous followers – the massive coronary they all so deserve? They KILL innocent people – New Orleans is full of music, laughter, fun, good people, good food and yes, spirituality. Some of the most spiritual people I know come from New Orleans! I can’t for a second believe that God would flood a city full of happy people before getting rid of assholes who murder in his name. But the statements made by Robertson and Falwell about Katrina and about the Earthquakes in Haiti are a great example how some religious leaders like to twist their view of God and what God wants to serve their own personal agendas.)


Back when I was in Hebrew school (yeah, go ahead, laugh), I had a teacher who explained to us that God will only help those who help themselves.  And that, of all the many lessons she taught, is the one that’s pretty much stuck for me.


To me, God isn’t some mystical Santa Clause that’s going to answer prayers just because you want him to. Truly, the only time I’ve actually had any of my prayers answered was when I was 11 years old and the baby my mother had been carrying turned out to be a girl (yeah, I prayed EVERY night – partially because I KNEW my stepfather wanted a boy, but mostly because I wanted a little sister – and I got one – the best kind too – and I thank God and the Universe and anything else out there for her every day – but, again, I digress).


God’s not going to help you find a job unless you actually SEARCH for one. God’s not going to make you lose 50 lbs unless you go on a diet and get off the damned couch. God’s not going to bring you the man or woman of your dreams unless you put yourself out there. And there is no way that God’s going to let EVERYONE win the lottery either (“Why not?” You might ask – For the answer, please see “Bruce Almighty”).


A friend and I had this discussion recently, where she said she doesn’t understand why she’s still alone, and that God must want it that way. I don’t believe that’s true. And for the record, I know she doesn’t believe that either. I mean any God that would be that cruel wouldn’t be worth believing in. I know that God didn’t just arbitrarily decide to take my husband from me (although I DO think should I ever meet God in person he has a lot of ‘splainin’ to do), because why would he? She’s alone because she hasn’t found a man worthy of her. My husband died because he got Cancer. End of story.  And while I don’t blame God for my husband’s death, I do thank him for the friends and family and inner strength I’ve been blessed with that helped me get through it all.


The fact is, bad things happen to seemingly good people every day.  And in the end, does it matter if they went to  whatever religious institution and prayed once a week; Or if they ate the right things on the right days;  Or, if they wore a skirt that was of  certain length?  And, who’s to say which path anyone chooses to follow is, infact, the correct one? If there were just one true way to follow God, would there be so many varying opinions as to what that path should be? And would God permit so much evil to be done in his name because of all these varying opinions?


I am of the adage that ultimately, how we treat ourselves and one another is the ultimate way to truly worship whatever being it is that you are prone to worshipping. Isn’t that what the Ten Commandments are all about? If you want to summarize those ten little rules alone, all God (or whatever being you chose to believe in) wants is for folks to believe in him/her/it, be good to one another, and be good to ourselves. Go ahead, read them. The first two are about believing in God, the rest are all about being good to our parents, our fellow man and ourselves.


As for the bad things? Shit happens. Believe me, I know, I’ve had more shit happen to me in the past three years than I thought I could stand. And I know I’m not a bad person. I know it’s not God or the Universe having a field day at my expense  (although, right about now the only prayer I have is that no more bad shit happen – I need to recuperate a little – go pick on someone else – or take an Imodium – K? Thanks!) It’s just the way things have been. My job in all of this is to make the best of whatever situation I am in and move on, hopefully having learned something in the process that would make my life better in the future.


I’ve definitely, in the past few years, had time to ponder on a lot of the crappy things that have happened in my life and in the lives of people I care about. I’ve had my self-pitying moments where I wondered what I could have done to prevent things from happening the way they did and wondered if somehow or other I was being punished for some wrong I’d done, long forgotten by me. But then I’d be reminded of all the good things in my life, friends, family and my own personal strength to deal with all of it. And I guess, most recently, I’ve come to the conclusion that the only person I can look to to make things right for me, is me.


So, I think we should be grateful for the good things in our lives. And when things start to really suck? Well, in the words of the Beatles “take a sad song and make it better.” It’s on us. Instead of looking to the heavens and asking “Why are you doing this to me?!!!” look inward and just deal with what you have and become the person you want to be. The rest will work itself out somehow


Belief in God or some being greater than us isn’t a bad thing, but I think that not believing in ourselves and each other is the worst crime we can commit to whatever God we believe in and to each other.



