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Some people shouldn't be parents. Period.

2012-04-25T03:00:33Z

Across the aisle sat a four hundred pound blob of flesh. At sometime in the past, this “thing” was most certainly a person. Now, there were no noticeable signs of humanity in him—no bones to shape his human identity, no form to make him recognizable as the alpha male he so desperately tried to be. Directly across from him sat his counterpart, his Eve. She was in similar state, or, shall I say—mal-shape. Both were tragically over the edge. Morbid obesity had set in and despite this, they were dreadfully content in their downward spiral toward death’s door. The mounds of flesh were seemingly permanently suction cupped to their bodies. Each labored movement of the arms, arduously yet fervently, shoveled fatty, greasy, heaping mounds of rice and beans onto their forks and somehow found the way into their mouths. Between forkfuls of that unholy union, each took greedy and gluttonous bites of the grease-filled burritos. What a ghastly site. To see such disdain for one’s own body and to permit ones’ self to stoop to such a level that one’s own arms and hands are hindered in reaching the mouth because of mountains of fat rolls is simply sinful. Gluttony, after all, is a deadly sin. So too should be the state of being grotesquely and intentionally fat.

These two behemoths were somehow charged with the responsibility of being parents. Their little angel was like a sacrificial lamb brought to the slaughter. They looked upon this child as if it was the rotisserie for the evening meal. Except that this little helpless being was overly tired and probably hungry—after all, no one paid any mind to her needs because, who had the time? Between meals and meals and meals, there is undoubtedly no free time. Flailing her arms and self, in a desperate attempt to gain some attention, this tiny dancer flung herself into the wooden legs of a chair. Of course, in pain, she began to wail. Instead of comforting the wounded fledgling, the glutton himself managed to raise his colossal body, pick up the child as if she was a rag doll, and place her with such force and command that the high chair nearly bounced off of the tiled floor. No mind the sizeable tears flowing down her porcelain face or the near foaming of the mouth, undoubtedly from pain, she was charged to placate herself with some handheld game console as these “parents” continued to feed their insatiable appetites.

Unequivocally, some people should not be parents. Period. My better half literally had to restrain me or else I would have gone over to their table and given them a piece of my firecracker mind. I sat quietly—ok, well, as quietly as I could—and I observed. I couldn’t help but to remember: in my past there was a boy whose mother was a short and stout little thing –a real life rolly-polly—who, despite being morbidly obese and virtually on death’s door, would awake at 3 a.m. every single night and have a couple of smokes and a jumbo frozen snickers bar. This was the example she set for her kids. Healthy living, healthy eating and a general sense of wellness were the last things on her mind; the same with these gluttons over at the next table at tonight’s dinner. This has to stop. This epidemic of food-induced suicide and the mal-example being set for children is preposterous. In my mind, if you’re morbidly obese of your own making, you ought not to be a parent. Your parental rights should be stripped. Certainly, there are others out there who can better parent your child than you and your piggish ways.

Power's Bad Side

2011-12-13T21:25:53Z

Power can be an evil, dangerous tool.

It comes in many different shades and versions. Depending on in whom it rests, it can find itself having or creating some terrible results.

First, there's the seemingly innocuous, toothless tiger of power that some people think they possess. It causes them to be completely oblivious of people around them. They're often insensitive, rash and callous as they bumble their way through their empty, vacuous lives thinking that they are so much better than everyone else because they're in some way powerful. This is often inextricably and dangerously linked to the person's ego. To some, if they pout and scream loud enough, someone will surely acquiesce. I admit, sometimes this works. But on other instances, the person looks like a maniacal nitwit having a hissy-fit. Rod Blagojevich ring a bell? Upon encountering such an occasion, it's often best to just walk.... away.... slowly.

Next, there's this phenomena of power in numbers. The thinking here appears to be that because you have others that share your very thoughts, if you band together there's strength in a large number. A good example of how this sort of thing can result in sheer and utter nonsense is the Occupy Wall Street protesters ganging together to shut down three west coast ports last night. The ports of Oakland, California, Portland, Oregon and Longview, Washington all suffered attack by these occupiers in the exercise of their ill-gotten power. News flash, occupiers: if you stop the import and export of goods into the United States, you're inextricably affecting commerce and the economy, intentionally regressing us into a more dire, depressed state. The concept of logic clearly fails to come into consideration in such acts. After all, it appears that the occupiers are creating more of the same problem that they are protesting against. Brilliant use of the brain cells there, wouldn't you say?

In my profession, the discussions of power often focus on its abuse. Admittedly, many lawyers have power derived by virtue of their position. For example, Jerry Sandusky's lawyer, Joseph Amendola, had the power to waive the pretrial hearing this morning for his client. This waiver, probably came after much discussion between Amendola and his client. Too bad for Sandusky, though, that his lawyer is an idiot. Accepting such a direction from his client to waive the hearing is bad enough, but my suspicion is that a typical client like Sandusky doesn't know that this hearing was waivable and it's most likely that Amendola himself encouraged and urged Sandusky to undertake such an action. This power inherent in knowing the law and its strictures and advising a client on how to plead or act in a criminal case can literally be deadly if left unchecked. Here, it appears to be a thick nail in the Sandusky coffin. This prelim hearing was one of the only ways that the accused could have beaten the charges; it was the only opportunity available to him to test the truth and veracity of the alleged victims prior to trial. At the very least, it stood as a plausible and sensible way to poke holes in many of the allegations including why it took so long for the alleged victims to come forward. With a swift use of the fleeting yet dangerous power he has, Amendola basically sealed Sandusky's doomed fate.

