Mental Oasis

It's never really goodbye, is it?

2008-09-16T11:09:00.002-04:00

Mental Oasis. It was like falling in love for the very first time. (You have no idea how ironic this statement is.)

I established the Oasis on November 4, 2004. How amazingly life can change! If you would have told me that less than a year later, I'd be a stranger in a strange land, I would have chuckled. I thought I would never escape New Orleans. That's partially why I created the blog. An escape; a sounding board; a means to show people that I'm pretty damned clever.

It was my intent to hold off until the fourth anniversary to close out this blog, but what better time like the present for a new start. So, welcome to Wreckless Endangerment. Enjoy the ride!

Inquiry

2008-09-15T20:41:00.003-04:00

Pop quiz hot shots!

What sexified blogger got her cardio on tonight?!

I'm telling you man, I was in the ZONE! The zone dammit!

Twelve pounds by my birthday!

"Oooh Child. . .

2008-09-15T10:14:00.006-04:00

...things are gonna get easier..."

It's NEVER as bad as you think. Not ever. And even if it is, it could always be worse. I was watching one of those "Animals Gone Bananas" shows (I can never remember the names, but you know the ones that like to show antelope kicking the crap out of people and whatnot), and they showed this guy who worked in some sort of animal refuge/zoo/something else, in charge of taking care of elephants. Dude was either kneeling or sitting behind one of the elephants. I'm fairly certain he was scooping crap. However, since his job didn't suck enough, the elephant decided at that moment to sit down and the dude's head was stuck in the elephant's rectum. Talk about a Pyrrhic victory. He lived, but when his number is finally up and his life flashes before his eyes, elephant ass is going to be right up there with holding his firstborn and giving his daughter away at her wedding.

So my friends, no matter how rough you think it is. No matter how shitty your situation may seem, chances are, you were never an elephant's colonscope.

However, I must admit

2008-09-14T20:55:00.002-04:00

...one of these would come in handy.

"That same [chick] you gave nothin, I made something doin" (c) Jay-Z

2008-09-14T18:45:00.009-04:00

It's September 14. Do you know where your life is?

I've been in Maryland almost three years. There have been times when I questioned whether or not it's purpose had run its course. Each time, my eyes would be opened to a new purpose; something left for me to complete. Even when I would go through a difficult time, Something would happen, and I would make it through. That doesn't seem to be the case these days.

In my heart, I would rather let me kids stay here, live here. My son has already picked out his college. They go to a great school and there are a lot of benefits that come with living in Mo County. Unfortunately, the economy is fucking me UP. My departing the DMV is becoming less and less of a casual discussion, and more of a distinct possibility.

I can't, in good conscience, stay here and wait for life to become terrible. When i came here, I was so encouraged and supported. it's hard to stay in a place when you're not only struggling, but feeling alienated. I try to internalize, rather than verbalize. That's why I was a bit freaked out when Ladybug inquired about how difficult things were for me. Friday night, I asked what made her ask that question. I wanted to be sure that I wasn't throwing a pity party and she could see. She then said, "Well, it's two of us and one of you. Two to one isn't easy right?"

I've always felt that struggling is what keeps me sane and alive. Though it's not healthy, as much as I crave peace, I tend to see it as the calm before the storm. it's a twisted form of self sabotage. The rub is, I am often correct. That being said, the adrenaline rush that comes with embarking upon a new adventure for the purpose of improving our lives is exhilarating. I relish being able to look at my life and see where I have been blessed with the means and the strength to always improve things for myself, Finge and Ladybug.

I do realize, that having only one job is not going to cut it though. My writing has to work for me. I've also had a dream for eons to run my own staffing agency. These things will only remain dreams if I don't act on them. The vision, in honesty, is MUCH bigger than that, but that's the gist. My problem is, I don't have the foggiest idea of where to start.

Those that know me, however, don't worry, and rightfully so. I embody everything that is the comeback kid. I can't accept credit. My life has been blessed beyond measure; it's what made my East Coast adventure a possibility. But what I know is that I have been blessed because I put forth the effort and respect the hustle.

"You need to dance and dance to make the rain come down..."

Trouble Sleeping

2008-09-14T03:36:00.002-04:00

Nancy Grace - have we figured out why she exists? Seriously. Even her delivery seems like schtick. What's more disturbing is, who watches this? Is she like porn? A multibillion dollar industry that NO one used to admit to owning. As an aside, I can say that porn isn't making money off ME. I've purchased it...downloaded porn is SO much better. I'm not sure if it's the added thrill of getting it for free, but boy oh boy.

The fact that the double cheeseburger is a dollar is absolutely criminal. No joke, they want poor, and shit, middle income people, to DIE. Just DIE. Lettuce and half an ounce of chicken is $5.00. A third of a pound of beef and cheese is a dollar. Off balance much. I won't even get into the testicles and livers and shit that I believe they use to make sausage. As stressful as it is though, I promise that eating healthy now will save you in the long run. I am by no means the picture of health, but I'm sure I would be a thousand times worse had my parents not instilled in me the importance of a solid diet.

Bruce Jenner? What happened to you? I mean, you were an Olympian and...nevermind. Just...*shudder*.

Speaking of blasts from the past, since I am awake at 4 am, I'm watching "Sanford and Son." I forgot Jane Hathaway from The Beverly HIllbillies was on it. Why do I care? It's four in the morning...don't sweat me.

Sheesh

2008-09-13T18:59:00.002-04:00

If idle hands are the devil's workshop, then my hands are bound for glory. I've been up since about 5:30, and besides the time it took to type this morning's blog and check a few random emails, I've been grinding.

I did some laundry, dealt with more wise beyond their years conversations with my little geniuses, completely cleaned my car and cleaned up around the crib. You would think that all that sweating would have resurrected my buckshots, but nooooooo. I'm still looking like Elvis around the bang area. Yes...I effing have BANGS! Some ole bullshit.

Speaking of Elvis, in addition to being a poet, Ladybug has developed a comic strip entitled "Evil Elvis." When I inquired about the premise, I was told, "He does all the things Elvis wouldn't do. You know...the singer." What the hell does she know about Elvis?! I'm TELLING you, this kid has been here before. I'm sure people don't believe half of what I tell them about my kids.

Finge plans on playing the saxophone. Let's recap: my son is tall, dark, handsome and intelligent. Am I sanctioning an activity that will certainly have him backstroking in women? Is it right for me to raise this generation's Shadow Henderson? I'm still trying to work through this.

I also, for the first time ever, sent my son in the store by himself. It was borne of necessity. I needed a can of soup, and after laundry and car washing in the blazing heat, not only did I reek, but the car wash detergent stained my paints. I was on pins and needles the entire time. However, as I recall, I was going in the store alone at his age as well.

Now, I'm sure my Uptown Ambassador may take exception for borrowing his moniker in today's theme music (because "every good superhero has his own theme music" and make no mistake, I AM a muthafuckin superhero), I'm sure he can't possibly begrudge my paying homage to the illustrious Dennis Coles.

House, Home, Mojo and Other Stuff

2008-09-13T07:21:00.002-04:00

Finge turns ten this year. My grocery bill has doubled from what it was last year. What is scary to me is that he's eating more and getting skinnier. He has an uncle that is 6'4 give or take. Jesus, take the wheel. In addition to that, Ladybug has decided to actually have a growth spurt. I am so not ready for puberty.

I go to the salon once a year. There is something to be said for not using heat products on hair. No blow drying. Nothing. During this year's visit, there was a miscommunication, and my hair was flat ironed. No bigs. It was a sort of fun change. HOWEVER, my hair has not fully changed back. My fro is the essence of my mojo. Remember the Living Single episode when Regine got the breast reduction? that's how I feel right now. Now I just look like I'm letting my SOOOOOOOOOUUUULLLLL GLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW! It's sort of curly spirally. I take things like that as a sign for necessary change.

My writing has been progressing quite well. I'm so thankful for that. It has really helped me refocus. Good stuff.

I need to get Bubble detailed and get the oil changed. Having a car is like having a third kid. My kids want a dog. That's a fourth. Does it ever end?

Sunday at noon BABY! The Saints meet the Foreskins!!!! Reggie better have his act together!! I got a whole dollar riding on this one!

Leaving Maryland is still heavy on my mind. Still haven't decided 100%, but I officially have no family on the East Coast. My cousin in Florida is heading west to New Mexico. I like the autonomy that being away from home affords me. Sometimes though, I wanna go where everybody knows my name...I would at least like to be able to drive there periodically.

Look out Nikki GiovanniI

2008-09-12T20:45:00.001-04:00

People know some things
People know some stuff
But my mom knows enough.
- Ladybug (c) 2008

Yes ladies and gentlemen, she IS the bomb!

So not trying to deal with this

2008-09-12T09:25:00.002-04:00

So last night, we were watching TV, and the girl child says, "well, when you take a pregnancy test, how do you know how many lines are right?" Uh...what the fuck? After answering her question (I'm a firm believer on if you can ask the question, you can receive the answer), I decided that I had enough for the day. I went to bed. (I've been sleeping much better lately.)

