Displaced

I've never been one to focus on material, tangible things. As a mother, I've come to appreciate pictures a little more, but not much. I've always felt that as long as I carried people in my heart, I would never really feel the sting of loss. Nothing prepared me for this. Nothing prepared me for the fact that in a matter of hours, I would be without everything. Nothing prepared me for the fact that a ghetto trick named Katrina would run through three states like she caught somebody with her man and her money.

This wouldn't be the first time I've rebuilt my life. It wouldn't be the second. Actually, it would be the fourth time. I don't know if the difference is that all of those other times, I was still able to rebuild in my hometown, among my family and friends; or if it's because each of those times, I walked away with the distinct knowledge that I would have to rebuild, but something inside of me broke this time. To watch every single one of my memories be buried was overwhelming. My home is gone. My father's home is gone. Our home where we grew up is gone. My grandmother's home is gone. The hospitals where I had my children are damaged. My entire city is in ruins. Everytime I watched the news I cried. Then cried even more when I would turn it off.

The thing is, NOBODY took this seriously. Last year we were threated with Hurricane Ivan, so we packed up everything but the kitchen sink and evacuated. The city didn't even lose power. This time, since we were threatened with such a powerful storm, we thought that it would be unwise not to evacuate, but didn't see the need in packing nearly as much stuff. I packed a few clothes, some family pictures, vital documents and that was it. I don't think I would have minded losing the things as much if I could start over at home. As much as I complain about New Orleans, it's my home. It's like the dysfunctional family member. You know he's going to screw you over, but good times are had in between that, so you've gotta love him. Now I don't know when I can go home...or if I ever will in that way again.

I told my son last night about what the storm meant and how our home was affected, and though he was upset, he took it in stride. Of course, once he got the preliminary stuff out of the way, he asked the all important question: "So are we gonna go to Toys R Us?" All I could do was laugh and explain to him that it would be a while before any of that is going down. He just shrugged his shoulders and went back to terrorize the rest of my family. That night he got in the bed with me and said, "Tonight, I'm gonna sleep next to you, okay mom? That way, you won't be scared and I won't be scared." I'm thankful for my family. All of the immediate members are accounted for.

When I talked to my dad this morning, I thought of the man who was about the same age as him who was on the news because he had literally lost his wife. The waters split his home and he could not hold on to her. She told him that he had to let go to take care of the children and the grandchildren. Everytime I replay that in my mind, I get a chill. It breaks my heart because this man really lost everything that really mattered: his family. Eventually, I'm going to find a new home and my family and I will build new memories. I'm thankful to God that we can still build them.

Today is a good day because I haven't cried as much. Sometimes I cry for my home. Sometimes I cry because I know, if it weren't for my children, I probably wouldn't have evacuated. Sometimes I cry because out of all the things that I've lost, there are people that have lost WAY more and it makes me feel a little selfish and superficial. But since yesterday, I've cried most because there are so many people who are willing to help ME and my children. Not just the general cause, but to have so many people who feel that I have touched their lives in some way, or allowed God to move their heart in some way, that my family and I were first on their minds is overwhelming.

It's beautiful and it's humbling and to anyone sending anything, prayers, kind words, money or even clothing, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

The return of blog biting

Michelle bit this from Michele's blog, so now I'm jacking it...AND WHAT?

I saw this on Chele's blog and was like, fuck it, I'm home today why not.

LAST...
Movie you watched: The Bourne Identity
Movie you bought : Harold and Kumar go to White Castle
Song you listened to: Liberian Girl by Michael Jackson
CD you bought : Songs in the Key of Life by Stevie Wonder
CD you listened to : A mix that I burned
Person you've called : My sister in law
Person that's called you : My babysitter
TV show you watched : Good Times

DO...
You have a crush on someone : Yes
You wish you could live somewhere else : Yes
You believe in online dating : It's okay, but folks have to be really careful.
You want more piercings : No
You like roller coasters : No.
You write in cursive or print : I don't do one any more than the other.

FOR OR AGAINST...
Long distance relationships : They can work. I'm the product of one and my folks were married 18 years. My sister did it and she's been married for three. Everything isn't for everybody, but I believe that people do what they want to do and if they want something to work, they can make it happen.