In addition to the power of defense attorneys is, of course, that of prosecutors. Many of them go rogue and betray not only the oath of their office but the entire purpose of their power. Take for example Lake County, Illinois prosecutor Michael Mermel. He insisted that Juan Rivera broke into 11-year-old Holly Staker's home in 1992 and raped and murdered her. According to Mermel, Rivera confessed and three juries found him guilty. The only problem was that the semen found in the victim's body was not Rivera's. The prosecutor explains that the 11-year-old must have been sexually active. Jerry Hobbs, much like Rivera, had to deal with the powerful intentions and actions of Prosecutor Mermel. According to Mermel, Hobbs confessed to killing his own eight-year-old daughter and her nine-year-old friend. That confession got him the death penalty. Slight problem, though, because DNA tests entirely excluded Hobbs and implicated another man (with a lengthy criminal past). Regardless, Mermel would hear nothing of it. He believed that the DNA evidence came from the girls playing in hot spot for lovers near the crime scene. Asked why he spews this drivel-laden theories, Mermel told the Chicago Tribune that he's paid to get convictions. Um, not so fast. In fact, just last week, the Illinois Supreme Court attempted to curb Mermel and other like prosecutors' powers. It held that one of the special responsibilities of prosecutors is "to seek justice" and not "merely to convict." In the same breath, the Court tossed out the guilty verdict in Rivera's case. They chastised Mermel's use of power and with a swift stroke of the pen, released Rivera from the 19 years of wrongful imprisonment. Hobbs was released late last year.

Sandusky's Sins

2011-11-16T20:41:30Z

Being eight months pregnant really can make a woman more...oh what's the word....ah yes, sensitive. But that's not sensitive in a good, calm, understanding, empathetic way. No, that's sensitive as in I want to rip people's heads' off most of the time. I have less than zero (yes, I know I'm married to a mathematician and no, I don't know whether that's even a valid number) tolerance for people's garbage and their soapbox drivel. For the most part, everything seems to rile me up. For example, when our downstairs yenta, busy-body of a neighbor decided to take offense to my incessant vacuuming and had the nerve to email me to limit such activities between certain hours, I responded with an unequivocal "bite me." Coincidentally, she still hasn't responded to me. And, to compound matters, I've now taken to engaging in such loud cleaning activities well outside her proscribed "holy" hours, just to prove my point. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, didn't you know?

This heightened state of sensitivity has gotten me absolutely apoplectic over many things including the recent Penn State scandal. Jerry Sandusky, a.k.a. child molester, ought to be flogged in the main campus hall and then permanently institutionalized far away from even the slightest warmth from the light of day. How the university could permit such acts to be taking place for such a long period of time, with notice and knowledge of the possibility of such acts, is beyond comprehension. To say that a huge civil lawsuit is forthcoming against the university and its agents is an understatement. I sure hope they have good insurance policies in place that cover both litigation and judgment/settlement costs with umbrella coverage for willful and wanton conduct. Joe Paterno's probably squirming in his sweatpants just thinking about his liability. Maybe that's why the once-famed coach transferred full ownership of his home to his wife just this past July. Guilt conscience much? Clearly, isolating and insulating assets. Poor guy doesn't know that such transfers can ultimately be probed for fraud. Paterno knew what was going on. He heard about it directly from eye witness accounts. Perhaps he even may have had personal suspicions that he ought to have investigated. If someone came to me and told me that they witnessed a specific act of abuse on a child by someone under my direction, I would immediately investigate the matter and err on the side of caution. There hasn't even been a single mention of any affirmative exculpatory acts taken by the coach. If you ask me, he was wise to lawyer up so quickly.

As to lawyers, Sandusky's own lawyer ought to be disbarred. Unless he's setting up for an appeal for his client post conviction on grounds of ineffective assistance of counsel, Joe Amendola, has some explaining to do as to why he ever thought it was a good idea to unleash his client, all on his own, to the media. The one interview that I heard made me absolutely nauseous. Instead of offering a resolute denial of any of the charges and allegations, maniacal Sandusky thought it best to try to explain the circumstances of the situation, including some laughable defense of "horsing around" in the shower and the like. There's no explanation in the world that would justify his actions. There's been far too many separate and distinct allegations that all bear the same modus operandi to suggest that what's been charged did indeed happen. Amendola should have told Sandusky to go lock himself in his basement and never come out unless there's a court date. He should have absolutely no contact with the media or anyone else for that matter. What is this clown of a lawyer thinking? But then again, Amendola himself is not beyond reproach. In fact, he violated all sorts of juicy and non-negotiable code of ethics when he got one of his 16-year-old clients pregnant. Although he later went on to marry her, such an act doesn't eliminate the harm and wrong he caused. Maybe that's the glue between these two of society's bottom feeders.

I've never actually said this before but in Sandusky's case it seems fitting: lock him up and throw away the key.

But you nose into your own business, please!

2011-10-25T20:10:07Z

Before I start to hear from my bleeding heart leftist liberal friends, save it. This isn't really a politically motivated soap box rant on the state of the union under Obama. Nay, it's merely picking the usual and proverbial bone with someone. This someone just happens to be the big O's wife. I feel like Susan Powter: "Just stop the insanity!"

Could someone please, please please, with a cherry on top, tell Michelle Obama to stop talking about how much food we should put into our children's happy meal or what we should serve for dinner or how we should all move around for at least 60 minutes a day? I mean, for crying out loud, who died and made her the authority on fitness and diet and nutrition?

Burning through this depressed country's waning resources, she feels fit (no pun intended) to travel around the country and pontificate on some higher values of eating healthy and right and all that nausea-inducing drivel. First of all, I do believe the first lady of the United States ought to find a worthier cause to furrow her finely chiseled brow over. She cannot control what other people's children eat. What a child eats for dinner is directly linked to what a mother or father puts on his or her plate. I surmise that the parents who are on food stamps and who are struggling to even put a roof over their own child's head will not be primarily focused on thinking about "healthy" choices at dinner time. Instead, these parents are thinking about whether or not they can even afford dinner in the first place. Second, those same mothers probably don't have the financial resources to shower their little ones with toys and prizes. If Michelle Obama had her way, she's remove all the Happy Meal and Fruit Loops cereal box toys from circulation. There'd be no poor child clasping that little McDonald's action figure as if it's his own life source because it was not part of the country's plan for his physical health. Give me a break, Mrs. O.