							


			

				
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A Plethora of Crazy: My (Mis)Adventures in Internet Dating

								

										

						Filed under: Life and Stuff — 6 Comments					

					
June 10, 2010

				

			


			

				
I’ve been roaming around, always looking down at all I see

Painted faces fill the places I can’t reach

You know that I could use somebody


 -Kings of Leon


My sister, (you’ll probably see her referenced here often), part bullied, part cajoled, part dared me to join an internet dating service where many of her friends found the loves of their lives, got married and are currently living happily ever.


Now, before I go in to why I only used up three weeks of my one month ($40!!) membership, I figured I should give you a little background just in case you stumbled on this blog and don’t know my history.


I was once married.


Two years ago, my husband passed away after an eighteen month battle with cancer. It’s a story for another time, but suffice it to say, the past two years have been all about me trying to get my life back together and back on track. I’m guessing this blog maybe a part of the process. Who knows?


So it’s been two years and I haven’t dated anyone. I’m not sure if that’s by choice or by design, but the fact is, I’m ready. It’s time.


After a long heart to heart with a musician friend of mine, about how there was no way I was going to find anyone decent by doing the one thing I love most, going to their shows (actually, I believe his exact words were “Look it’s mostly women at our shows, and the guys with them are usually their boyfriends… Dude, it’s not like you’re going to find the man of your dreams on the fucking Rock Boat, ya know?”), I decide to take my sister’s dare.


I join this magical matchmaking site that my sister has been yammering on about for a year. I answer a bunch of inane questions that are supposed to attract that ‘perfect’ match. How they figure out if you’re a perfect match from such probing questions like “what’s your favorite color?” baffles me, but okay.


Here’s the thing. When I was younger, I was less picky. These days, I’m a bit more discerning. However, I’m not particularly shallow. For me, more often, brains, ability to make conversation and more importantly the ability to make me laugh tend to trump physical appearance. I mean I do have SOME qualities that are a must, (for example: taller than me please, which given that I am 5’4” and rarely wear anything higher than a 3″ heel shouldn’t be difficult, but you’d be surprised).  I mean I guess growing up I had some kind of image of what my dream man would look like or some such nonsense, but I’m going to have to say that what usually attracts me physically, does not necessarily attract me once I’ve actually had a conversation with a guy.


Anyone who knows my ‘type’ (you know, you walk into a bar, there HE is.. OMG.. he’s HOT!!.. yadda yadda), knows that I’ve rarely actually dated my ‘type’. Hell, I didn’t even marry my ‘type’.  My husband was way better looking than my ‘type.’ I kid you not. I can honestly say that in my 38 years of life thus far, I’ve only ever actually met one man who I found attractive at first glance and still actually found attractive after our first conversation. And as it turns out, he just likes me as a friend. Apparently, I’m not HIS type. Go figure.


Anyway, what I’m trying to say is I’m realistic. I know that first impressions aren’t all they’re cracked up to be so I wasn’t going to just write off a guy who tried to talk to me on the site because his picture didn’t resemble Sawyer or Sayid from “Lost.”


But I wasn’t expecting the plethora of crazy that I ended up encountering. Seriously.


First of all, I’m 38 years old. That’s my chronological age. Anyone who knows me, knows that I neither act it, nor do I look it. I’m very young at heart (basically, while I have the knowledge and maturity of a person my age, it may not always be evident in my attitude. I sincerely hope that makes sense).  I also managed to inherit amazing genes from my mom and grandmother (at my sweet 16 folks thought my mom was my sister and my grandmother was our mother…).  So basically for age requirement I figured 35-42 was a good age range for whatever guy I’d consider dating.


The first few ‘flirts’ I received, but didn’t respond to, were from guys who claimed to be 45-48 (oh yeah, I prefer literate men… clearly these guys couldn’t read). They made the mistake of posting their pictures which either revealed they’d had some pretty rough lives, or they hadn’t been in their 40’s since I’d been in my 20’s –early 20’s.


But eventually, there was that one that seemed, well, if I’m being honest, too good to be true… so of course, I decided, to go for it…


 Mismatch #1


It ain’t me, babe,

No, no, no, it ain’t me, babe,

It ain’t me you’re lookin’ for, babe.


