Title Irrelevant

Monday, July 14, 2008, would have been my mother's 57th birthday. She died when she was 43. Shortly after giving birth to her fourth child (she lost her third due to miscarriage), her host of health issues surfaced. She spent a month in the hospital. I was six, younger than my Ladybug is now. I remember her letting me get in her hospital bed and eat her ice cream. That is who she was. Her predicament was irrelevant. She wanted those around her, and her children especially, to be comfortable and at ease. During the year of these events, my mother turned 32; this year, I turn 32.

It's easy to diefy a person when they're gone. You remember all of the good and none of the bad. That's not the case here. My mother's foot had a permanent addresss in my behind. Sometimes, I still maintain that she was extra, but she also knew I was full of nonsense and shenanigans. She had no intention of allowing me to turn my life into shit on her watch. I went to great lengths to attempt to be a "bad girl," but my mother fought that. Ferociously.

What impressed me most about my mother, was that she didn't just fight for me because I was her daughter. She did so because I was a human being, and she desired happiness and success for everyone. If you were to speak to anyone who had the pleasure of her company, they would echo that sentiment. Her funeral was filled with countless people, crying as though they had lost their best friend. Young people, who on any other occasion, would have assumed the stance of stoic ambivalence, breaking down as though they had lost their own mother. But that is how she touched people. When she talked to, laughed with, or counseled you, she was your best friend. When she hugged you, she was your mother. There was never an ulterior motive to her kindness. She was a kind person, because that's how she believed she should be.

The last conversation I had with her was over the phone. I remember the conversation on her end seeming rather forced. What, really, do you talk about to your 17 year old kid when you know that you're dying? I offhandedly mentioned something we could do when she got out of the hospital. She began to cry. For years, I thought it's because she knew she was dying and she was afraid. I will not say that my mother was a superhuman being with no fear of the unknonwn that is death, but I only believe that played a small role. However, the first time I held Finge in my arms, I knew it was because she couldn't bear to leave behind her children. Even at the very end, she was worried about us.

Since I was the oldest, I did the most as far as helping my mother was concerned. I remember once, being home with her, going through our daily routine of cleaning, general care and such. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and tearfully apologized for me having to go through "all this" when I should be having fun. The same woman who took care of me in a body cast; the same woman who would stay up all night sewing just so that her four daughters would have new, pretty dresses for church; the same woman who declined countless wedding and party invitations because, according to her, "I have four girls - that's a party in and of itself." This woman was offering me an apology for doing for her what she had done for us our whole lives - a thousand fold.

My father picked her final dress. I can only hope, with every fiber of my being, that it has disintegrated into nothingness. It was a pink contraption with matching lipstick. My mother LIVED in technicolor: oranges, bright yellows, bold purples, red (never enough red), fuschias and teals. No pinks. Not ever. For the better part of two years I watched my mother with an unparallelled sense of sadness. I couldn't change her loss of health. I couldn't change her loss of spirit. I couldn't change her loss of life. I couldn't even change that stupid pink dress. But I could change her lipstick. Radiant Red was her color; Fashion Fair her brand. I didn't see any reason for that to change.

Finding an appropriate ending for this post is so difficult, because, how do you wrap up in a few paragraphs, someone who had such a profound effect on everything that you are? It dawned on me that, in a couple of years, my mother will have been gone from me longer than I knew her. Despite that, I still carry her with me every day. I look at Finge and know how she would have spoiled him rotten (she wanted more boys in the family). I laugh when I think of how she would have dressed up Ladybug and let her play with her wigs. When I am at my lowest, and most lost, she shows up in my dreams. So no, I can't form a typical "conclusion" on this post. I can just promise you that there will be another.

Mamba's Musical Moment

Paul Simon: If you don't know, you better ask somebody.