Mrs. Obama shouldn't be focusing her efforts on steering the government into the business of controlling how much and what kind of food goes into each value meal. It's just not right. For example, with so many families being affected by job loss and even home loss, some families might be trying to eek out two meals out of one at say, McDonalds or Popeye's. If the child doesn't eat all the french fries or chicken in her meal, maybe she'll eat it later as a snack or for lunch the next day. The same is true for the size of the hamburger--maybe eating half now and saving half for another meal is part of a family's survival plan. That's where Michelle Obama's "mission" appears really misguided and downright misappropriate.

Perhaps there are more noble causes the big Mrs. O could have concerned herself with--oh say, gangs, drugs, underage drinking or even dropout rates. All these seem loftier and more worthy causes than policing the children's food industry. Perhaps Mrs. O should focus on what her own children are eating and whether or not they're being "active" or not. Leave everyone else's kids alone. But, oh, that's right, I forgot: Mrs. O's kids have their own personal chef/nutritionist so it's easy to practice what momma preaches.

To Err and To Forgive

2011-10-10T19:46:53Z

Someone great once said that "to err is human." But, what does that really mean? Do we mere mortals even pay attention to all the errors and the "humanity" of those around us, especially those whom we elevate to some unreachable God-like status? I'm thinking today about Steve Jobs. In my blissful ignorance, I too thought that the man was some sort of enlightened creature, a technological and business-savvy idol that could serve as a penultimate role model. Those feelings notwithstanding, as I've been learning more and more about him, the image of Steve Jobs' is slowly coming down to earth for me and I'm recognizing that this idol might have had feet of clay.

Why such bitterness or even whiplash towards the now deceased great? Am I even justified in poking holes in his grandeur when he's gone? Probably not, but, as I've come to learn about myself, one of my many flaws is that much like a runaway train, once I get going, I can't be stopped.

Steve Job's relationship with his "real" father could generally be summed up with the use of the term "sperm donor." When his "real mother" learned that she was pregnant with Abdulfattah "John" Jandali's baby, the image of a perfect, cohesive familial unit shattered quicker than it could ever set. It was determined that the baby would be put up for adoption and in the meantime, John decided to take a hiatus from his newly-impregnated girlfriend because, I suspect, he just buckled under the pressure. And so Steve Jobs found his way somehow into the home of his adopted parents.

In a story eerily similar to his own father's, Steve Jobs played hard and fast with procreative activities and fathered a daughter, Lisa Brennan-Jobs, with his long time girlfriend. In good keeping with his "sperm donor" father's game, Steve decided to up the ante and went so far as to not only deny his role in making his daughter, but he poignantly accused his girlfriend of sleeping around, made sworn and verified court statements that he resolutely could not be the father as he was infertile, and compounded that legal nightmare by dragging both mother and daughter through forced paternity testing all to determine that little Lisa was, indeed, his. After this painful and traumatic process in his daughter's life, somehow, Jobs' decided that perhaps he ought to have a role in his daughter's life. This all came, of course, after Lisa's mother struggled through welfare and constant relocation to try to find jobs, scraping up enough money to feed, clothe and school Lisa well into her teen years.

Some eight years into her life, Jobs finally made motions towards Lisa, albeit in what she called an "awkward" way. It took years for them to have any relationship, and much of that came only after Lisa's valiant effort to forge some bond with her father.

Steve and his father, John, never got so close, in fact, they never spoke other than a word or two through email. Despite the overtures put out by John towards Steve, no relationship was ever forged. He, much unlike his daughter, did not have an open heart. Perhaps Steve turned a blind eye to the hypocrisy of his own actions as they related to Lisa? Perhaps he should not have just ignored John? Perhaps it's all a bit too late now to recognize that dreadful double standard and what would have happened if Lisa decided to act like her own father.

What is abundantly clear is the lesson that sometimes, realizing someone's humanity prevents us from thinking we're so much different and better than everyone else. It seems to me that as we mourn the passing of Jobs, a good lesson to remember is that the other half of the opening saying is that "to forgive, is divine."

Better to say nothing at all.

2011-09-21T21:06:34Z

There are some people out there who would do well for themselves to just speak less or not at all.

I'm sure we've all encountered that special someone who has the unique ability to posit a statement so bombastically inappropriate that it just makes our skin crawl when we hear it. When Eva Longoria recently proclaimed that she thought "divorce agrees with" her, I thought that this was a classic example of where foot in mouth disease might want to strike. Or maybe it ought to infect Brad Pitt. Though he can be inexplicably sexy in some instances (I'm thinking about the peanut butter eating scene in Meet Joe Black, for example), sometimes he's just so out to lunch that you wonder how he can manage to put one foot in front of the other. Recently he proclaimed that he announces to his brood of little ankle biters that "Mom and Dad are going off to kiss" when they're about to conjugate their non-existent marriage. I mean come on. Can't you wait 'til they tucker out at say 9pm before you start that kinky stuff? What do they know about kissing and that 'other' stuff anyway?

Madonna might just be the one to take the cake in this moronic statements category when she literally threw a hissy fit over the fact that a fan presented her with a hydrangea flower. He obviously didn't know that her royal skeletor highness "absolutely hates hydrangeas." I wouldn't give that woman two cents of my thoughts let alone go to see her at an event and spend time and money and effort getting her a flower. Grow your own garden, you nutjob!

More recently I've been really disturbed by some comments spewing forth from the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills star, Taylor Armstrong's, horse mouth regarding purported abuse inflicted upon her by her now deceased husband, Russell Armstrong. Not even cold in the grave following his suicide, Taylor has wasted no time in monopolizing and profiting from the entire horrid ordeal of his death. She's handsomely netted herself a seven-figure book deal and has been racking in the big bucks from talking to gossip shows such as Entertainment Tonight about how Russell allegedly violently abused her. She spares no detail when she goes on about how he grabbed her by the neck and threw her up against the wall saying that "if you ever make my children a pizza without a vegetable again, I'll kill you." She continues: "He would grab me by one side of the hair on my head and bang the other side of my head against the car. He mentioned he was afraid he might kill me, and I think he meant in an almost accidental way, that he would get so angry at me at some time that he would hit me, and I would hit something, or he would grab me by the neck and something would go wrong." There's plenty more where that came from, but I'll reserve the blogosphere space for others who'd like to print it.