 -Bob Dylan


First actual contact I made was with this guy who decided to contact me using the IM system on the sight.  I looked at his profile. He was 35, good looking, good job, emphasized his love of music and dancing. I responded.  He was funny, intelligent, had an awesome, dry sense of humor.  I agreed to meet up with him.


In person, he was even better looking than in his pictures. We had an amazing time, just chatting and realizing we had a lot in common. There were a few people at the bar, and one other guy decided to join us for a bit. He was really good looking too and he and internet service guy seemed to get along really well, while both simultaneously flirting with me. Holy ego boost, I though. Seriously!


Towards the end of the evening, he said:“You know, you’re really awesome, I had such a great time, I’d really like to take you out sometime.”


Before I could respond with the “absolutely” that was about to come out of my mouth, he added: “But I do need to ask you a question first, how would you feel about dating a guy who was bi-sexual?” Without pause, he added: “See, I really like women, and I don’t fool around, but I also like to play with men once in a while.”


My internal monologue went something like this: “While I often find men with beards attractive, I’d prefer not to actually BE the beard.” 


My actual response was something along the lines of:  “The way you just phrased that question, makes me believe that you might be interested in dating me but would want permission to see other people, specifically, guys, when the desire hits you.  And while I DO think you’re a fantastic guy, I really don’t like to share. Even if I’m the only woman you’d be dating, messing around with a guy once in a while would still be cheating.”


He didn’t deny that that was what he’d been implying. So that was that. Internet Dating site match up #1—FAIL. I wished him the best (and secretly hoped he’d hook up with that guy that had been talking to us both earlier on) and left.


 Mismatch #2


 I don’t want no scrub

A scrub is a guy who can’t get no love from me

Hangin’ out the passenger side, of his best friend’s ride

Tryin’ to holler at me


 -TLC


I really promised my sister I’d give this thing a shot. So instead of following my instincts and deleting my profile after that one, I stayed on.  When this 48 year old guy, who seemed interesting enough based on his profile e-mailed me, I e-mailed him back.  We exchanged two more e-mails before he sent me his phone number. I decided that he should call me. Not because I’m the girl, but because if I think he’s a psycho or a jerk or some combo of both, I could just block his number on my phone (I love technology).


 Phone rings, I pick up:


 Me: “Hello”


 #2: “You know if you and I are going to be together, you’re going to have to quit smoking.” (I was very honest in my profile—go figure).


Now, I get that wanting someone to quit smoking is a GOOD thing, but he could have said “you should wear a pink dress on our first date” and I still wouldn’t have been happy.  I mean come on. The guy doesn’t know me, hasn’t said two words to me yet and he’s already a) assuming I’m going to ‘be’ with him, and b) making demands -Strike one.


We continue the ‘getting to know you’ conversation. He tells me that he’s been unemployed for two years and is currently living with his parents. I ask him what kind of job search has he been making, I mean I know it’s a recession and it’s tough out there, so I didn’t want to seem like a complete bitch. Basically, he’d been looking in his chosen field (which for the life of me I can’t remember), but that he’s been offered jobs that were, to paraphrase, ‘beneath’ him. He goes on to explain that he was married and he and his wife essentially got divorced because of financial issues.  But that he really wants to have kids- Like yesterday.


My internal monologue was spitting out rapid retorts to this statement, and yet, I managed to be way nicer than any of the “Are you fucking kidding me, babies? Really? How about getting a job first?” responses that were flooding my brain. I instead said, very calmly: “Kids? Really? How are you planning on paying for them? I mean raising them costs money.” 


#2 (I shit you not this was his response – and he was DEAD SERIOUS): “Well, you have a city job, I mean, that’s about as stable as you get, right? (wrong) If we were together…” 


I cut him off with: “Wow, no offense (not that I cared if he took any at this point ), but one of my major requirements is that the guy I’m with has a job, or at least some form of ambition that goes beyond having babies. I mean dreams are really nice, but if you were really serious about having a family, you’d take any job you were offered for the time being until something that interests you more came along.” –Strike two.


His response (again, no doo-doo):  “Well, just so you know, I’m amazing in bed, and if nothing else I could take you places sexually you have never been before.”