Gay/lesbian relationships : Don't care.

HAVE YOU...
Ever cried over a boy: Yes.
Ever cried over a girl : No.
Ever lied to someone : Yes
Ever been in a fist fight : Yes

WHAT...
Shampoo do you use : Pantene
Shoes do you wear : I like strappy heels
Are you scared of : Getting hurt

NUMBER...
of times I have been in love? : Once. Would like to change that one day.
of times I have had my heart broken? : Too many
of hearts I have broken? : I don't know
of times my name has appeared in the paper? : Once
of things in my past that I regret? : No regrets. Every lesson is a blessing.

DO YOU THINK YOU ARE...
Pretty : Yep
Funny : Sometimes
Hot : I clean up nice
Friendly : Yes
Amusing : Yes
Ugly : Nope
Loveable : Every other week
Caring : Yes
Sweet : and Spicy
Dorky : Definitely

FAVORITE...
4 letter word : Cute
Actor/actress : Will Smith/ Angela Basset
Cartoon : Family Guy
Cereal : Kaboom
Chewing gum : Eclipse
Color(s) : Purple
Day of the week : Friday
Least fave day : Monday
Flower : Stargazer lillies
Jelly flavor : Grape
Jewelry : Don't really wear jewelry
Summer/Winter: Summer

WHO LAST
Slept in your bed : I hardly even sleep in it.
Saw you cry : My sister
Made you cry : That dude (he didn't know it though)
Yelled at you : Some punk ass brawd in traffic that got flipped off
Sent you an email: Amber

HAVE YOU EVER...
Said "I love you" and meant it? : Yes. I only say it when I mean it.
Kept a secret from everyone : Definitely
Cried during a movie : All the time
Planned your week based on the TV : No
Been backstage : No
Been to New York : Yes
Been to California : No
Hawaii : No
China : No
Canada : Yes
Europe : No
Asia : No
South America : No
Africa : No
What time is it now? : 2:32 p.m.
This or That? Uh, this
Apples or bananas? : Apples
Blue or red? : Red
Walmart or Target? : Walmart
Spring or Fall? : Fall
What are you gonna do after you finish this? : Some more work
Was the last meal you ate? : A sandwich
Are you bored? : Yes
Last noise you heard? : The phone ringing
Last smell you sniffed? : A bag of Doritos

Friendship/Love...
Do you believe in love at first sight? : I believe you can feel a connection to a person immediately. Love comes later.
Do you want children one day & if so, how many? : I already have 2. If I get remarried of course I'd have a couple of more if my hypothetical hubby wants them.
Most important thing to you in a friendship is : Honesty

Other Info ...
Do you speak any other languages? : Spanish
Last book you read? : Reading Love by Toni Morrison
Thing in your bedroom you like? : My t-shirt sheets
How old do you act? : The hell?
Glasses/Contacts : squinting
Braces : no
Do you have any pets? : do children count?
You get embarrassed : yes
What makes you happy? : living another day
What upsets you? : willful ignorance

Finish the sentence...
I Love to...laugh
I Miss...that "this is what's really up" feeling
I Am Annoyed by...feeling disregarded
I Want to be...complete

Ain't that the truth

Ok, so your heart is broken
You're sitting around mopin', mopin', mopin', cryin', cryin'
You say you're even thinking about dying
Well, before you do anything rash, baby, listen to this

Everybody plays the fool, sometime
There's no exception to the rule, listen baby
It may be factual, it may be cruel, i ain't lying
Everybody plays the fool

Those are the breaks. When your number is up in the "fool for love" category, that's just it. You can try to dodge it, but it's gonna happen to you. It's gonna happen to you more than once.

Di...did he just tweak my nose?

Recently, The Champ enlightened the world about the danger of the Three Pat Hug (TPH). Light skinned joke aside, he was basically right on the money. Once you've been three pat hugged, you're three steps away from being invited to a slumber party, and NOT the good kind. Of course men being natural born straight shooters would NEVER do anything like this, right?