What's troubling to me is that Russell committed suicide and that's final--he will never return. There's no one to defend him or his memory. He is gone and that chapter in Taylor's life is over. Why is she making such luridly detailed statements in the media at such a raw point in time? Has she even considered the impact of those statements on those who loved Russell, including his little daughter, Kennedy? Certainly Kennedy will one day come to read all these particulars and will have to deal not only with his tragic suicide, but with the realities of her own father as recalled by her mother. That's inviting absolutely unnecessary permanent mental anguish to the daughter's life.

I don't extend much sympathy to Taylor. She has effectively prostituted herself on the show and monopolized from the publicity stemming from it. She's doing the same with Russell's death. In fact, when she and another friend discovered Russell's body hanging in his home, the friend had the wherewithall to call the police while Taylor is heard on the 911 call screaming that she needed her therapist. Such a response is disturbing, to say the least. What's more, Taylor has demanded that she have an equal division of Russell's cremated remains, to be immediately sent to her from his parents in Texas. All this, of course, has been done under the careful watch of a television camera.

The macabre and the gruesomeness of his death and her statements really make me think that it would have been wiser of her to say nothing at all.

Never Start a Fight You Can't Win.

2011-09-06T21:14:27Z

I love a good verbal clash. There's nothing like a sparing of the minds with some clever linguistic acrobatics to challenge another's deeply flawed opinion. But, sometimes, on rare occasions, I simply have no strength to play tiger anymore. (Maybe that's my body's way of trying to tell me to disengage?)

This past Friday night was indeed such a moment. Having come off of work, followed by a strenuous workout and battling traffic for about an hour, I retreated to my mecca that is the Northbrook shopping area to find some retail therapy. My bargain basement hunting feast at the Nordstrom Rack and Filene's with a sprinkling of some Marshall's flavor was to be my escape into sanity. After spending far more money than I had, I meandered into the World Market store to get some odds and ends snacks and treats. At this point, my proverbial dogs were barking and so I smartly decided to grab a shopping cart and store my bags in it instead of ambulating around the store like a pack mule, trying not to break, spill or fall.

Approaching the register with about 6 items or so in my overly full cart, I realized that I'd be there for a while because the two ladies in front of me had accumulated quite a lot of merchandise to "redecorate their new home," or so I overheard. No bother, I thought, I'd pull out my Iphone and get some good emailing, texting and snooping on while I wait. All of a sudden I get shaken into reality by this obnoxious voice -- think Fran Drescher in "The Nanny" or Teresa Giudice from the Real Housewives of New Jersey. This high-pitched squeaky thing was hollering: "Scoooz me. Scoooz me!" I only have TREE small cups, I go first" all the while flailing her limbs with the cups in hand. Note the bad accent. French, I presumed. At this point, I was quiet. My husband who'd just arrived in the store spotted me in line and asked why I was grimacing. I didn't answer. Again she starts up: "I go first, okay? I just have TREE." By now, the store clerk had already told her that she'd called for backup so the lines would go faster. Paying no mind to that, the French lady tried to get my attention because I was next in line. Now, if she was less obstreperous and a little less nasal, I might have considered her request reasonable and let her cut in front of me. That not being the case, though, I barked out, "No, you can't. I have ONLY six items and I've all been waiting in line for a while." The French beast didn't like that. She began her dramatic cacophony about how she has to go first and how "dis not right" and "dis" is not how it's done in "California" or "France."

Feeling the radiating pain in my legs (that at this very moment were channeling tree trunks) along with some major hormonal attitude boiling up, I loudly told her "So, go back. We don't want you here." That really did it. My poor husband had to get between me and the beast because he actually thought we'd get into a physical altercation. She raved on and on about how there's "nothing for nothing" and how it's only in "Illinoizzzz" that this happens and this "not good" and people are "terrIBLE" here. Her bad English was only punctuated by her ravings in French, which my husband confirmed were illogical and equally irritating as well. I must have spent 10 minute arguing with her back and forth, trying to convince her that it's only fair to wait your turn and we've all been waiting for a while and learn to be civil. I could have easily told her to shove her "tree glasses" where the sun doesn't shine. Alas, I didn't.

Even as I was leaving the store, I heard the French lunatic still causing a ruckus, this time yelling at the clerk for permitting this "nonsense" and further badgering him as to why he asked her if she wanted a "frequent buyer card." The rule here, I do believe, is that sometimes, you may over-estimate your opponent and then you end up looking silly for even starting.

Internet Etiquette and Pesky Comments

2011-08-23T20:32:10Z

I can't help but feel like that old 12-year-old version of me: a chubby, over-grown ginger who didn't have a single friend in class, let alone one to sit with her during grade school lunch sessions. It was during those thirty minute hellish intervals that I oft retreated to the confines of the bathroom because somehow there was quiet and peace there, despite all its other odoriferous and visual downfalls. That same feeling came over me today as I searched for solace on my Facebook page following a not-so-pleasant experience I had just had with a certain retailer.

I had hoped to get some sort of sympathy from these friends of mine, some sort of support and encouragement as I undertook to set the matter right and straight. Unfortunately, only a few friends had my proverbial back in this instance. Instead of getting that which I sought, I received a strict tongue thrashing as to the lunacy of my purchase at the heart of this debacle and how, if I would have been more prudent about my money and my buy, I might be better off at this moment. With my friends having entirely missed the point of my status update, I retreated to fight my battle on my own, sans the fire in my belly that usually gets lit by some early morning interaction with these friends.