I almost choked on my latte (and FYI, that really was the death knell for him in my book. ANY guy who has to brag about how ‘good’ he is in bed, is really NOT good at all—for those of you who didn’t know that already… trust me. It’s true).


Before I could recover he goes on to tell me that he noticed that on my profile I state my political beliefs as being “liberal.” I said, “yes, I am.”


His response: “Oh so you voted for Obama, huh?”


Me: “yes, I did.”


He said: “oh so you’re okay with the United states turning in to a Socialist country” and then begins to, again, I shit you not, word for word, regurgitate every Fox News talking point ever made against the current administration.


I mean anyone who knows me, knows, I’ll listen to an opinion whether I agree or not. I’ll debate, intelligently, with anyone with an opposing view – not in an effort to make them agree with me, but to at least let them see why I believe what I believe. But this guy? Holy friggen Glen Beck meets Rush Limbaugh at a pep rally for Sarah Palin! – Yeah- Strike three.


I tell him I’ve got to go finish cleaning my apartment. He said he’d like to meet me in person, that, he decided I was “worth the $11 toll on the Verrazano.” I told him to keep the cash.  I didn’t think we’d work out. As he was giving me his spiel about how I shouldn’t write him off, that it’s at least worth a meet up, and then again starts rambling about his prowess in bed and how he could help me with my oral fixation… I hung up.


No shit, he e-mailed me five days later asking me if I was free for lunch. I said ‘no.’ I think/hope he might have gotten the message? In any case, his number is blocked on my phone.


 Mismatch #3


 Some boys take a beautiful girl

And hide her away from the rest of the world

I want to be the one to walk in the sun

Oh girls they want to have fun


 -Cyndi Lauper (although really, I’m in love with the Greg Laswell version)


At this point, you might be wondering why I didn’t just take my profile off the site and go running for the hills, but a) I really wanted to make sure I could say I tried, and b) I like baseball – I figured the site had one more chance at bat.


 Enter bachelor #3. This guy was really one of those “looks good on paper” deals. I mean he was 43; owned his own business; he was definitely close enough to my ‘type’ physically to pique my interest – at least enough for me to give him my e-mail address.


 We e-mailed for about a week.  The first few exchanges were friendly enough. Just your basic facts – you know – what we like to do in our spare time; what we do for a living; family dynamics; past dating experiences; people and places that are important to us and why – stuff like that.


At the beginning of week two of e-mail exchanges, I receive this from him: “My girlfriend, who I was going to marry, (oh English is NOT his first language – but what woman doesn’t love an accent, right?), she cheat on me with friend of mine. Now I just want to find the love of my life, get married, have childrens. I want to find best friend who will want to be with me always”. 


Okay… so I try to explain to him that falling in love takes time. That anything THAT instant isn’t really love – I mean how soon did he think he’d go from talking to someone via e-mail to that ultimate dream of his?


#3:  “I don’t know how long it takes, but I’m anxious to meet the love of my life. And I really think you sound like possible. But I have a few questions.”  And then he writes: “you told me two of your closest friends are men you’ve known your whole life and one of them is your ex-boyfriend who was your first love… do you ever see them?”


Me: “Well, one is married and lives in Israel. The guy who was my first love is divorced and lives in New Orleans. Why?”


#3: “Because first love and you’re both single, maybe not so good for me. But the guy who’s married and in Israel, that’s okay.” And then, as if this were remotely normal, continued with:  “I notice you say you like music and have friends who play music – are they men or women? If it’s women singers, that’s good.  I guess I can go with you when you go see your male friends play their music. I don’t want to have to worry. Musicians are sneaky. Even if you don’t want to cheat – they can make you.”


Strike three.


After laughing for a solid five minutes at his description of musicians, I composed myself and responded with:


“Look the guy in New Orleans and I broke up 20 years ago. If we wanted to be together, we would be. My husband liked him very much and never felt threatened by our past because he was secure enough in our relationship to know that fact. This guy knows me better than any non-related human being on this planet, and there is no way I’d give up a friendship I’ve had for most of my life for a guy I just met on the internet.  And while I’m glad that you’re okay with me being friends with a guy who’s been like a brother to me since I was 15 because he lives in another country, I really wouldn’t need or want permission from you to continue that friendship either. As for the musicians I am friends with, you don’t know them. Don’t make assumptions based on stereotypes.  And I wouldn’t want you there with me if all you’d do is act like a watch dog trying to mark his territory.”