Ladies and gentlemen, I have been Nose Tweaked! The Nose Tweak (hereinafter sometimes referred to as "NT") is akin to the TPH with one difference: though closing a door, it opens a window. Where the TPH is Morse Code, the NT loosely carries the attributes of a Chinese character. One tweak says, "You're cute, datable and even doable, but I'm knee deep in hos so Imma put you in the reserves. Standby." What kinda shit? If that isn't bad enough, it's usually surrounded with ambiguous gestures like prolonged hugs or "friendly" kisses that are just "this" side of friendly.

When I was younger, I didn't really mind being the recipient of the occasional tweaking. Partially because I had quite a few hotties as "buds", in my naivete, I thought that it would pay off at some point. Once I hit 18, that shit ceased being cute. I diva-fied myself and got out of the tweaking zone. It was cool, and I got play (MUCH PLAY), but it amounted to me being someone that I was not. So I relaxed the divatude a bit, got into my own groove and all went well. Until the day that I was tweaked. Part of me stepped outside of myself and watched it happen with the following commentary:

No, he's not about to perform the ritualistic Nose Tweak. Something's in my hair. Maybe it's in the way and he wants to kiss me. Wait, his hand is too close to the middle of my face. Maybe it's an eyelash. Yeah that's it. He's not even around the nose, he's headed straight for the ey...muthafucka tweaked my damn nose.

And with that, my fate was sealed. I was the victim of one other drive by tweaking subsequent to that, but re-induction to Tweaksville was the most disturbing. It's like walking into a room with all eyes on you because you KNOW you look good, only to find out that they're looking at you because your skirt is tucked into your panty hose.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not like the typical turning 30 sista that's trying to marry every man she dates...tomorrow. I just don't want my nose tweaked. Is that too much to ask? That shit is really distressing.

Hmmmm

When something reveals itself as too good to be true, our gut reaction is to just use the old addage and imply that some type of deception took place. For some reason, we refuse to face the fact that we didn't look at it properly in the first place. We take things and people and events and places and we put them in these guilded cages and tell ourselves how perfect they are. We don't accept responsibility for our own presumption - no one told us these things, people, events or places would be perfect. But once we are let down, we blame everyone imaginable, except for the person most at fault. Ain't that something?

Each Day

I try to live my life in a way that makes me a beautiful person. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I fail, but each night I sleep with the knowledge that tomorrow is a new opportunity. My chance to adjust yesterday's mistakes and improve on its successes.

Part of "Project Beautiful" is mastering the art of letting go. There were two male someones who had hurt me very deeply in the past. I had a dream about one of the someones and in the dream, I was being rather hostile. He looked at me and said "You really need to let that go." And his dream self was right. I'd partially gotten past the pain, but not the anger. At the time I had that dream, I was in the process of letting go of a lot.

Today, I saw the other someone walking downtown as I was driving to work. I sort of braced myself for this flood of emotions, but I didn't feel much of anything other than the comfort of seeing an old friend and knowing that he was okay. Getting here was a looooooong road, almost seven years to be exact. But I'm here, and it almost feels liberating. I could get used to this.

Believe only half of what you see

I find that as humans, we are always willing to, not only expect the worst, but believe and be entertained by the worst. We also tend to be fascinated by urban legends with little to no basis whatsoever. What I find amusing is how dogmatically a person will defend something that they not only can't prove, but have virtually no stake in.

The Willie Lynch letter has been circulating for number of years. Supposedly it was a documented speech given by Willie Lynch, a slave owner, who essentially gave the blueprints for keeping black folks enslaved. Simple enough, right? Unfortunately, overwhelming evidence shows that this letter was manufactured MUCH later than this speech was to have taken place. I will say that in reading the letter, it does outline what slavery has done to the black community as a whole, but to attribute this to an individual merely perpetuates the belief that racism is a figment of our imagination. It also makes us seem panicky and uneducated. There are far to many REAL documents, slave journals, blatant acts of racism and xenophobic violence that we can point to, rather than relying on a contrived document that was never really discovered. To me, it is an affront to all individuals who are legitimately involved in the struggle. This document could just as easily have been written by a white man to prove how gullible we as black people are. All I can do is shake my head each time I see it pop up or referenced.