The grand lesson learned today was that some my internet friends, those who I feel I have a relationship with, may exist in reality only in picture and text form on the screen before my face and who, despite that fact, nonetheless can still be rather hurtful. I wax philosophically then whether or not the internet has somehow bombastically injected people with an overly-zealous sense of chutzpah to say things they would never dare say to someone's face--especially in light of that someone's concern or sadness over an issue. Really, what happens when you hide people behind a virtually impassable veil of secrecy and arm them with the ability to vent their opinions, their frustrations and the like onto unsuspecting readers and friends?

I believe the media has a term for this sort of thing: cyber-bullying. Though I wouldn't dare equate the concerns/lessons/suggestions of my friends imparted onto me this morning as rising to that level, I would say though that it's quite foretelling of a cultural phenomenon that's occurring right before our eyes and one that we're likely permitting to happen. We seem to have done away with the philosophy that "if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all," or better yet, "do unto others as you'd have done to you." These great old mantras don't seem to translate very well into the virtual world of the internet. Online, somehow, it becomes acceptable to get a little bit more mouthy, more edgy, more inappropriate. At what cost, though? What about the victims of cyber-bullying who have taken their own lives? An extreme suggestion, yes, but to some, a harsh reality.

Perhaps we all, I included, should have a bit of empathy and compassion to those who we write our thoughts and opinions to online. A little internet etiquette (aka "netiquette") might go a long way. There are, believe it or not, actual people reading our words.

Promises are for the Birds

2011-08-11T20:33:45Z

Promises. Promises. Promises. In the end, they're only words. And what's the value of words, anyway? They won't pay your student loans, they won't buy you dinner and they sure as heck won't put those fall preview Jimmy Choo over-the-knee stiletto boots on your feet. So what will? Well, besides from the obvious, i.e. a job, if someone promises you the moon and the stars, you get that in writing--fast!

George Soros' ex-girlfriend of five years has learned this the hard way; and I'm not talking about romancing and bedding the 80-year old, overly-ripe prune. Somehow the 28-year-old Adriana Ferreyr has decided that she is entitled to $50 million dollars, because Soros broke his "promise" to her to buy her a million-dollar-plus flat. Silly, silly girl. You're jet-setting around the world with a billionaire who is not only business savvy but who is well versed in the world of written contracts and somehow you think he will just orally promise you a multi-million dollar home because you've charmed him in bed? Give me a break. There's probably lots of things that kinky Soros does orally but buying an expensive home for a lover isn't one of them.

This whole ex-bedmate quarrel really gets me thinking: should a girl ever expect to get something that her lover promised? What is the value of promises anyway?

Someone dear to me always reminds me that even marriage promises can and often are broken. One day you're walking down that white-runnered aisle waiting to fall into the arms of forever and the next day you're on your last Puffs Plus, stuffing your mouth with Godiva chocolate truffles between sobs, bemoaning the freshly signed and stamped divorce papers. Now what? What are you left with? Notwithstanding a sizable settlement, you better have a Plan B.

Some women might find their Plan B in that rock on their finger. Others, may find it in a car or a house or a Birkin--heck, whatever. These engagement presents are not all just symbols of a promise to marry--no, they are THE promise to marry. And men shouldn't be able to get away with just giving you some Cracker Jack box ring, for example. They shouldn't be able to tell you that they love you and want to marry you and then not follow up with an actual, tangible profession of that love. If you don't stand for that best thing (for example, the biggest diamond) he can afford, you're no better than Adriana Ferreyr. What are you going to do when he walks away? Sue the bastard? See how silly that looks. If you ask me, Adriana shouldn't have given that milk away for free. Fine, give him a taste, but for heaven's sakes, don't pour him an entire glass. At the very least, Soros should have had to rent that cow.

The lesson here is simple: don't fall for heat of passion oral promises. You'll have no one but yourself to blame and you'll lose money in the process of uncovering that bitter reality.

Men are from Mars

2011-08-03T18:47:22Z

Why do men still whistle at women? Do any of them actually think that a woman will stop and acknowledge them with anything more than a fierce mouthful of fury or an erect middle finger? What would these same men do if we were to whistle back? Would they scratch their bald spots with confusion or pat their beer bellies in excitement? Whistling at women harkens us back to the Fred Flinstone era when men would drag women by the hair and just throw them in the kitchen to cook up a large brontosaurus rib rack. Wake up and smell the tofu men: this ain't the stone age anymore.

Maybe I'm expecting too much from men. Maybe they never really learn? Case in point. Another politician (read: male) just resigned over a sex scandal. This time, Louis Magazzu of New Jersey went down faster than his clothes when nudie pictures of his overly plump self hit the Internet. I guess the Weiner scandal and all the other deliciously grubby politicians who have had to resign with shame for their dirty deeds are useless as learning tools. A male politician and his phone/camera are apparently a dangerous combination. They'll never learn these few core rules: 1) no one is interested in seeing such wrinkly, unkempt and unsolicited junk; 2) if you take a picture of it and send it to someone, be prepared for that "someone" to turn into the rest of the world; 3) and for heaven's sake, keep you little guy under tight lock and key when you're holding elected office because if you so much as let him peek out, you're done!

Magazzu, like many men caught with their tighty whities around their ankles have claimed that their actions are somehow less offensive and should carry less gravitas because they were only part of an "online" relationship. Um, excuse me, what in creation is an "online" relationship? Is that sort of like having a virtual pet? Or seeing a web doctor in Timbuktoo to get a script for some little blue friends, oops, I mean pills? What self-respecting woman would ever want to have such a thing--such a "relationship"? I think that if I wanted someone to randomly text me sweet nothings and sexy secrets, I would buy myself another cell phone and text myself. I can probably be more adventurous, ambitious, and never keep myself waiting than compared to some online "boy toy." What a nightmare. Magazzu claims that he's engaged in this online fling for years. Give me a break. Maybe that's why our country is in such dire financial quagmire: because politicians can't be bothered to put their clothes back on, step away from the camera or phone and get back to work.