Two days later I get an e-mail from him:


“I removed my profile from the site, because I want to focus on you and see how things going to be. You can email me on here and let continue to know each other better.”


I responded – a week later with:


“I removed my profile from the site too. After our exchange, I realized that the person I’m looking for does not exist there.  I hope you find what you’re looking for. I’m afraid, however, that it isn’t me- Best of luck.”


Yeah, I think my sister owes me $40. Just sayin’. ;P

							


			

				
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Bitch – An Introduction to Me

								

										

						Filed under: Life and Stuff — 4 Comments					

					
June 8, 2010

				

			


			

				
Just when you think, you’ve got me figured out


The season’s already changing


I think it’s cool,


You do what you do


And don’t try to save me.


– Meredith Brooks “Bitch”


 


I guess you can say that when you reconnect with an ex-boyfriend, your first love, actually, after not having much contact with him over eight years, the last thing you expect him to say is: “You know I heard this song a couple of days ago, and it reminded me of you.”


It was 1998.  The song was Meredith Brooks’ “Bitch.”  Yes, that conversation really happened.  And yes, it was meant as a compliment – or at least I’d like to think it was.


In any case, the truth is, if being strong, independent and outspoken constitutes a bitch these days, then yeah, that’s me.


I’m also all the contradictions.  I hurt easily but can forgive what some folks might consider unforgivable. I can outwardly seem as though nothing bothers me, while simultaneously be super sensitive. I may appear completely comfortable in any situation, while my internal monologue is a litany of me letting my insecurities get the better of me. Ultimately though, I’m super friendly, ridiculously outspoken and outgoing and have a loyalty to my friends that can’t be disputed. Basically, I am pretty much an average woman with one really huge love in my life…


Music.


I have an almost unnatural attachment/attraction/addiction to music. I’m pretty sure this love was fostered by my uncles who had the awesome task of babysitting me when they were still teenagers living with my grandmother.  Thanks to them, I could honestly say I might have been the only six year old to know every word to every Beatles song before I even knew who they were (or that they weren’t even a band anymore).  Oh and I know that my teachers at the Yeshiva I went to REALLY loved my rendition of “Another Brick in the Wall Pt. 2” (you know “We Don’t Need No Education”) in the second grade. I guess what I’m saying is that I can blame/thank my uncles for my love/appreciation of music.  


Now while I can honestly say I love music, I am not a musician. Despite piano lessons as a child and a few guitar lessons as an adult, I play no instruments. I will readily admit to being able to sing (well, in tune.. an my voice doesn’t suck), but the aforementioned insecurities lead me to not being able to do so publicly without copious amounts of alcohol ingested, and then, well, really, have you ever heard a drunk person sing?


To that end, I tend to be particularly in awe of anyone that can go up on a stage and perform songs, which you have to know come from either their own personal experiences or from the experiences of those close to them, night after night, often to a crowd where many people are either drunk and stupid, or just won’t shut up. Oh yeah, a  HUGE pet peeve of mine – people who won’t shut up at musical venues. I may be a pacifist, but I often have a mental image of me doing something violent to shut their mouths.


(Seriously lady standing next to me at Sullivan Hall while Matt Lowell was on stage singing a song about a break up – I don’t care if your booty call for the night texted you back. I REALLY don’t care that he’s not all that great in bed. I am completely not surprised at all that you couldn’t get anyone except Mr. Pencil dick to text you back. Now can you shut up so I can hear the man with the guitar singing? Cause that’s what I paid for. K’ Thanks… )


A well written song can set a mood, cheer me up, bring me back to reality, get me through a rough time or bring back memories, fun times and some not so fun times.  Music has always played such a huge part in my life and yes, I am THAT person that pretty much says “I LOVE that song” probably way too often, but the truth is, I mean it every time I say it.


My sister, cousin and a few friends all suggested I should start a blog combining my love of telling stories, many of them funny, some maybe not, about situations in my life past or present with the music I love. The stories will be true. The names may be changed to protect the guilty or innocent (or me, from a lawsuit).


So here it is. 


My life.


Out there.


Scary.


Enjoy.

							


			

				

				

					
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