Dirty Bastards

This morning started out 7:41 (my alarm goes off at 7:00; yes, I did hear it). Whenever I picked out my afro on the left, the right went flat, and vice-versa. I have also been exceedingly busy, so I haven't done laundry since the Carter administration. I still have clothes left, but everytime I would pull out an outfit, if the shirt was good, the pants that I intended to go were not, if the pants were clean, I didn't have a shirt to go, etc. So finally I pulled something together that involves one of my last clean pairs of slacks, and a shirt that is decidedly "clubby."

This SHOULD have clued me in that the workday would be a little left of center. As I get off the train and proceed toward the platform exit, I notice someone on the floor in my peripheral vision. I turn and see that it is a woman, no more than 24 years old, stretched out, and alone on the floor. I am in a crowd, no one is stopping. So I stop to see if she is okay and needs help, and she tells me that she can't breathe. I go to get the station manager, and I notice that a woman is actually returning with him. Which makes me feel better, because that means someone stopped and this woman has clearly been on the floor for a while. However, when I look at the face of the woman who brought assistance, I realize that she was on the same train car as I was. The number of people who had to have passed this woman prior to my

I know people in this day and age like to believe that the sun rises and sets shining on their asses. I find myself becoming increasingly disgusted with the way individuals treat one another (stay tuned for the upcoming weekly installment "Men are from Maine, Women are from Compton"). This, however, takes the proverbial cake. There are four station managers in the Metro Center platform (one at each exit), as well as a minimum of two sales attendants. This means, if you need assistance, and one is preoccupied with, say, a woman literally collapsing out of her chair, you have five other people to assist you. However, for the five douches that walked up to the station manager at the 12th Street exit, collapsing woman or not, they wanted immediate assistance.

I will say this: New Orleans is dirty, ignant, backwards, and you MIGHT get stabbed. Yet, with all of that, when there is a person in need of help, there will be no shortage of people ready and willing to help. I find that when people don't have much, they are a lot more giving and concerned about their fellows. When you know what it's like to be in need, it seems that you're more likely to fill a need when you see fit. Maybe that's what's wrong here - people have too much. Maybe they don't know what it's like to be in need, or to be desperate.

I have seen more people be outright inconsiderate, then justify it because they don't feel it's adequately appreciated. Human concern is FREE. If you open a door, and a person doesn't say thank you, did only do it because you were expecting a parade? If you say good morning, and it's not returned, is that person automatically a bitch or an asshole? I'm a surly mofo, but I know that even the nicest person can have a day where they aren't "on." What does it cost for me to be the person that I AM, not because it will be acknowledged, but just because? Not a damn dime, that's what.

Mamba's Musical Moment

Amy Winehouse has tremendous talent, but let's not go crazy. She is NOT Janis Joplin.

"Just another Manic Monday" (c) The Bangles

"Wooo hoooo!" That's been my catch phrase since the kiddies have been away. Thus far, there have been no major disturbances in the Force. I have been charged with the duty of having as exciting a summer as possible by the Harlem Bon Vivant. Two and a half weeks into my summer, and here's what's been going on:

Mamba's Making That Monay!

I have made it known that my hustle is not a game. That will not be changing. It's really good to set personal goals and meet them.

Mamba's Hitting Them Streets!

Last week, my friend from work invited me for a night on the town. We hit up a local watering hole where the dj mixed current radio hits, reggae, reggaeton, and house music. Good times.

Funny Mamba story: I go to clubs for the ambience. Being a 504 girl to the bone, I just LOVE to be around people having a good time. I'm happy because they're happy, ya dig? However, that means I tend to get a little lost in the ambience and oblivious to what is going on around me. So, when the white guy standing in front of me had his hand out, I simply presumed he was the bus boy, wanting to take my Red Bull can, so I gave it to him. My friends fell out laughing, because he wasn't asking for my can; he was trying to get me to join him on the floor and shake my can. Once I saw that he had a neck tattoo, it all made sense.

Mamba's Talkin' 'Bout Music!