It may all boil down to the simple fact that men and women operate on a different wave length. The old cliche states that "men are from mars, women are from venus," but really, maybe there's some truth to that. From all appearances, Mars is a place where common sense, courtesy, kindness, professionalism and all those other good things go out the window once the little man in the pants starts to wake up from its nap. And, it is a nap. It's never really full blown REM sleep or hibernation. There's no Unisoming that snake. Venus is a completely different place. No. I'm not saying that it's a utopia, but one thing's for sure, us Venusians tend to think with everything other than what's hidden in our hanky pankies. To the best of my memory, I don't ever recall a woman having to resign from office for doing some unsaintly deed. Maybe that's because we've evolved from that darned Stone Age?

Protecting What's Mine

2011-07-21T19:47:57Z

This might come as a shock to some, but I'm no purring kitten when it comes to defending and protecting what's mine. Five inch Louboutin's or not, my claws would be out like a rabid animal fighting to the death if I or any of those close to me were under attack.

This is true for fighting with fists as well as with words. Case in point. When I met my husband, I was beyond smitten; in fact, some might say I was hypnotized by this big and tall, husky, manly man. This Adonis, I had resolved, was meant for me... and only me. When other interested females decided to try to invade my territory--one that I worked more than diligently and fervently to perfect as my own--my guard and my attack mode immediately triggered into high alert. One such imbecilic specimen of the female persuasion (let's call her, "J") needed to be straightened out, and fast.

J would email my husband periodically, about every two months or so, proclaiming her love and undying affection for him, all in French, all from her permanent rural home somewhere in the middle of nowhere France. She would pontificate about how her Muslim religion would somehow have to permit this blending of religions with this Jewish man, to form a "peace pact" of sorts, how she greatly respected him and his intellect and other nauseating contrite platitudes. Now, my husband would forward me these drivel-filled emails with pure glee while I, like a neurotic obsessive girlfriend, would input the French sentences carefully into the Babelfish translator and read out the entirely blotched translations of her garbage. One day, I'd had enough. This had to stop. Immediately.

J and my husband never dated. They never had any romantic interludes nor was there even suggestion of same. He was interested in and actually dated one of her non-burka wearing friends while studying abroad in France. This much is clear: he had no interest in J, whatsoever. Apparently, she was--and I use his precise description--"hideous." They would email back and forth about school and the like and that was it. All this somehow became morphed in J's head to mean that they were something special. In fact, when I stepped in and contacted her to stop emailing my then-boyfriend because he was unequivocally taken, she responded that they were in "love," that they were a perfect "match" and to ice that cake, that she was "engaged" to him. Having been dating my husband then for over a year, clearly none of this was acceptable.

My rabid claws came out. I armed myself with a European calling card, snooped out her phone number and promptly called this misinformed lunatic. She claimed to "no speak English" but then allowed her sister to talk to me instead. Her sister, sipping on the same crazy juice as J, sang the same tune. I told her to back off, in less than polite terms. J just couldn't understand how he could have found another "partner" because she thought they were "good" together. Well, you thought wrong lady. After I set her straight on the phone, I followed up with an equally colorful confirmation email. J's only response: "received." J's not contacted my husband ever since.

This sort of protecting what's mine mentality was clearly seen in Rupert Murdoch's wife, Wendi Deng's, lunge across Murdoch's own assistant to smack the living daylights out of the would-be shaving cream pie thrower. If you haven't yet seen the video clip of this precise, athletic smack-down, it's a must see. The goofy comedian (or anyone else for that matter) should think twice about trying to harm Rupert Murdoch in the future. Wendi acted like a cheetah in heat, pouncing with claws out for blood onto the jerk who had the gall to disrupt an official legal hearing. Wendi, the Yale grad and mother of two of Murdoch's kids, has been married to the mogul almost twice her senior, for more than 12 years. This being the billionaire's third wife, this woman knew exactly what she had to do and she executed it perfectly in a split second.

Quick reflexes, a ferocious protective instinct, or even vicious anger, whatever it was, it's sometimes necessary to be put on display. Well played, Wendi, well played!!!

Casey Anthony And Her Kind

2011-07-11T20:54:14Z

I can't erase the image of this girl from my mind. A lanky fake and bake white-haired bimbo with a messy pony tail atop her air-filled head, bouncing around like she was Brittney Freakin' Spears, taking every opportunity to hurl insults my way just to make herself and her miserable life seem all that better. One day she was trying to pour out the contents of her stone-cold heart to me, bemoaning her unfortunate fate with her then boyfriend's (now husband's) fist leaving a colorful black and blue splatter mark on her oompa-loompa face, the next minute she's calling me a clown, cackling like a hyena. Rumor had it that this behavior was oft induced by several illicit substances, probably all used in some fashion to dull the physical and emotional pain bestowed upon her by her "lover."

Though it seems like it was yesterday, that degenerate space-cadet was but a mere high school classmate. Ah, those were the days. The days in a single-sex Catholic high school with many so-called peers who were much more akin to rabid dogs than equals, let alone friends. These dogs would growl, hiss, spit, heck they'd probably lift a leg and pee on you if they could. I'm sure it's like that in every high school. Raging hormones, teen angst, boyfriend love/hate relationships and endless, insufferable rivalry. All to what end? In my case, all I ever really wanted to do was shove that over-tanned Barbie-wannabe's face straight into the toilet. Though I'm morally opposed to water-boarding, it may not have seemed like such a bad idea with that one.

I have a sneaking suspicion that Casey Anthony wasn't too different from my aforementioned high school nemesis. She's just the same type of girl who probably wasn't the brightest crayon in the box and certainly wasn't winning any miss congeniality contests, let alone collecting any college scholarships. Phoenix online was probably an ambitious goal for her. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than ripping that self-righteous, narcissistic smile off of Casey Anthony's smug tartlet face and beating some sense into her--at least until she realized the gravity of her offenses. As she sat there on her sentencing day, Casey actually had the audacity to reach deep into her pocket and whip out a tube of lipstick to apply to her dry, useless lips--those same lips that were able to spew countless heinous lies and malign the very essence of her daughter's spirit, but that somehow weren't able to muster enough of anything to pick up a phone and report her child's disappearance for 31 days. Who in creation does Casey Anthony think will be looking at her sociopathic, nasty face? Who did she dress up for with her ratty, faded hair teased up into a future truck-stop stripper with a "bumpitz" look, replete with an ever so dainty lilac hued fitted sweater, one that she'd probably pull off for the right price? Hot bod contest, anyone? I secretly hoped Casey would somehow choke on that lipstick tube or someone from the prosecution would at least throw a glass of water. No such luck.