Maya Angelou did not write that shitty FUBU poem and Timberland is not owned and run by the KKK. What's funny is that she has denounced the poem on her website. Funnier still is the fact that Timberland was founded by someone of Hebrew heritage, which would probably exclude him from KKK consideration. However, that has not stopped, or even slowed, the circulation of this "poem." I'm not saying that because of this, folks should go out and make any designer rich. What I am saying is...have an independent thought. Don't patronize or stay away from a certain establishment or brand simply because Maya Angelou (or anyone else) says so. (No disrespect, but I'm not taking fashion advice from a 70+ year old woman.) What I'm also saying is STOP FORWARDING THAT HORRIBLE POEM.

The Wendy Williams gossip list...what can I say about that list that hasn't been said about Afghanistan? (Shameless and gratuitous Chappelle's Show ripoff.) Basically, this is a list of celebrities that are freaks, have stank breath, stank genitalia, homosexual, bisexual, lying about their age, etc. The obsession with celebrity is astounding to me. Celebrities are human beings, so it stands to reason that there are some who will be gay, some will be freaks, some will have breath that smells like 15 pounds of get back and so forth. I don't know anyone for being interested in those things, but that isn't my cup of tea. If Will Smith wants me to know that he's gay, he'll call me and tell me. Wendy recently stated that the list is not affiliated with her...in all fairness though, you can give my saying this as much credence as I gave that over-circulated email.

My love for Jesus is not dependent upon whether or not I forward your email. That 12 year old girl has been in remission for 8 years and is now a dancer at Big Daddy's Gentlemen's Club. If you think that Bill Gates is going to cut you a check for forwarding a stupid ass email rather than actually working, you are out of your damned mind. Sophia Stewart has NOT won her case against the Wachowski Brothers. I could go on forever.

To state it simply, just because your cousin's babysitter's hairdresser's uncle's girlfriend sent you an email, that doesn't make it true and it most definitely does not make it worth of dogmatic defense.

That is all. Go back to your lives citizens.

Just running my mouth

If your email has a name like "num1dyckryder", "cuminside", "likuallover", etc., please do not have "I do all things through Christ who strengthens me" as your sig. I'm not saying I'm as tight with the Lawd as I should be, but I feel safe in saying, he wants no part of that. Chill out.

When you call in to work, your coworkers don't want to hear the details of your GI issues, so please keep the details to a minimum. It will only enhance the ridicule factor.

Those that use their cell phones in public bathrooms, take note: if you use the stall adjacent to mine, you will get embarrassed. Please believe that.

I spent the weekend in Mississippi on the Coast. While passing a couple of white guys in Edgwater mall, I heard one say to the other in reference to me, "That right there is a badunkadunk." I turned my head in partial disbelief only to see Cleatus the Slack Jawed Yokel grinning at me like he had a snoballs chance in hell to even have me fart in his general direction. Verrrrry distressing.

As a woman living alone with two children, I do NOT answer my door if I am not expecting anyone. Yes, I know, the Publisher's Clearing House people will never get me in my home, but neither will the thugs. Far too many sex offenders pop up when I search my zip code. People know this, so why folks insist on popping up at my crib unannounced is beyond me. I have no qualms with listening to unannounced visitors get robbed through my door.

Madden 2006 is out and I will be copping it. However, let me state this for the record: YOU ARE NOT PLAYING REAL FOOTBALL. Let it go.

Why do folks feel that pregnant women are public domain? Her carrying life does not give you the right to touch her, give her unwanted wives' tale advice, or say dumb shit like "Damn you gettin' big!" or "Ooooh you just look miserable." It makes you seem stupid and annoying.

The next man that says to me, "Why you got that look on your face? Smile!" is straight up getting stabbed as I scream, "MAYBE I AIN'T GOT NOTHING TO SMILE ABOUT TODAY BEYOTCH!!" Who made up a rule that I have to smile 24/7? I know I didn't sign off on that. Sometimes I'm just thinking. Can a sister be pensive? Damn!

Whenever I walk into a room full of stuffy folks, I always have to fight the urge to say "Oh my God! What in the world is that smell?!?" Then cast a knowing/accusing stare towards whomever appears the snottiest.