This morning, we were going about our routine of getting ready, and she said, "Is it hard, Mommy?" I offhandedly asked what. The news was on and we were watching a report about the Capoiera Festival. "Having two kids and having to do everything by yourself."

Now, she's ALWAYS been a heavy chick. She favors biographies and books about state history over fiction. She prefers Animal Planet over Cartoon Network and she's first rate student. But still, I am SO not ready.

Holy Posting Batman!

2008-09-12T06:16:00.002-04:00

I have been so hyper lately. Things have been tough, but I KNOW I'm on the verge of something great. I'm looking for it. I'm working on it. Last night, I was in the midst of cleaning (my new Thursday tradition - who wants to spend their entire weekend cleaning up?) and I was overcome with the feeling that my breakthrough was so close, I could taste it. It tastes orange sherbet, and I LOOOOOOOOVES me some orange sherbet. I should be getting ready for the day, so enough fucking around.

P.S. - I'm keeping all coastal Texas residents in my prayers.

Funny Stuff

2008-09-11T14:32:00.002-04:00

Show of hands...Who really thinks this? Be honest!

"Oh my god! All this for me?! I must be on my job!"

2008-09-11T11:47:00.006-04:00

When I was younger, my parents taught me the reward for hard work: more hard work. It goes without saying, that made no sense to my seven-year-old self. Wasn't the reward for hard work an extra 30 minutes of "Asteroids?" Dave, my district supervisor on my first job outside of the home (I have been generating income since I was six), had the saying, "If you have time to lean, you have time to clean." More recently, while in conference with the Harlemite Bon Vivant, he waxed philosophical about sh

Save Now

arks known as "obligate ram ventilators," that are unable to survive if they are not in constant motion.

The past couple of days, I've made sure to have my scheduled packed with, well, stuff. Guess what? Day two of singing in the shower. My dance card is full until mid-October. In addition to that, if all goes according to plan, Spring Break is going to be off the chain. My high school reunion is in May. I, of course, plan on being there and FABULOUS! I also have fam having a destination wedding next July, so a trip to Cancun is a distinct probability.

This have been tough, but what a difference a day makes...or rather, a couple of days, but let's not split hairs!

P.S. Guess who lost two pounds? That's right, bitches!

Sometimes you wanna. . .

2008-09-10T09:33:00.003-04:00

Ok, Cliff Notes version of what's been going on with me:

I've had the blues. The frustrating part is that I haven't been able to pinpoint the precise reason why. I could nitpick at little things here and there and call them part of the problem, but I'm not sure they make a dent in the real reason.

Homesickness, however, is a mutha. My mother lived all over the country between the ages of 18 - 25. She said that after visits home, she would spend about three weeks wanting to sit in a corner with her legs folded over her shoulders. This feeling is partially attributable to the fact that I had not seen my family in over two years. That being said, I have felt a tug, not to return to New Orleans, but to be within driving distance of home. I haven't really connected with Maryland. It's not that I have not had good times here, and I've met nice people. Yet that has not stopped me from feeling like an island.

I'm giving it six months. I plan to give living here my all. If after that time, I still feel detatched, then I'll be searching for a place to live, closer to home.

One of my goals (since I'm damn near in my MID-30s - wtf) is to be more thoughtful rather than reactionary. Right now I feel like I wanna...

Hyundai with the butterfly doors?!

2008-09-10T09:12:00.001-04:00

I friggin LOVE this song yo!

P.S. - David, you can wear all the Gucci vests you want. WE know you're not that far removed from sandals and capris...

Story of a Champion

2008-09-09T10:58:00.005-04:00

His helmet was stifling, it narrowed his vision. And he must see far. His shield was heavy. It threw him off balance. And his target is far away.
- Dilios "300"

I came to the realization that my failures - my shortcomings - are burdensome. Not only can I not glimpse light at the end of the tunnel, but I find myself struggling to make out my own feet in the darkness. In my heart, I know this is temporary. That knowledge just seems to be buried so deeply beneath a whole bunch of other caca.

Small disappointments can be distractions from the big picture, and when you look up, not only are you unaware of where you are, but you feel as though you can't even make it back to square one (abandoning all hopes of picking up where you left off).

My life is Sparta. Every step must be measured; every move, disciplined. So I don't have time to think hopelessly. I won't have time to pause. I won't have time to lament. Truth be told, I won't have time to cry. Because every second of my life from this point forward has to go as follows: stick, move, grind, repeat. It has to be that way until I get there. Presently, I don't know where there is, so that simply means that I have to keep moving until I figure it out.

Everytime someone took a shot at my title, I stood strong. There's no need to change that now.

Watch me.

Reflection

2008-09-08T19:28:00.005-04:00

The other day, I was talking to a brother about the rift between black men and women. My point was not to participate in the latest man-woman "Who Shot John?" episode. I wanted to learn what is it that black women do to break brothers down. And yes sisters, we can break a brother down.

His primary beef was the number of black women that claim to love black men and have respect for them; yet as soon as they get a man, they can't fix their mouths fast enough to tear him down. As a woman, I wanted to defend. I wanted to tell him he was wrong. Then I remembered a family member. I'll call her "Elle." The only time she discusses her husband is to talk about how stupid he is, how unsatisfied he leaves her, and how she works him essentially to death, and that's why she stays with him. I lost count of how many times they have separated, however, I do remember her going to retrieve him from his new woman's house, only to dish out more of the same.

He also touched on our buying the media's portrayal of black men. They're either dogs, gay, or bumbling morons - lovable, but bumbling and moronic nonetheless. I feel as though I need not mention the not so subtle nudges away from dating brothers altogether. How many movies romanticize relationships between white men and black women. After the obligatory obstacle that is the sole racist family member, they go on to live happily ever after. The lack of realism is astounding. For starters, when you wade through the pile of interracial relationships, black female/white male is close to the bottom of the barrel. I'm willing to wager that if you get down to the brass tacks of white males that are not impoverished or "PWT" as it were, I'll be the percentage is even smaller. So sisters, we really need to stop banking on the white Prince Charming.

I was fortunate enough to have a mother that kept me away from negative influences to the extent that she could. Additionally, she taught me how important it was that I respected black men. Eventually, my own experiences caught up with me. I became so used to being hurt and disrespected, that I started out on the defensive. I was tough on men that I attempted to date; insufferable to those I didn't. My friend mentioned the need to deal with each other on a human level. I thought about how many times we as women bristled at a man who only had use for women in bed. What can be said about a woman who only shows respect to men with whom she may be involved? Respect has to start prior to the relationship. After ti starts, it's too late. I had spent so much time with the wrong type of man, I became terrified of all men. I even avoided men that I thought would want to pursue a serious relationship, because I couldn't bear the thought of becoming attached to someone, then having it end.

Once I was told by someone that I cared deeply about, that maybe I should be with someone more suited to my relationship style; someone who could love me for the way I'm used to being loved. I realized the way I was used to being "loved" was non-existent. I crafted this amalgamation of my outside view of other people's semi-functioning relationships, combined that with a couple of "black-love" movies, and created for myself quite the cluster-fuck. I knew how to be disappointed; I knew how to have fun and bounce when it wasn't fun anymore; I knew how to be single. I didn't know how to be loved, so it went without saying that I didn't know how to give love properly. What is unfortunate is that I had a hand in messing up what could have been a good thing.

My friend said that we lie to ourselves. we say we love and respect black men, but our actions say otherwise. If I spend half of my relationship on pause wondering when (not if) I'm going to be hurt, am I really respecting my man? I can't say that I have the answers. I can't say that I'll be perfect. But what I can do is pledge to be better.

2008-09-08T15:30:00.002-04:00

I can't let things happen. I must make them happen. My life is at a crossroads, and I have a lot of decisions to make. I refuse to allow them to be made for me.

"I

WILL

NOT

LOSE.

EVER!"

- Shawn "Jay-Z" Carter

I once was lost, but now I'm. . . missing?

2008-08-27T12:10:00.004-04:00

You ever found yourself sitting on rocky bed of a Chattanooga Motel 6 wondering where things went left? Not just left-left - left on Tulane left. I feel unfocused. I look unfocused. The trip home was necessary for so many reasons. I thought this trip was simply an opportunity to reconnect with people I cared about from whom I had been separated for far too long. I was partially correct, but it ran SO much deeper than that. I needed to discover how disconnected I had become from myself; mind, body and spirit.

I've felt like a lost lamb in the woods before, so I figured the journey home would aid in clearing my head, and everything would be okay. I would have hatched a plan by then. Imagine my frustration when I found myself one hour from home, and no closer to a solution than the hour I embarked upon my journey.

This feeling is not hopelessness, nor is it helplessness. If anything, it is showing me that I am growing up, and I have real things to deal with; real decisions to make. Those who know me, know that a plot is in the making. I'm just not sure what it is yet. Stay tuned though. I feel a breakthrough coming on.