How much of a monster can someone really be? While her little girl lay decomposing in a swamp, probably because she just threw her there, Casey was gyrating her loose hips on the dance floor, locking lips with whoever was blinded by beer-goggles and without an ounce of common sense at the time. Just like that high school bimbo, Casey really must have thought she was something else. And she'll continue thinking and acting that way, probably and hopefully getting entangled in some more legal troubles, as she trudges her way through this life, ignorantly oblivious to anyone or anything around her other than herself.

Putting on a Show

2011-06-27T21:17:14Z

I'm not the girl next door. In fact, for every Halloween that I could recently recall with some modicum of clarity, I remember channeling my inner "sexy" something or other. One extra poignant image is the Go-Go Dancer costume I wore on my first Halloween with my other half. Dating him only a short time, I unequivocally had to make a statement--and a loud one at that. In fact, I managed to literally pour myself into this metallic blue mini liquid latex number that was unforgiving and permitted nothing short of a birthday suit underneath. I topped of this legally-questionable and possibly not street-prudent attire with over the knee man-eater heels and some Debbie Gibson curly hair. This was a sight to behold. You couldn't tell me anything--I really thought I was something fierce. Ergo, to say I'm "out there" would be an understatement.

Nevertheless, I struggle to find the meaning in some of the attire being donned at the Pride Parade yesterday. Apparently, it is acceptable to wear tighty-whiteys with only hot pink nipple tassels and platform cowboy boots. Or, as some hyper-flamboyant men preferred, a dainty leopard g-string gently cradling some perfectly man-scaped junk. Bottomless chaps, anyone? What am I missing here? How precisely is this sexually charged and perhaps slightly pornographic attire meant to further the ultimate aim of the parade? There's also been some reports of rampant lady-lump clutching all throughout the event. The combination of heightened arousal, a few too many alcoholic beverages and being surrounded by an excess of flesh apparently sends some people into a bosom-grab fest with some here and there motorboating thrown into the frenzy.

I never thought I'd be the one to miss out on such festivities, but, it's probably best that I steered clear of the TSA-type tactile scanning and body cavity searches. Instead, I opted for the more innocuous activity of going for a long walk. Little did I know I'd witness a spectacle that I could only explain as being remnants of a mating ritualistic dance or something much akin to a peacock puffing up its plumage to not only seduce a beautiful mate, but most probably to stroke that peacock's own ego. Picture this: an admittedly attractive petite blond store clerk with delicate golden hair falling ever so daintily on her tiny, dancer frame with just a hint of brown lacquer around her almond eyes and a swift dab of pink highlighting her perfectly high cheek bones. Of course this angelic vision was dressed in some nauseatingly neutral tones--that only she and the Virgin Mary could pull off--and she looked like the quintessential tofu-loving, tree-hugging, green goddess. My walking partner was verklempt at the very sight of this specimen.

Having sent him (let's call him Mr. G) into the store to buy a present, I knew that after he spotted this gazelle, his mission was long-forgotten. In fact, his mind was probably hypnotized with images of doing some sort of un-saintly deeds with this Juliet. Much like watching a driedel spin out of control, I had to step in and save him from his own oogling, bumbling self--at least before he hurt himself. As we picked out a present and approached Aphrodite to pay, Mr. G actually looked himself over in a side mirror. I thought to myself, what in creation is he doing? Will he whip out a can of Just for Men right there in the store to give him that extra edge? When he approached the counter--and this is the kicker--Mr. G actually held in his breath and tried to make his spare tires disappear. Sweetheart, sometimes you rival the Michelin man, seriously, you cannot hold in an extra 50 pounds, at least not for the 10 minutes we were standing in front of her. There he was, nonetheless, smoothing out his shirt over his terribly inflated, almost blimp-like upper body as he touched what only he could consider his "flat stomach." I wondered if the Goddess saw all this. Was this charade all to get her attention? To make himself look like the dapper don that he thought he was? I couldn't help but poke Mr. G in the stomach to let the air out of his belly--but I resisted the urge.

I'll never understand men. On the bright side though, if you just stand back and watch, they put on a great show.

A Big Piece of Karma Pie

2011-06-14T14:37:27Z

It's my guilty pleasure and it's one of my fatal flaws. In fact, I should probably be in a confessional right now instead of bull-horning my opinions on the matter here. For better or worse, maybe because my pregnancy hormones are bouncing around like a drunken sorority sister and heightening several of my various neuroses, or maybe because it'll be a full moon soon, for whatever reason, I have to get something off of my chest.

I really, wholeheartedly revel in karma. To be more specific, I get a giddy, slightly deranged excitement from karma paying a visit to other people, especially those who deserve its biting, stinging pangs. (And, yes, I'm aware that as I write this, there's probably some karma brewing for me as a direct result of this entry). So, for example, when the Dallas Mavericks served Lebron James a big piece of "taste of your own medicine" pie on Sunday night, I was literally jumping up and down on my couch. To see that snide, arrogant, narcissistic bastard get his rear end handed to him on a platter was so very pleasing and sheepishly stimulating.

In my own life, karma's been quite a faithful friend. Though my better half would have me forget many of the immeasurably inane things he's ever said to me, one has stuck out to me like a woman walking down Michigan Avenue in the middle of July wearing a full-length fur coat and thigh high leather boots. He, in his infinite wisdom, once proclaimed that I ought not to be concerned with questioning him or getting him to tell me that I was pretty or looked nice or that he found me attractive, because "if I'd ever seen his ex-girlfriends, I'd know that he only dated beautiful women." That sentiment and sentence has scared me for the last six and a half years of my life--that was, until, last Saturday when finally, like a scab falling off a once-festering wound, I was healed. Of course, this healing process could not have happened without the help of karma. And this karma came in the form of presenting the chosen one with evidence that actually, all his "ex-girlfriends" were nothing more than make-up averse, granola loving, anti-shaving, conditioner hating and let's entirely forget the notions of a hair dryer or straightener, tree huggers.