Last week the "Black People Awards" were on. I guess I'd like to first say that the name "Pretty Ricky" always disturbed me. Whilst gazing upon some red carpet pictures, I discovered they have faces like diseased, inverted rectums. Ugh. Fate was kind to me, and I've flicked past the channel twice when the awards show was on. Each time, it was during Al Green's performance. I don't care what channel he's on - the KKK network even - I love me some Al Green.

Rhianna gave a wannabe Beyonce performance reminiscent of when Beyonce was going through her wannabe diva extraordinaire phase. So, when you're the wannabe of the wannabe. . .? Stay in your lane and get to shakin. I'm kind of bothered by the fact that her face is shaped like a croissant.

Mamba's Talkin' 'Bout Prince!

Technically, this could have gone under the music section, but I feel the need to separate this. I'm sure I will take a lot of heat for this, however, I happen to be one of those people who do NOT see Prince as the beginning and end of music. I think he's infinitely talented. I think he can write a song like no other. I think "The Beautiful Ones" possesses the ability to make panties fly off the body and across the room. That being said, I'm kind of over the elitist, recluse thing. I appreciate artists who recognize their talent as a blessing from whatever higher power they believe in; those who use their talent to lay claim to deification, not so much.

Mamba's Going to the Movies!

One of the things I've been waiting to do is see "R" rated movies. Can't do that with the kiddies. However, nothing has piqued my interested. However, I can't WAIT until July 18, 2008. Who's gonna be seeing Bruce Wayne on an IMAX screen? THIS CHICK!

Mamba's Pondering

Why is it that whenever the 2520s are trying to appeal to the "urban" market, they're encouraging us to get some shit "on?" "Get your credit on." "Get your mortgage on." That type of shit. That's racist as all hell. Stop it.

I harbor the same resentment for those McDonald's Southern Fried Chicken sandwich commercials. It's always some negro saying, "This shole is how Big Mama useta fry my chicken." This reminiscence would only hold water if McDonalds were selling a chicken leg sandwich, where the chicken had been so heavily stewed, the bone had slide out of the leg. However, as they are marketing, not only a breast (i.e., "the big piece of chicken") but a breast FILET, I say hogwash!

Alltel spending a lot of money on marketing; however, no one has been able to name 3 friends who have Alltel as a service provider. I read that Alltel is being bought out by Verizon. Is there trickery afoot?

According to my sister, that dude I with whom I was once joined in ungodly matrimony, has cut his hair. Does this mean I can no longer call him "Press-N-Curl" or "Poop Dogg." I am currently in search of a new name. Please post suggestions in the comments box.

Thank you for your support.

The call out

Still living in a cyclone, but I'm trying to get my life in some form of organized chaos. However, I have not been so busy as to not notice the following people are missing:

A(nother) C(onspiracy T(heorist) - WHAT THE HELL! Where you been? Do I have to send Gil Grissom out for your ass? Post something!

Extra Flavory - Yeah, we talk and shit, but that doesn't matter. You have funny stories that MUST be told. POST NEGRO!

Bint Alshamsa - Okay, you post, and that's how I know you're not trapped under something heavy. CALL ME HO!

Jali - We're about to be in July homie. Are YOU trapped under something heavy? Someone heavy? You being nasty? Oooooooh I'm tellin...ok, I'm jealous.

Amadeo - You've been posting, but I just feel the need to tax you on your A.C. winnings. You ain't fooling nobody. . .

Cliff - Thank you for holding it down. Of course, 504 gotta show folks how it's done.

(I am so happy to have a free moment, I really don't know what to do with myself. I'll be posting something substantive in the near future. Smooches.)

Like Whoa!

So people, your girl has been mad busy since the kids left for the summer. I spent last weekend investing my time in my personal business venture (please note the link to the right beautiful people). In addition to that, I've put in about 24 overtime hours at my gig. MY HUSTLE IS NOT A GAME!

I promise I'll be back for those of you who love me. However, I can't go without dropping a little goodness on you. I was listening to my iPod and this song came up? Remember this? What happened to this chick? This used to be the jam!