The Odyssey, Pt. 1

2008-08-22T08:28:00.000-04:00

This trip, I believe, may well be known as "the journey which launched a thousand posts.". Stories such as, "The day I discovered my father's pimpin is real," "you know that beignet sugar is really crack, right?" and "who knew that hunting El Chupacabra could make you sexy as hell" are begging to be told. I'm sure that some stories I will tell, and some I won't. But I've had a great time and hold mixed feelings about leaving. Don't think I've lost my mind and am entertaining the notion of returning to New Orleans. I just didn't anticipate how hard leaving could be. Let me also say that there is something positively soul stirring about traveling with the knowledge that with every stop, you're going to spend time with people that love you dearly.

I've learned, with this trip, that there is a time and place for everything. I've learned that sometimes, you don't have to rehash the past to look at the future. I've put some friendships on pause, taken others out of limbo, and even got transported back to my high school days. That's kind of what going home is all about, isn't it?

Award Tour

2008-08-10T10:23:00.002-04:00

I'm out of the office until August 25, 2008. Earlier this week, at 3:39 on a cool morning, I got in my car, and started driving. I drove through Maryland. I drove through Virginia. I drove through Tennessee. I drove through Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana and finally ended up in Houston, Texas.

It is a MUTHA to get out of Virginia, but it's one of the most beautiful drives I've ever taken. Driving through the mountains really helps put things in perspective in seeing how truly insignificant we are. Once I hit southern Virginia, I found myself amazed by the number of black people I DIDN'T see. I went to a Walmart, and I was the only black person in the store. THE ONLY NEGRO IN AN ENTIRE WALMART. I remember being a kid and wondering, "How are we minorities? There are black people everywhere I go." But I was only going to New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Houston and a few heavily negroidian areas in Missippi. I think black people are in maybe ten other cities and that's a wrap. When I saw two separate trucks full of Mennonites pull up, I knew it was time to get the hell out of there. Nothing against the Mennonites; but I was still trying to adjust to the fact that there were no black folks in Walmart. That was as different as I was ready to handle after eight hours on the road.

Between Virginia and Tennessee, there are 6,845, 293, 957 Cracker Barrels at various exits. I began to opine that they were operated by the minions of Beelzebub, and would have no part of it somewhere early on in Virginia. However, by the time I hit CB 6 billion, my resolve had worn thin. I wanted a sit-down meal, and I vowed to avoid typical fast food fare, so I finally pulled into a Cracker Barrel, only to discover that it's not run by minions at all; but the food was delicately sprinkled with crack. It wasn't soul food, but it definitely did the trick.

After lunch, I decided I would drive for another hour. By then, I anticipated being attacked by the 'itis, and I could take a nap at a rest stop. Every rest stop I encountered during my post-CB exodus from Tennessee was closed. I finally pulled into a Kmart parking lot in Alabama to get a few zzz's. But honestly, how much rest can you expect to get in a Kmart parking lot in Alabama. So I drove into the Alabama night, where there was NO lights. I have never in my life been so afraid of the moon. And let me tell you, we're missing out on a lot of stars in the city.

It was midnight, and I still hadn't made it to Baton Rouge where I intended to bunk for the night. After seriously considering falling asleep in the parking lot of a busy gas station (I just didn't think I had twenty more miles in me) I decided that grabbing a motel was a much more reasonable, not to mention safer option. So I bunked in Meridian, MS. The prostitutes there are friendly. That's gotta count for something. The next morning (after briefly stopping to say hi to my sister in Baton Rouge) I headed to Houston.

*sigh* What can I say about Houston, Texas? Everything and nothing. As much as I love to share, this one just kind of ain't anybody's business. But I can say that I've never been happier to let go of fear and live in the moment. I can also say that no matter how tough I like to believe that I am (and I drove from MD to TX, so I think it's fair for me to label myself "Tougher Than Leather), there exists a person that makes my insides feel like one of those molten chocolate desserts simply by hugging me. No clue what that means for tomorrow, next month - or even five minutes from now for that matter - but in this moment, I have yet to stop grinning.

Before I left Texas, I got to spend some time with the Creole Queen and her family. They have basically given me a time limit as to how much longer I am allowed to live in Maryland before I move to Texas. I love when people love me.

At this moment, I'm sitting in my sister's house (she's still in Baton Rouge) at her computer, still on a high from the last few days. I'm sure there are more stories to come. Stay tuned.

Mas Palabras

2008-07-28T16:26:00.000-04:00

October will mark three years as a Maryland resident. Yet, once a week, there is a female behemoth that will attempt to share a subway seat with me. My behind will not invade the seat next to me, but I take up every square inch of my alloted (and purchased) seat. If you do stunts for Bruce Bruce, you can't sit next to me. Keep it moving, Leviathan.

I can drink like a fish. There's not even a story there; just. . . hot damn.

Every time a person says they "heart" something, Abigail Breslin is beaten with a sack of nickels. The same goes for "vajayjay." It's just stupid. Cut it out.

I've had it with men complaining about getting the shaft for Fathers' Day presents. You can stand up when you pee and you get the big piece of chicken. However, if that's not enough for you spoiled babies, you also don't have to undergo the horror that is the bra fitting. I won't go into the gory details, but I will say that afterward, I refused to purchase the bra strictly on principle. It would have been too much like paying for inappropriate contact, and I'm just not "there" yet.

You ever sit around and wonder who makes the rules? I do. Por ejemplo, lately, I've been thinking about marijuana and coffeeI'm not running for Prez, so I'll keep it real: once upon a time, I used to blaze up on the regular. When I decided to stop blazing, that was that. Had other things going on in my life, and weed didn't fit. Done. What happens when you smoke weed? You want sex and the occasional hot pocket. Marijuana is an illegal substance. I am a dyed in the wool coffee drinker. I have a few cups on the daily. When I try to quit coffee, I get migraines, the jitters, and I stay thisclose to homicide. What happens when you drink coffee, you become hyper and pretty much annoying as all hell. I have quit and restarted coffee more times than I can count. Coffee is a legal substance. Just putting that out there.

This past weekend, I had to take a drive to Queens, NY. You know how you see a place in a movie, and you think it's an exaggeration? Not so for Queens. You saw coming to America? It was pretty much like that. Queens is JACKED UP. However, I saw a site where they are building luxury condos. I have also cast lots on which mom and pop operation they were going to shut down so that they could build their Starbucks (or whatever godless, souless entity that is replacing the 'Bux now that the company has hit the skids.)

Am I the only person that finds it strange when a person needs to be walked through filling out a form. "Where it says name. . ." I just can't quite get with it.

Last week became very interesting, very quickly.

And I'm spent. . .

Words of Wisdom

2008-07-24T17:19:00.004-04:00

I guess it takes time - more time than anybody wants to imagine - to sort things out, inside, and then try to put them together, and then try - not so much to make sense out of it all - as to see. Maybe that's why what seems to be past begins to be clearer than what seems to be present.

-- James Baldwin Just Above My Head

When I need my mother most, she comes to my dreams. I remember holding Finge, counting his toes over and over again - Smith toes, like hers (onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten). She wanted boys in the family. She would have loved this boy, I thought to myself, she would have wanted to hold this boy - she would be holding this boy at this very moment. One of my first nights home, she was in my dream. She told me that she taught me everything I needed to know in order to raise a good son.

When I left my marriage, I of course, questioned myself and felt like a failure. She told me the only failure is in sitting idly by as a spectator to your own destruction.

Sometimes, when I feel like I can't do right, I have dreams where she is sitting on our old couch, ratty as it was, she pats the cushion urging me to sit next to her. Sometimes she advises me; sometimes she tells me stories; sometimes she just lets me curl up and cry while she massages my scalp.

The thing is, I don't believe I'm having supernatural or out of body experiences. I don't believe that her "spirit" is coming to me. I believe that her presence in my life was one so powerful, I had to sort it out. The things she says or does in my dreams aren't "new" things. The dreams are indicative of her handprint on my life. The signature of the artist.

I guess I can't say that I have a real "reason" for this post. However, I was hard pressed not to share.

Love and Affection

2008-07-23T12:35:00.001-04:00

I can't remember if I posted this movie before; maybe I just posted the link. However, it is one of my favorite short films ever! I guess it will give you a glimpse into the fact that I truly have some problems. Enjoy!

Funny Videos | Funny Cartoons | More Video Clips

Title Irrelevant

2008-07-15T11:20:00.008-04:00

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. My cousin produced a tube from her purse and we changed it.

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

2008-07-08T11:20:00.001-04:00

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

Dirty Bastards

2008-07-03T12:06:00.003-04:00

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

2008-07-02T13:26:00.001-04:00

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

"Just another Manic Monday" (c) The Bangles

2008-06-30T10:25:00.002-04:00

"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

2008-06-25T18:43:00.003-04:00

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!

2008-06-22T17:13:00.002-04:00

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!

Today

2008-06-16T21:51:00.002-04:00

Is one of those days where I'm working through just a little bit of rigamarole emotionally. I'm not down. I'm not even going "through it." I'm just having a moment. Mary knows what I'm talking about:

Marketing for that A$$!

2008-06-15T19:34:00.000-04:00

I swear before God... and four more white people! This is the last time!
- Gator Purify

aka "The Ghetto Can't Keep NUTHIN!"