Every single one of his ex-lady loves, through the wonders of a mere Google search, turned out to be quite unattractive, to say the least. One in particular, one that it was rumored not only to have broken his heart but to have trampled upon it, stood there in her Google search results in a most matronly short red jersey knit frock and white (Shock!) flat sandals, with her hair pulled back in a down-on-the-farm style pony tail, without a lick of makeup and her face and body frame channeling her inner skeletor, all at her sister's po-dunk wedding in the middle of a field. Yes, indeed, there she stood, this woman from the past that was oft mentioned and was, again, the bane of my existence, in all her grotesque ordinariness and with the marks of age indelibly chiseled into her pale frame. Of course, I absolutely had to rub this one in my better half's face. In fact, I rubbed it in so hard that I actually had the audacity to put up my photo, side by side with the decrepit skeletor, to demonstrate to him that not only was his proclamation of his ex-girlfriends' "beauty" full of malarkey, but that he did quite well with me, if I do say so myself. Karma, in that instance, came in the form of a mere photo, and yet served up a really good taste in my other half's mouth that perhaps he at least ought to think before he posits such lunacy.

Karma's bound to work in the Weinergate scandal as well. After seeing the TMZ photos of the naked Weiner's chiseled abs with his hands ever so daintily grabbing his junk in the Congressional gym, I'm eagerly awaiting the last domino of his sorry career to fall. If you ask me, he shouldn't be checking into a treatment facility, he should be making a pilgrimage on his knees to his wife who is now in Africa, possibly contemplating castration or the installation of a permanent chastity belt. To do what he did to his pregnant wife and to the mockery of the entire legislature certainly warrants some stiff punishment. (No pun intended there!)

I’m sure you remember the end of the world, Rapture, nonsense that was running rampant in May. Notwithstanding the sheer lunacy of the entire notion, there were, nonetheless, a good number of people who believed the drivel being spewed by the illustrative, possibly mentally unstable preacher, Harold Camping. It was these same people who, in reliance on this mental ward candidate, sold off all of their possessions, gave away all their money and just waited to be taken up to the heavens. Again, though I’m probably wrong in reveling in the failure of the Rapture, I really couldn’t help but feel a sick happiness over the feelings that these clowns must have felt on the day after the world failed to end. Karma, in this instance, came in the form of a cold, hard slap in the face, dished out in tandem by reality and common sense.

Undoubtedly, I'm going to get served my own piece of karma pie, if only by virtue of one of my many flaws. In the interim, however, I'll revel in its operation in other people's lives--as wrong as that might sound.

Weiner's Little Problem

2011-06-01T21:04:00Z

My poor husband has often been subjected to my neurotic questioning on many things that he does or says. And, as he likes to remind me, he'd love it if I could impose a 5 year statute of limitations on my memory for all things bad that I've accused him of ever doing or thinking. Sadly, my brain doesn't or won't operate that way. I tend to remember every vivid, lurid detail and I then it's been my practice to take those details and morph them into quite elaborate conspiracy theories.

For example, on the odd day that my other half logs into his Facebook account and approves someone as a friend, my eyes and ears perk up and I immediately launch into interrogation mode as to who this person is, when did they meet, what is their connection, etc. If the friend happens to be a female, then the interrogation gets a bit more "animated"--he might like to call it "hostile." But, and this is a qualified but, he knows that eventually, the cross-examination will end because I'll get sleepy or hungry or otherwise distracted by something like a mega sale at Bloomies.

The recent scandal involving Representative Anthony Weiner has gotten me thinking about these issues. This isn't because I have any fear that my other half is posting sexually charged photos of his lower appendages, but because somehow, the kind of friends that one has may influence one's public image. In fact, the Twitter friends that Rep. Weiner has just might be his downfall. Apparently, Weiner follows 198 Tweeters, most of whom are of the really attractive female persuasion and ostensibly have nothing to do with his position. So, does it matter who one befriends online? Do the kind of friends one has on his online pages influence one's reputation or opinion? Should it?

Somehow the plethora of Tweeting Lolitas that Rep. Weiner (I just can't get over the double entendre) has amassed is making people think twice about this upstanding politician (there I go again with the double meanings). When some of these women (like Puccaxpink) were approached about whether or not they have any relationship with the Rep, they've denied any contact. But that hasn't carried any weight in camp of public opinion. In fact, people are spreading all sorts of juicy gossip about the Rep now and I would suspect if the situation isn't extinguished soon by some public relations god, Weiner will be out of his cushy job.

Weiner's own explanation of the incident--specifically his posting of a racy picture on his Twitter Account intended for some lady love (see Exhibit A)--was that his account was "hacked." Unfortunately, the little hotdog never reported the account as such and further, he has never denied his friendships with these buxom, bombshell-esque ladies and he has failed to explain why he only follows pretty little female Tweeters. First, if his account was truly compromised in anyway, the Twitter gurus could confirm that in a heartbeat and the case would be solved. Not so easy, though, when the only one compromised is Weiner himself and by his own doing. Second, his muteness on the issue of his selective choice in Twitter friends is a bit beguiling, to say the least. I'd like to give him some of my "hostile" interrogation to get to the bottom of all this. I'd bet there's a really salacious and naughty story there along with a guilty, squirmy politician with a tail between his legs trying to scurry off into the darkness--maybe to be with Puccaxpink! By the way, in case you were wondering, Weiner is married to former Hillary Clinton aide, Huma M. Abedin, and Bill Clinton officiated his wedding! I guess Bill may have also taught him a few things here and there....

So what's the lesson in all this? Apparently, nothing's sacred on the internet.