I have discovered that people with the raunchiest breath hardly ever want gum. There is barely one inch between one's mouth and nose, so I refuse to believe folks can't smell the tartness.

For those of you that don't know, let me tell you this: PMS is a motherfucker. If you think it's an imaginary affliction, mess with a sister during one of her "days". . . you'll be telling your story from a hospital bed.

From this moment on, I refuse to get into any group discussions/debates related to child support. I always end up with a headache.

The older I get, the more I realize that things are going to be what they are. This isn't to say that I have no control over my life, but sweating things I can't control is only making me crazy. I'm just going to take it easy.

I'm poor, so when someone finds some gay porn with Bush or Rumsfeld or somebody, help a sister out.

I'm way too emotional for my own good and often feel like a kook afterward.

I'm losing my faith in humanity at a steadily increasing rate.

My children want to go to Disneyworld. Disneyworld is gonna cost about $3500.00 on a budget. There may be some disappointed folks this year.

I've gotta cut back on the java. I have been far too jittery lately.

I'm finding that more and more women are accepting of "man sharing". That is some of the most twisted shit ever to me. I've actually had a dude that was married approach me on some bull and even had his wife (if that's really who she was) call me to tell me that she knew the score and did her own thing so she didn't mind. What kind of shit is that? Heathens I tell ya!!! DIRTY HEATHENS!!!

I don't mind when folks disagree with me. Actually, I love hearing opposing points of view and listening to people explain those views. It doesn't have to necessarily be eloquent or wordy, but to have a solid argument...that's the shit right there. However, to argue with me for the sake of arguing, or because you've got your ass on your shoulders, you don't like the way I express myself or because you simply haven't listened to what I said, well that's just annoying, and maybe a little silly.

*The opinions of this post are solely the opinions of Breez and are not necessarily held by www.blogger.com. If you have any issues with the opinions on this blog:

DON'T READ IT DUMB ASS!!

Muddling through this thing called life

Last night while thumbing through a notebook I had as a senior in high school, I realized how organized I was. A friend of mine expressed a similar sentiment and noted that it was because we had nothing else to do at the time. (I would have loved to regale him of tales of how exciting my life was at the time, but unfortunately, he was right - I was social plankton.) Now that I'm older and have more responsibilities, I know my life should have lost some of it's order. However, my life looks like the organization monster threw up in my life. I'm always late, I can never find anything, I forget everything, I'm slower than molasses, I can't focus and reaching goals seem like impossibilities.

Living in New Orleans makes me want to scream bloody murder. There's a saying related to the difference between New Orleans and purgatory - supposedly God lets people leave purgatory. It's loud, bawdy, country and it stinks. I'm also pretty sure that when the Lord gets in the mood for some smiting, New Orleans will definitely be in the "Top 5". It also does not pay to be a woman with an definitive opinion on anything down here. (Though I'm finding that it doesn't go over too well in other places either, but that's another story for another day.) Long story short, I'm ready to bounce. Call it running, call it escaping, call it whatever the hell you want. I've gotta go.

I have already changed my goal for being published at 27 to 32. I will not allow myself to change that to 37. I've gotta get cracking on this for real. I've been writing lately, and that's most definitely a good thing. One day, maybe folks will say "I knew her when..." I promise not to go on vacation and marry a juvenile gay Jamaican.

I hate doing the dishes. I mean, I despise it. I considered paying my sister $50 a week to do my dishes for me. No joke. I'd rather scrub a million toilets than wash a plate.

I'm fat. I set up an appointment with a trainer at a gym today because I'm tired of being fat. I've started doing Pilates in the morning because I'm tired of being fat. Tonight I'm giving away my red meat because I'm tired of being fat. You get the picture.

My dad was diagnosed with cancer earlier this summer. He's been sort of hush hush about it, which makes me nervous. Between that, my brother leaving his wife, my sister floating through life without direction, my kids growing like weeds and my friends and family thinking that I'm a nut job, I'm somewhat overwhelmed.