White people and crack. Really? Rock n roll, locs and Tina Turner wasn't enough? They had to get in on this crack thing too? That's heavy. And you know the shit is about to hit the fan because it's white women who are getting strung out. You saw how they started putting the hammer down on meth production. This government will NOT sit idly by and let white folks get strung out on cheap drugs. I'm not sure of the logic behind it, I'm just citing the way things are. This can not bode well for the hood.

Here is my question: How, in 2008, are people still being convinced to smoke crack. We know what crackheads look like. I have personally been offered a big screen tv for $100.00 that a woman was selling without her husband's knowledge. (She did eventually sell it, and I was ear-witness to the subsequent beating. Life on Cindy Place was a FOOL!) With that knowledge, I KNOW crack isn't something I want any part of.

I don't consider myself any less susceptible to getting got than the next person, so I don't think it takes Festivus-worthy feats of strength to avoid the pitfalls of crack. I am a firm believer in tackling your problems, so needless to say, I find drug abuse a bit of a copout. Is their rationale, "I'm gonna keep this crack thing in check"? Do they mistakenly believe sucking dick for rocks will not be their eventuality?

And further, when was smoking a rock an acceptable excuse when grieving the death of a pet. I know Caucasians have a special affinity for canines, but word? Have they stopped making chocolate? Is there a special Hallmark card that has a small vial attached for rocks?

I swear, I don't understand this world anymore.

This Is Only For Their Own Good

2008-06-15T18:33:00.005-04:00

You can imagine how distressed I was when I saw this last week. See, evidently, Negroes want something done about the crime in their area. And in repayment for their desire to have standard safety precautions, Cathy Lanier, the MPD Police Chief, decided the only way this could be accomplished is by instituting police-state measures.

I have said it before, I will repeat it now, and I am certain I will have occasion to say it again: whenever a zero tolerance measure is taken, its negative impact of people of color is an inevitability. It's never a matter of "if", merely WHEN. They feel somewhat justified in their tactic because there were no shootings during that time period. Um. What about other crimes? Were there rapes? Robberies? Stabbings?

I can also say that I find the MPD as a whole, to be among the most unprofessional police forces I have ever witnessed. Considering I grew up in New Orleans, that's saying something. If I had half a penny for every time I saw a member of MPD driving with one hand on the wheel and another on their cell phone, I'd be able to purchase all the tea in China and the oil in the Middle East.

I grew up in a city where you can be surrounded by mansions on one block, and crack houses on the next. Therefore, the city's paler residents are often unshielded by crime. So they have regular meetings with the police department. They build up a rapport. Sometimes they even have the cops over for coffee. They discuss plans of action, options, take feedback. If you think this same thing takes place in black neighborhoods, allow me to hand you your fool of the year trophy. IF you get a meeting, you are told what is going to happen, and that's that. See, the police have to keep you rowdy niggers in line, and your tiny brains can't comprehend a plan involving law and order. Period.

Part of the reason this is problematic is because black folks don't trust the police. Policemen participated in lynchings. Policemen turned hoses and attack dogs on non-violent civil rights marchers. For those who feel these statements are merely me living in the past, I'll catch you up. Policemen sodomized Abner Louima with a plunger, then one pranced around the police station as though he deserved a medal for doing so. Policemen shot Amadou Diallo 41 times. Policemen shot at Sean Bell's car roughly 48 times, with one of those bullets almost hitting people half a block away. My point in all this, people of color have never been made to feel at ease around the police. As they are SERVANTS, it is incumbent upon THEM to gain OUR trust. Not the other way around.

But, since people of color often don't have the financial means, it is tantamount to not having a voice. And that's beyond frightening.

"I wonder if them gates was put up to keep crime out
or keep our ass in?"
- Cee Lo of Goodie Mob

Banned Books Meme

2008-06-04T16:15:00.002-04:00

Ripped this from Bint

This is a list of the top 110 banned books.

Bold the ones you've read completely and italicize the one's you've read at least some of. I've got work to do. . .

#1 The Bible
#2 Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
#3 Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes
#4 The Koran
#5 Arabian Nights
#6 Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
#7 Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift
#8 Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer
#9 Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne
#10 Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman
#11 Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli
#12 Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe
#13 Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank
#14 Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
#15 Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
#16 Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
#17 Dracula by Bram Stoker
#18 Autobiography by Benjamin Franklin
#19 Tom Jones by Henry Fielding
#20 Essays by Michel de Montaigne
#21 Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
#22 History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon
#23 Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
#24 Origin of Species by Charles Darwin
#25 Ulysses by James Joyce
#26 Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio
#27 Animal Farm by George Orwell
#28 Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell
#29 Candide by Voltaire
#30 To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
#31 Analects by Confucius
#32 Dubliners by James Joyce
#33 Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
#34 Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway
#35 Red and the Black by Stendhal
#36 Capital by Karl Marx
#37 Flowers of Evil by Charles Baudelaire
#38 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
#39 Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D. H. Lawrence
#40 Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
#41 Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser
#42 Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
#43 Jungle by Upton Sinclair
#44 All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque
#45 Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx
#46 Lord of the Flies by William Golding
#47 Diary by Samuel Pepys
#48 Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
#49 Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
#50 Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
#51 Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak
#52 Critique of Pure Reason by Immanuel Kant
#53 One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey
#54 Praise of Folly by Desiderius Erasmus
#55 Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
#56 Autobiography of Malcolm X by Malcolm X
#57 Color Purple by Alice Walker
#58 Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger
#59 Essay Concerning Human Understanding by John Locke
#60 The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
#61 Moll Flanders by Daniel Defoe
#62 One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
#63 East of Eden by John Steinbeck
#64 Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
#65 I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
#66 Confessions by Jean Jacques Rousseau
#67 Gargantua and Pantagruel by François Rabelais
#68 Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes
#69 The Talmud
#70 Social Contract by Jean Jacques Rousseau
#71 Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson
#72 Women in Love by D. H. Lawrence
#73 American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser
#74 Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler
#75 A Separate Peace by John Knowles
#76 Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
#77 Red Pony by John Steinbeck
#78 Popol Vuh
#79 Affluent Society by John Kenneth Galbraith
#80 Satyricon by Petronius
#81 James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
#82 Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
#83 Black Boy by Richard Wright
#84 Spirit of the Laws by Charles de Secondat Baron de Montesquieu
#85 Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut
#86 Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George
#87 Metaphysics by Aristotle
#88 Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder
#89 Institutes of the Christian Religion by Jean Calvin
#90 Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse
#91 Power and the Glory by Graham Greene
#92 Sanctuary by William Faulkner
#93 As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
#94 Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin
#95 Sylvester and the Magic Pebble by William Steig
#96 Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
#97 General Introduction to Psychoanalysis by Sigmund Freud
#98 Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
#99 Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Alexander Brown
#100 Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
#101 Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman by Ernest J. Gaines
#102 Émile by Jean Jacques Rousseau
#103 Nana by Émile Zola
#104 Chocolate War by Robert Cormier
#105 Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin
#106 Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
#107 Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein
#108 Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Peck
#109 Ox-Bow Incident by Walter Van Tilburg Clark
#110 Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes

"Here's my ten cents and my two cents is free" (c) Eminem

2008-06-02T13:40:00.002-04:00

Okay, I'm sure some folks won't necessarily like what I say, but it really needs to be said. (Please note, this is my personal opinion, and if you are sensitive and like this show/movie, you may suffer from hurt feelings.)

SEX AND THE CITY IS THE MOST BORING AND HELLACIOUS SHIT EVER! EVER, I SAID!

I cram to understand the obsession with the sex lives of four pre-menopausal Caucasian females on a show that had virtually NO consistent black representation (save when Blair Underwood was dicking down Foot Face aka Sarah Jessica Parker or when they had the "up the butt" trannies). If that weren't enough, Foot Face made a statement regarding Jennifer Hudson's addition (as an assistant, mind you), because she wanted to be responsible to the African American female viewers. Now, I know quite a few women that live in New York. Most, if not ALL of them, have professions. They are directors, executives, musicians. NONE of them are assistants. So, for the token to be a gopher, really, they could have kept that. I didn't expect her to be a friend, but hell, a professional neighbor, a boss, something?

Let me also say that I found the show itself to be boring as all hell. There were moments that I found mildly entertaining, but never enough to sustain my interest for more than 8 minutes. I've tried giving it another shot now that it comes on TBS, yet, I still combat the desire to commit seppuku when I attempt to view the show for more than ten minutes. Here's my take on it: Samatha's got "the bonus," Carrie suffers from from pediculus countenansus ("Foot Face" in Melanie's phoney baloney Latin), Charlotte is mildly retarded, and Miranda really isn't fooling anyone with that "I date men" shit. WIGGETY WIGGETY WIGGETY WACK!

At the end of the day, people like what they're going to like. That being said, what's up with dragging men to see this. One comedian said that if a dude's woman is trying to make him see this movie with him, he needs to find her some friends, because she obviously has none. Real talk. I understand wanting to do the "togetherness" thing, but really. My theory is that going to see this movie is a test for gateway activity. Don't be fooled men. If your woman gets you to go see this movie today, she's going to "gently" introduce the idea of you getting ass fucked within four weeks. MAX! I envision it something like this:

Hey baby. What's for dinner.

I appreciated you coming to see that with me so much, I made your favorite, [husband food with husband side dishes and beer and shit].

Thanks so much baby.

You know, it's great that you shared that experience with me. It shows that you truly are a progressive brother and you make an effort to appreciate the things that I enjoy. I was thinking that since you are so progressive. . .

Now, this segue will vary depending on the relationship, but it will not end before you've finished a sufficient amount of your first beer and the desired end involves having a rather uncomfortable conversation with your proctologist.

Now, I'm not here to tell you what you should watch. I'm not here to tell you what you should not watch. Simply using my blog for rumination. And warning brothers to protect not only ya neck, but potentially ya ass.

Things I wasn't prepared for, but had to deal with anyway

2008-05-27T20:24:00.005-04:00

Having to explain what "pubes" were to my 9 year-old.

My 15 year high school reunion being around the corner.

My daughter telling me, "Diets don't work. You should try Weight Watchers."

Being one "D" past Victoria being able to tell me the Secret.

Having to explain to my grandmother what making it rain meant.

Seeing a picture of myself before I discovered eyebrow waxing.

Being the office hottie. (Who knew backfat was in?)

Choosing a crossword puzzle over other forms of, uh, visual entertainment.

Turn down a good looking guy's request for a date because he had the crazy eyes.

The realization that I am much closer to 35 than 18. . .or 21 for that matter.

Spanx.

Looking at an ad about bunion surgery and saying, "hmmmmmmm."

The irony of being infinitely more comfortable getting naked for a massage as a "big girl" than when I worked out four times a week.

My daughter's crush on a neighborhood boy.

The fact that Flavor Flav stays neck deep in dem hos.

80s music being considered "oldies."

Living long enough to watch a fad enter, depart, then return.

The realization that this blog kind of makes me sound like an old fart, yet you still can't convince me that I am not the shit.

It's the Douchebag Commandments! WHA!

2008-05-22T10:57:00.002-04:00

As I approach my third year as a resident of the Mid-Atlantic, I realize that I have learned much. Coming here, I met a LOT of good folks that really went out of their way to make me feel at home. (I rarely see them, but that's only because I'm also part hermit. Much love to them.) That being said, one of the things that I realized about this place is that it is the Mecca of The Douchebag (hereinafter sometimes referred to as "The Douche"). The amount of douchebaggery that takes place is so concentrated, I firmly believe that there is an association with dues, meetings and of course, a handbook. I believe this book's unofficial title is The Douchebag's Guide to the Galaxy. I offer to you a few rules that I am sure appear in said handbook, as well as my take on them:

1. Sunglasses are to be worn at all times.

Now, some normal folks feel that sunglasses are meant to shield your eyes from excessive glare, and protect them from the UV rays of the sun. Not so for The Douche. They wear their sunshades in the house. They wear their sunshades with a mouse. They wear their sunshades underground. They wear their sunshades at night on the town. They wear their sunshades here and there. They wear their sunshades EVERYWHERE. They wear them eating green eggs and ham. They look like dipshits Sam I Am!

2. The hairline should be given no consideration whatsoever when choosing a hair style.

I am elated that we live in a time where more black people embrace their natural hair by releasing themselves from relaxers or wearing locs. HOWEVER: a) if your hair requires a sign that says "next cornrow 7 miles"; or, b) if your hairline is so far back, you only have two rows of locs, you need to stop in your tracks, reevaluate the entire path of your life, from conception to this...very...moment...starting...now, as something has gone horribly awry. Granny always used to say, "Just because they made it, that doesn't mean they made it for you."

3. Wear designer clothing only if the designer's name is displayed - PROMINENTLY and OFTEN.

Baby Phat and Apple Bottom aficionados unite! Now, I know a lot of us have been eating the good chicken, and these people cater to the Reubenesque lady; that's fine and dandy. However, remember Peaches (Jada then-Pinkett-without-the-Smith) from "A Low Down Dirty Shame?" When she bought her "classy" designer outfit? Yeah. That's you. (Keep in mind, I am aware that not all of their designs look like this, but that shit is almost invariably mad gaudy. Plus, as an aside, I don't expect anyone to take me seriously when I have a pussy stitched on my ass.) Por ejemplo:

Notice the plethora of "BPs"? Not. Celebrated.

4. Failure to knock over at least one elderly individual renders you delinquent in your duties.

When a guy offers me a seat on the bus, typically, I almost shit myself from shock; however, I know about the cyclical reasoning behind the death of chivalry and such. I also know that some people will not accept seats on the bus, because they don't want to be thought of as/admit to being old. That being said, if I had a nickel for every time some overgrown clumsy ass male - BLACK AND WHITE - bowls over an elderly and/or infirm person to get on the damned metro, I'd be backstroking in brown and gold Baby Phat pumps. Were you raised in a barn? Locked in a closet as a young'n? What is your damned problem? I tell you what, regardless of my health, I'm going to start carrying a cane at 65 and consider myself licensed to correct a sucka. And if that don't work, I am not adverse to carrying a "peace keeper." Try me.

5. Disregard all traffic laws.

Red lights. Stop signs. Cross walks. Speed limits. Turning signals. None of this concerns The Douche. They will run you over, cut you off, ride your bumper because they can't be bothered with the speed limit. Personally, I stay within a 5-7 mph range. I can't afford what a moving violation will do to my insurance premium. If this annoys you, go fuck yourself and drive in another lane. On Twinbrook Parkway in Rockville, there are two major crosswalks without traffic signals. In an abundance of caution, there is actually a signal for a pedestrian to notify oncoming traffic that they need to cross. I have seen people sit there like they're waiting for Aragorn before they can cross the street. Whenever I stop, they give me this traumatized look trying to figure out if I'm for real. (Think Tina Turner on her first post-Ike date.)

6. Observe the Pilgrammage. Purchase a T-Shirt that says "FBI." Attempt to be robbed and assaulted at all costs.

Of course, not every Douche lives here. However, they are mandated by Decree of the Supreme Douche to visit DC. They get on the train - at a separate end from the rest of their party - and scream inappropriate shit. Things like, "I have no idea where we're going," and "Yes, I'm keeping all my money in my pocket!" or "Is this even the right train Jebediah!?" They stand very close to the door, because they are perpetually three seconds from being lost, and dangle their iPods from their fingertips. This is because every Douche has a secret longing to be robbed. They LOVE telling stories of their troubles, as they believe this validates their subsequent acts of douchebaggery. Like some sort of Douchebag PTSD.

7. Every story told within a 25 foot radius of your person directly relates to you. It is incumbent upon you to interject your thoughts in a boisterous and frequent manner.

It is one thing to be sympathetic, and when a friend is telling a story of some difficulty, offer words of wisdom to encourage and show that they can get through this. I'm not talking about this. That's a positive activity, and The Douche wants no part of anything positive. Any topic, from childbirth, to death in the family, to walking on the moon. The Douche will relate it to themselves. Not only that, but they will go on for such a long time, that they (AND YOU) will forget how the conversation started in teh first place. Because it's not about you. It's NEVER been about you. They are The Douche dammit, and THEY WILL NOT BE DENIED!

Real Talk

2008-05-22T10:51:00.003-04:00

I miss you guys. Have you missed me? I'll be back to blog soon, but until then, I'll post this vid, as well as repost a couple of items that are either old or posted elsewhere for your enjoyment.

Smooches,

Mamba

Throwback Sexiness

2008-05-05T09:50:00.002-04:00

How many of you remember this vid? SEXIFIED! This used to be my joint!

Yippie

2008-05-02T16:15:00.002-04:00

You know what I love more than gifts? Compounded gifts! Among the spoils of Secretaries' Day was a gift card at Macy's. So, I bought a Clinique "Happy In Bloom" gift set for myself as a Mothers' Day present. That present was accompanied by a free gift from Clinque that included a mini color pallette, mascara, two lipsticks and moisturizer. THEN since the lady liked me so much, she also gave me a mini tote and a miniature spray of the original "Happy." YAAAAAAAY!

Anyone want to keep this gift giving chain a-movin?

The other side of strength

2008-05-01T17:04:00.003-04:00

Once a week, I get on the train, put my earphones in my ear, and attempt to do my Sudoku puzzle when I feel it. It starts in the pit of my stomach, growls up to my esophagus, spreads throughout my chest, then collects in my throat. I hold it there. It must wait until I get home. Sometimes it does. Other times, it will not be denied, and it rushes to my head. I do my best to hold my head down. Who really wants to be the crazy crying lady on the bus? I vent my tears as quickly as possible, and I'm usually collected enough to walk to my car.

Some days, I can scarcely figure why I'm crying. Those are typically the days I can avoid the episode. Other days, I know the precise reason behind the tears, which is why I can't hold them back. I tried to relate this cycle to my brother from another mother, and it was he who diagnosed this as "the other side of strength."

Lately, I've questioned if my strength is really just the workings of an exceptional actress. I realize that my strength is born of necessity. People have it in their mind that I'm going to make it, simply because I have made it so far. I can't recall the last time someone asked me how I was doing and I felt as though they wanted a real answer. They expect to hear fine. They NEED to hear fine. They are not prepared to deal with the helplessness that comes with hearing their strong friend is in the dark, and they can't even throw up a flare. They have their own shit to deal with. And so, being the person I am, I tell them what they need to hear. And I tell them that I'm fine. And I crack jokes. And I talk about things that don't matter; because the things that do matter or either too painful to recount, or too difficult to verbalize.