I know I'm going to make it...I'm sure of it. I'm just not sure if I'm going to make it with a full head of hair.

the pageant

matters of the heart
make us the most practiced of liars.
we profess to have mended
and grown past our hurts
but rooted within
lies the same
fractured
infantile
soul
aching for warmth and comfort.
so adroit do we become
at putting on this
cavalier charade
that it becomes all at once
effortless -
impelling us to believe
in our own duplicity.
we scoff
at romance and lovers
as foolish and unnecessary
because we are too fearful
to admit
that's what we crave most.
so as our comeuppance
love cuts us
the deepest
and we cry
the hardest.

Today's Nominee for the "Most Deserving of Copious Blows to the Body With a Sack of Nickels" Award

Some people are just gasping for it. I don't want to kill anyone...just give some folks the beating of their lives. Here's today's nominee:

At work we received a fax and the cover sheet indicated that there were two pages. We only recieved that page. So my boss called the office to say, "Hey, we're missing page two. Would you mind re-sending the fax?" The receptionist said, "No problem. I'll give his secretary a note so that she can send the fax." This story should end with us receiving a complete fax on Monday (today). Notice I said "should".

This morning I received a call that went a little something like this:

Good morning. ___ ____'s secretary please.

This is his secretary 'Breez'.

Hello. This is ___ of ___ ___'s office calling regarding the ___ matter. Our office received a call from Mr. ____ stating that he did not receive page two of my fax. Do you know anything about this?

No, I don't, but if you'd give me a moment, I can find out for you.

Well, he said that he didn't receive the entire fax, but I only sent two pages.

(There is a pause as I wait for her to shift into common sense drive. She does not.)

Well, though he's not here, I will assume that means he only got the cover sheet, but I can check on that if you like. (Another pause waiting for the common sense reserve to kick in. Again, nowhere in sight.)

But I only sent two pages.

Ok, please hold while I check the file.

Hi ___? Yes, we only received the cover page, would you please send page two?

*sigh* Okay.

Thank you for calling.

Here is my question: What parallel universe does this woman live in? And did she go on record expressing her inability to count to two? In the effort that it took to make that phone call, she could have filed it under the "shit happens" category and resent the second page of the fax. Her incredulous tone was particularly annoying. As though there was no way in hell that we could be missing the second page. What was even more annoying was that our fax machine prints the number of pages received at the top of the page, and our printout read "Page 1 of 1". So basically, she only sent one page.

If this world were mine, my end of the convo would have gone something like this:

____, stop being a moron. I know where you work and this conversation has me prepared to get into my car, go to your job and beat you within an inch of your life. You were told that page two was not received. That being said, whether you sent two pages, or two thousand, our fax is sans page two. Obviously, actually doing your job is not a strong point, because the fax would either have been sent properly in the first place or you would have sent it again without question. However, do you realize how much extra "work energy" you've expended making this inane phone call? Right now you could be talking to Cindy or Buffy or whoever about your weekend while filing your nails and plotting your next cigarette break. Instead, you're stuck on a phone with me trying to locate the fax that never was. Do us both a favor. Do your job right the first time so that you won't have to "work" twice in the future. But in the meantime, get off your ass and send me my damned fax...and a banana cognac BEYOTCH!!

Ahhhh, if I ruled the world...

PSA

Poetry is one of my favorite artistic expressions. Now I know that art is subjective. One man's trash is another man's treasure and vice versa. However, some shit is better left unwritten. When all you can do is throw a bunch of words that rhyme on a page, recount a detailed sexual experience or tell me how all men are dogs/women are bitches, YOU ARE NOT A POET. Though you have the right to write down whatever you want. What you do NOT have however, is the right to subject others to that madness. Keep that shit on your hard drive, blog, notebook, etc. Please don't mass reproduce that foolishness to everyone you know via email. It's painful and wrong. You put folks in the position where they feel obligated to comment. If they don't want to hurt your feelings they either say nothing, or lie. Unless you have really hard boiled friends (like I do) and tell you, "Say, that shit is wack. Start over."

What's funny is that a true poet wants to know that they've hit you with "the weak-ness." These psuedo-folks are not trying to hear anything that resembles constructive criticism, because they KNOW they've hit you with the bomb. And they have - it's called a stink bomb. So, be a good friend. Unless you plan on publishing your work and are seeking improvement, keep your writings in the private sector.

"Friends don't let friends read wack ass poetry."