The thing about being strong is that people expect you to be that way all the time. And if you falter, they by no means expect it to be a chronic condition. When we see Superman weakened by kryptonite, we do little more than wait until he regains his strength. Not if - when. When Peter Parker declared himself "Spiderman no more" we knew it was a matter of time that he abandoned such a silly idea. Not if - when. Ultimately, we see our hero back, and better than ever. The momentary lapse was but a memory. That shit is for the movies.

When people, real people, are weakened, or suffer crises of faith or conscience or whatever, they can be forever altered. I'm not so sure of who I am anymore. The people in my life that I once believed to be central either don't call me, I don't call them, or some combination of both. Outside of a call from one of my sisters, if my phone rings once a day, that's plenty. More often than not, the call is not for me. I haven't talked to my father in months. I have a sister to whom I don't speak at all. My cousin, to whom I used to speak every day, I maybe speak to once a week. I've even taken to going to lunch alone more often than not. The Chupacabra Hunter and I have repaired our friendship in a fashion, but we do little more than exchange superficial greeting emails. I can't remember the last time I spoke to him about anything of real consequence. That's a blog post in and of itself. I know where to begin, I'm just not sure there's any point to doing it.

And that's life. And the people in my life see this as normal, because I must be okay. And the reason I cry is because this has become okay. I have little to no desire to rage against it. Why am I not raging against this?

I'm not giving up. I am actually complete ignorant of how one goes about giving up on life. But I am resigned to the fact that there is no true glory in strength. All it seems to do is increase the number of people that walk away from you.

Talk about a blue ribbon for your ass.

I'm a dirty girl!

2008-04-29T12:50:00.001-04:00

Created by OnePlusYou

Sorry guys.

The Maverick's Review

2008-04-15T16:42:00.008-04:00

What do you know about the birthplace of jazz; the birthplace of Truman Capote; the birthplace of William Faulkner’s first book? What do you know about New Orleans? Melissa Lee Smith takes on the task of chronicling the history of this great city through a collection of photos, simply titled Historic Photos of New Orleans, which spans 100 years of New Orleans history. Not only does she provide an answer to those who hear New Orleans and can do little more than conjure up images of Mardi Gras and the devastating wake of Hurricane Katrina; but she also appeals to the soul that refuses to abandon the term “K&B.” She masterfully blends the history, spirituality, pride and scandal that makes New Orleans the most unique of American cities.

The most notable thing that Ms. Smith subtly points out, is how well preserved it is. There were times when my mouth was literally agape, as I saw pictures that had been taken in the 1800s, that could have just as easily been taken in 2004. The book puts on display the city’s respect for tradition. New Orleans is home to the nation’s oldest yacht club (Southern Yacht Club), and open air market (The French Market), as well as the oldest cathedral in North America (St. Louis Cathedral). And of course, she pays homage to probably the most world renowned tradition, Mardi Gras. Notably mentioned in the book is how even in the 1800s, the port of New Orleans was still a powerhouse in the import/export business.

New Orleans’ historic neighborhoods are also showcased: the French Quarter, visited by tourists worldwide and lauded for its unique architecture; the Garden District, created for those who preferred not to live among the French Creoles in the Quarter, also a tourist attraction in its own right for its ornate landscaping; and Treme, the nation’s oldest African American community. You will also receive a taste of the arts and entertainment that the city has to offer, including the notorious Storyville.

I applaud Ms. Smith for not ignoring how African-Americans struggled to carve out their own place in the Antebellum South. The majority of black adults were relegated to work as laborers or domestic servants. The educational needs of black children were egregiously disregarded. Unfortunately, it would seem the more things change, the more they stay the same.

In viewing these photos, it makes me think the city that survived the Civil War, the battle that killed the British notion of occupying American soil, and the nations first disaster to exceed a billion dollars (Hurricane Betsy – again, the more things change. . .), can certainly regroup of the losses sustained by Hurricane Katrina.

I can only hope that a city so steeped in tradition will come to the realization that the tradition of neglect should not be repeated.

What matters most

2008-04-02T10:52:00.004-04:00

The "Stuff ____ People Like/Hate" genre is all the rage right now. It's actually funny stuff. (So funny, that were I not in a lazy mood, I would link all of these blogs. Unfortunately, this is Wednesday, and I'm not in full back to work mode so you're gonna have to use Google.) But I know your secret. You are far more curious about what pleases Black Mamba, and what raises her ire.* Shhh, you don't have to say it out loud. Mama knows. And in my benevolence, I'll give you what you need. So, with no further ado. . .

Stuff Black Mamba Hates

Tourists - Black Mamba is a city girl, so she enjoys living in touristy places. However, she is confused by the tourist's belief that not being native to a local gives one license to be an utter douchebag. Stopping in the middle of busy walkways; driving 10 mph on main thoroughfares; shouting unsafe things to the opposite end of the train such as, "I have NO IDEA where to get off!" are just a few situations where Black Mamba must battle with her inner self, not pull out her peace maker and have you run yo shit. This is entirely unacceptable.

American Caucasian Rescue Efforts - The biggest reason Black Mamba LOVES the movie "Akeelah and the Bee," was the fact that there wasn't some fresh-faced wide eyed white girl that saw her "potential" and delivered her from her peril. See, white people seem to really enjoy saving young minorities from, well, being minorities; just not in a meaningful way. Rarely, if ever, are the minority parents reached out to in ANY way. We can take this practice all the way back to Phyllis Wheatley, whose owners decided she was special enough to be taught to read and write, and her mistress "protected" her ("my Phyllis") from the big black negro (whose name escapes me) that wanted to court her. Think of every "inspirational" tale of integration. There's almost invariably some Anglo at the wheel, steering a gang of clueless black and brown miscreants to the glory that is their full potential. How else could they discover it?

The latest evolution involves the fashionable adoption of foreign children. Black Mamba is well aware that there are some people who are legitimate do-gooders, and have the purest of intentions. However, I have seen far to many black and yellow babies paraded about as the newest in the Gucci line. (I deliberately left out our brown brothers and sisters. Say what you will, but they keep their kids!) Black Mamba's opinion on the Madonna situation? When has she ever done ANYTHING that was not a calculated publicity stunt?

The fact that she likes Chris Brown - When Black Mamba won her car, she began to occasionally listen to the radio again. She found herself caught in the slow progression of tolerating a Chris Brown song, to nodding her head, to *gasp* SINGING ALONG! And as shameful as this is, she can't stop.

New Orleans Baked Goods Separation - Black Mamba very vocal about the benefits that living in Maryland affords her. That being said, there is a big difference between a Maryland donut (usually chains) and a New Orleans donut (usually local). A Tastee Donut (New Orleans standard) apple fritter reaches you right down to your most insidiest of insidey parts. I won't even touch on the fallen legend that is McKenzie's. *drool* Cinnamon rolls, buttermilk drops, black out cake. *saliva* Bunny Bread on a Saturday morning. *sigh* Randazzo's King Cake. *gasp* Hubig's Pies! *spontaneous orgasm* Of course, this is probably also the reason damn near everyone in the region has "sugar" (diabetes).

*I am well aware that there are probably other bloggers who have had a similar - or maybe even the exact - idea. This really matters not to me. There are no new ideas under the sun. Take it light and enjoy.

Comedy is. . .

2008-03-30T02:39:00.002-04:00

. . .taking your kids to the zoo, getting off the train, reading a map, the walking toward your destination - with conviction. Not funny? How about 3/4 of a mile into your walk, you discover that you have walked in the wrong direction, so you have to walk a mile uphill? Hilarious, right?

Though that's funny, that's not the point of my post.

A few weeks ago, after almost a year of silence between the kids' father and myself, I offered him the opportunity to do the right thing by his kids. On the one hand, I'm completely okay with handling business alone, however, it's Finge and the Ladybug that end up paying the cost. I considered it taking one for the team by calling him. I cut right to the chase.

"You call me for the first time in a year, and that's all you have to say to me?"

*Silence* "Well, yes."

What was I supposed to do? Ask him about the weather? Add him as a MySpace friend? (His mother already is. I don't want to talk about it.)

The good news is, we seem to have come to some sort of understanding. The bad news is, we now have a cordial relationship. Once he felt comfortable with the fact that I was not sending knee breakers to his home, he got in the confessing mood. He chose to share with me the fact that he still finds himself "reaching for [insert my ENTIRE given name here]." *SCREEEEEEEEEEEEECH*

See, little shit like that is the precise reason I like to keep our relationship set to "hostile." It keeps uncomfortable conversations such as these to a bare minimum.

My first reaction to his declaration was nausea. In actuality, I was mouthing "NOOOO MANNNNNNNNN," when I got the inkling that he was going to say something of the sort. Being sick to my stomach had more to do with the fact that his saying that had the same effect as a stranger confessing such a thing. It's not flattering; just kinda creepy. It's also just a little sad, because it's been almost seven years since I walked away from that. The person he's reaching for, frankly, doesn't exist anymore.

Another day, I probably would have called him every name in the book, and went on about how he dogged me and felt some misplaced sense of vindication. But, the truth is, it's really not about any of those things. I think where I am right now is precisely where I need to be. I am so free from that part of my past, not only could I sing, but I could dance an Irish jig.

And that's just fine by me.

Chronicles of the Luscious

2008-03-29T01:39:00.002-04:00

Another day has passed, and I'm, again, awake at an ungodly hour. Trust me, this was not due to a lack of activity.

I woke up at the crack of dawn (and by crack of dawn, I mean 9:25) and decided that it was high time to do laundry. The laundromat is always crowded. Always. I thought going during the week would give me a break, but alas, I was wrong. It was more crowded than ever. Despite that, I was still able to do a hellacious amount of laundry in less than 3.5 hours. No small feat, trust me. I won't say that my issues with the laundry mat are plentiful, but they do exist.

I am probably the only English speaking person that uses this facility. I am by no means one of those elitists who believe "yer in Amerrrikkka, speak Ainglish!" However, when people walk up to me and begin to speak in rapid fire Spanish, it makes me forget the few phrases that I know to convey to them that my Spanish is beyond piss poor. For some reason, it kind of makes me feel like a douche. On the upside, going to this place is impelling me to learn the language, because telenovellas look like they are the BOMB. I don't know what they are saying on "El Diablos y los Guapos," but it looks like the shit and I want to be a part of it. (Side note: Does the Latino community view Univision the way we look at BET. I've seen some activity on that channel that looks like flagrant coonito-ism. I'm just saying.)

My kids are far too sociable, and they always befriend some random miscreant in the making that works my nerves. One kid almost got the taste smacked out of his mouth today, and though he was a tester, he was not crazy and he saw his future. I am really not the one for kids that like to test adults. I make it known to all children: I do not test well, but I'm in the 99th percentile in juvenile beatdowns. I will not hesitate to bust open a can of whip ass on the kids I brought into the world. Do you really think I'd second guess putting one of those Big Show chest slaps on a three-year-old that I've never met who happens to be tap dancing on my last nerve? Sheeeeeee...

I have somehow become the damned pied piper of the laundry mat. Small kids have always liked me, so I guess that means I am a fairly decent person. Aren't they like puppies where they're supposed to be a good judge of character and predict earthquakes and shit like that? Plus, everybody loves the big titty girl. I swear, babies start drooling when I round the corner. I almost feel bad when they discover that these are only display models. In addition to the kids, ever since I've gone natural with my hair, parents have become all loosey goosey in leaving their kids unattended around me for long periods of time. I guess I look like a nanny earth mother or something. Two problems here: 1) this is dangerous as all hell, and 2) I don't want to be saddled down with your damned kids!

Today, this dude and his girl came in to do laundry with a small baby. By small, I mean she was *this far* from me wondering why she had the baby out in the streets. The kid was so small, it still had that unisex look, and could not hold a bottle. Two months MAX. Anyway, son strolls in, plops his baby on the counter RIGHT next to where I'm folding clothes, walks off. On top of that, he goes about his business for at LEAST twenty minutes before he looks back. The trifling bitch he was with NEVER looked back. What in the blue hell? I'm telling you, if this shit doesn't stop, I'm getting a perm and a breast reduction. I really need a personal assistant to handle these things.

Springtime Goodness

2008-03-28T00:33:00.003-04:00

Hellooooooo Spring!!!

I've been out of the loop for a minute. My keyboard had an unfortunate incident with ramen noodle juice. Don't ask...just...don't.

I've been home with the kiddies. Last week, they had a bout with the flu, and this week, they're off for Spring Break. Tell me my kids don't know how to do it! I'm really not going to know how to act when I get back to work. Probably roll in around 10:30, still wearing my robe, bitching about how they don't have Florida's Natural orange juice.

So I'm up at this ungodly hour, after feeding my America's Best Dance Crew addiction. I LOVE that show. Watching people dance has always been one of my favorite past times. My love for dance is only preceded by my love of literature and music. I guess literature places first because I can neither dance nor sing, but I'd like to think that I can write my ass off.

Now, one of my favorite things about spring is the bevy of new movies to come. One of my favorite pastimes is watching superhero movies. Nothing like a little kicking ass and taking names to get the blood pumping for the warm months to come. I'm sure that by now, most of you have seen the orgasm that is the "Iron Man" trailer. Holy shit dude! That's all I can say. May 2 really can't come fast enough.

I'm sitting here watching the GREATNESS that was X2, remembering how X-Men 3 was set up to finish in FANTASTIC style, and I am really fighting the desire to hunt down Brian Singer and punch him in the mouth. I've already discussed how pissed I am with him ruining TWO superhero movies (his departure from the X-Men franchise was due to his directing the insufferable bore that was Superman Returns), so I'll spare you that old chestnut. I just hate when directors completely drop the ball on the third movie. They did it with The Matrix, they did it with X-Men, and it's my understanding that they did it with Spiderman. I won't even touch the way Batman was disgraced. They hype you up with this PHENOMENAL sequel (I cried at the end of X2), then COMPLETELY drop the ball with the third (did they really have Wolverine crying like a little bitch). There should really be a law. And speaking of Batman...

I read this blog about one of my favorite shows, "How I Met Your Mother." Besides the fact that I didn't agree with the opinion that the show sucked, this interesting tidbit was divulged: Alicia Silverstone pulled out of this episode because of Britney Spears' guest spot. Sooo...let me get this straight - she was a willful participant in the filmed diarrhea that was "Batman Forever," and "Beauty Shop," but working with Britney Spears is where she draws the line. Really? Really? Wow.

I think I have a crush on Harry Potter. I'm fairly sure that's legal right? Not like a crush crush, but I LOVE those damned movies. I can't help it. It appeals to that inner kid that is still fascinated by magic, whimsy and all that other good shit. I believe the latest installment will be released this fall. YAAAAAAAY!

But in the meantime: go out, get some sun, show some cleavage!

Smooches!

Petty Inconvenience

2008-03-17T13:41:00.004-04:00

A while back, Grizzly was at my desk and effed up my WHOLE PROGRAM. He acknowledged his scruffy appearance as a "Grizzly Adams thing" he had going on. What the hell? Of all the damned nerve. How am I going to call this fuzzy bastard Grizzly, when he's calling himself Grizzly? It can't happen. Him using the name just takes the fun out of it. Now, I must suffer the inconvenience of coming up with another name. And if that weren't enough, I have been put on the spot, because I had no intention of changing his name.

So, until I come up with something snappy and fitting, I will refer to him as The Alpaca King.

[One may ponder, "Wh name him at all? Why not live and let live?" The answer: he will invariably work on my nerves, and when he does, I'll have to blog about it. I think it would be far LESS polite to put his "gubment" on my blog, wouldn't it?]

Calling All Readers

2008-03-14T15:47:00.002-04:00

It's been quite around these parts. Is 2008 kicking your butts? Well, this blog's for YOU.

Pick a topic, ANY topic, that you'd like me to post on, and I'll do it! I swear I will.

Get at me!

Psalms for Our Sons

2008-02-27T12:24:00.002-05:00

"I move in, and y'all must move on
'Cause I move too strong
And I know what my feet move for
Made it go without a brand new car
Made it fresh without a brand new song
And give a fuck about what brand you are
I'm concerned what type of man you are
What your principles and standards are
You understand me y'all"

- Mos Def "Sunshine"

In addition to being the mother of a lovely and exuberant little girl who will be seven next week, I also have a nine year old son, whom I affectionately refer to as "Finge." Finge is a terrific little guy; a little shy at first glance, but brainy and personable. This morning he looked at me and said, "Did you know the word gymnasium is actually Latin, and it meant 'school for gymnastics'?" He is lanky, awkward, makes straight A's in math and science, collects Pokemon cards, loves music, and plans to attend Johns Hopkins. And yet, I worry.

Despite my worring and potential difficulties, I still have to shape this boy into a man. Of course, there is no sure-fire method. I've seen young men with the best of circumstances get sentenced to life in prison; and those with the worst go on to become prime examples of black manhood. At the end of the day, it depends on us as parents, knowing, educating and loving our sons.

Character

In the March 2008 issue of Essence, Bill Cosby was interviewed regarding the deterioration of his hometown, Philadelphia. He addresses that much of the pitfalls are due to a lack of character in our young men; more specifically, the lack of parenting to develop that character. One of the biggest lessons taught to me by my father is that when character faces off against consequence, with time, character always wins. When your character, and not the consequence, motivates you on a principle, you are far more likely to adhere to that principle. So are we teaching our children not to steal and kill because they will go to jail? Or are we teaching them not to do these things because they are not theives and murderers? I urge you to not dismiss this as simple semantics.

It is said that mothers "raise their daughters and love their sons." It galls me when I see mothers poo poo the absolute antisocial behavior of their sons as them just being boys. That lack of direction spills into every aspect of their lives. I know that some people are against corporal punishment, and that's fine if that works for you. However, I'm a firm believer that, though my son is a good boy (and he is), he will test me by doing some off the chain shit, and I will not hesitate to put my foot in his ass (figuratively of course; not every issue can or should be solved with an ass whupping). How many times have we seen a boy being sent up for armed robbery, rape, or murder, only to hear his mother decry the charges because her son "was really a good boy." Maybe he was, but if you don't correct his character, that will only get you so far.

Respect for Women

I read another article in the above referenced issue of Essence, in which the editor expressed concern for the state of todays music; among her concern was the sexual overtones. Her seven year old was singing that Solja Boy "Superman" song. Of course, as any mother worth her salt would, she told him that he shouldn't sing that song. Conversely, as any seven year old worth his salt would, he asked her why. This is where things get tricky. She read him the "because I said so" act, because she couldn't "explain to him why it was inappropriate to sing about ejaculating on young girls." She's right, to a point. He wasn't ready for the raw dog explanation. However, it is never too soon to teach our young boys that girls are to be respected, and that song referenced a disrespectful act. The lyrics in the song say "then Superman that ho." He was too young to be told that ho is a disrespectful term? You can't entirely blame the music when you are shirking your teaching responsibilities.

Sexual Education

Answer your children's questions about sex. I mentioned in an earlier post that Finge recently asked me what it meant to masturbate, and I told him. After I explained what it was (in a manner appropriate for his age, it's not like I was sharing technicques), he said, "Oh, because my friend said it was [insert absurd explanation here]." Two things happened here: (1) I gave him an honest answer to a potentially tough question (I'm sure he didn't want to talk about choking his chicken with his mother any more than I did) without freaking the hell out; (2) I established that I know more than his friends, making it more likely for him to ask me questions later.

We need to be more cognizant of teaching our sons that their sexuality is not what defines them. The going message is that black males are little more than sexual beings, meant to conquer as many "females" (a term that goes through me, but I'll explain that when I discuss our young girls) as possible, as early as possible. The number of men that I know who lost their virginity before the age of 12 is staggering. And more often than not, it was to someone much older than themeselves. If you are a man and this has happened to you, you were sexually molested. You're not "lucky;" it's quite possible that you need counseling. We ignore these travesties, then wonder why so many of our boys are sexually immature, with multiple baby mamas.

Individuality

The other night, my son was griped to me and asked, "Mama, why did you teach me to speak this way? I speak TOO proper." Knowing that he was regurgitating what some other idiot told him, I asked where he got that idea. Surprise, surprise, it was his idiot father. It took me a moment to reply. I first had to conquer the overwhelming urge to say, "First of all, tell that dumb muthafucka that you don't 'speak proper', you 'speak properLY'." I instead told him that there was nothing wrong with the way he spoke, and just because some people don't like it, that really means little, because at the end of the day, if you like yourself, that's what matters. He then said, "Well, I think something might be wrong, because half the time, I don't understand what [idiot father's name] and the rest of them are saying." So then, of course, I had to again go to battle with my inner self, so as not to say, "That's because your soul has not been possessed by the spirit of powerful niggardry." Again, I was victorious.

Isn't it high time we stopped buying into the slave mentality that certain things are "for white people?" (Well, except for boxes of wine. Y'all can have that one white folks.) Can we just be glad that we have a kid who just MIGHT decide to be his own individual?

A lack of standing up for our boys explains why so many of them never quite make it to becoming men. I will not pretend to have all, or even most, of the answers. But I do know that if we don't change our tactics on a macro level, we are doing our boys a grave injustice.

My body is my temple; pie is the sacrament

2008-02-25T13:13:00.003-05:00

So, I've been cutting back on the foodage lately, and I'm feeling the results. Last night, I even went to McDonald's because I promised the kids, and I did NOT get an apple pie. What was my dessert? LOWFAT YOGURT BITCHES! Yogurt has been my standby from the way back. I remember being seven, and on the phone with one of my friends (what the hell did we have to talk about at seven?) and when I told her I was eating yogurt, she acted as though I descended from Neptune.

Where was I when wheat became the devil incarnate? All of a sudden, people are up in arms about wheat. And um, I'll be damned if I'm giving up my peanut butter and jelly, 'kay dude? Chill out with all that. Plus, don't whole grains clean out your insides? Isn't the roughage a good thing? (Does whole grain count as "roughage," or is that a term specifically for fruits and veggies?)

I'm registering my kids for some activities. Finge wants to play baseball and Lil Bit wants to dance. I'm not the most sociable of people, nor am I the "I've got the Gatorade and apple slices next week!" sort, but it seems I will have to get over it.

There are lots of sites out there geared toward weight loss. I tend to steer clear of those that endorse "diets." Instead, I refer to tips on improving my health and eating habits. I find that diets almost invariably exclude stuff I like. Who's going to give a damn that I'm skinny if I'm a 360 degree bitch? That's right up there with those Alli pills making oil leak out of your ass. I laugh at that every time I see the commercial.

Believe it or not, completely avoiding the Lifetime network is good for your health. Have you ever watched those movies? Two hours full of hypertension, "Oh HELL no," and "BITCH is you smokin' reefer?" I can't take it.

I just really don't want to be 35 riding a rascal y'all.

Bored

2008-02-21T12:36:00.002-05:00

My grandfather passed away this weekend. His story is a post of its own, but my family is acting like some coons right now, so I'm going to hold off for a couple of days on that. I'm placing a 72 hour moratorium on coonery in all of it's forms and leaving it at that.

I like to say the words "ginko biloba." Actually, when I say it, I really enunciate - "ginKO biLOOOOObah!" It's fun, and a stress reliever. Try it. I'll wait. *whistling* Feeling delightfully silly aren't you? Don't be afraid. It's good for the bowels.

My son is nine. He loves wrestling. This disturbs me, but I allowed him to watch Monday Night Raw. Um...really? Are we saying that it's okay for the little person dressed like a leprechaun to be beaten unconscious? Really? So...I'm the only person who sees this as the gayest shit ever? Okay.

I always think it's funny when I offer up my seat to a woman and she gives me that, "Did this bitch just call me old?" look.

I'm cleaning out my desk. There's a lot of crap that they hand out that I have never even given so much as a glance. So, File 13 it is.

Why are chicken wings so damned great. Can you think of ONE occasion where chicken wings would be inappropriate? If there is, I don't want to be there. I mean, yeah you can't have chicken wings in the middle of Bible study or court and stuff like that; but where there is food, so should there be wings.

I read something yesterday that has inspired a blog post, but since I've been freestyling it for a minute now, I want to make sure I do the post justice. Be on the lookout.

The other night, Finge asked me what masturbate means. So, I told him. He's been playing with that thing since he was three; now he knows what it's called.

I'm finally set up my home computer in the new place, but I've become so accustomed to not having the computer on, I think I've only used it once. It was to check my MySpace page. Yeah. I still feel like a loser every time I go to it.

My father has always had a good job, we've always had a nice home and we've always had a nice car. From that, once, long ago, I had a cousin that opined that my father "had millions and millions of dollars." My sister Shaun and I dismissed that as complete lunacy the other night. If my father had millions and millions of dollars, we would have lived in the Millenium Falcon. No, not a home version, not a "scale model;" the Millenium fucking Falcon. And instead of that station wagon, our car would have been Dr. Who's ship.

Grizzly now has a partner in crime. He has not committed any offenses worthy of garnering himself a name, but he has been placed on notice.

An Amalgamation of Hodge Podgery

2008-02-07T15:00:00.000-05:00

So today I was reading this hilarious piece of journalism. (I particularly loved the "OH SHIT! RUN!" sections.) Reading the comments, reminded me of the time this happened to me. I find it amazing how wound up one person can get by another's opinion, which combined with fifty cents can barely get you a bag of potato chips. I mean, I get heated over things, but I take it to my own forum. Then again, I guess all is fair, because sometimes, the opportunity to hand out a verbal evisceration is good for the soul.

Kwame Kilpatrick...*sigh*. I didn't really pay attention to this dude, but evidently, he is no stranger to trouble. I would love to do a synopsis, but I really don't have the time. Go to Wikipedia and do a search on this dude. Point of interest: He threw a party where a stripper named "Strawberry" was included as part of the "entertainment." Oh yeah, rumor is, she was killed in an effort to keep her quiet about said event. Strawberry. Nigga, you are the mayor. You do not get lapdances in city owned property by strippers named Strawberry. Where I'm from, that's what we call crack whores. I won't even get into him cheating on his wife and documenting the evidence on city owned communication devices. I'm going to walk away from this one.

Okay, I can't completely walk away from it. The chick he cheated with was his chief of "staff," Christine Beatty. While in discussion with a comrade, he questioned why Kilpatrick's wife was present when he made that disingenuous apology, yet we have not even seen a whisper of Beatty's husband. And as I explained to him: women deal with foolishness all the time, particularly when they have an employed man with a functioning penis. Does it set feminism back a million years? Yep, but it's a damned fact. Her employed functioning penis happens to be attached to a mayor, and I'm sure that she has come to enjoy certain luxuries that come with that. (Luxuries that come despite the fact that the city is apparently in debt. The median price of a home in Michigan, according to a news report a few weeks ago, is in the $40k range.) Christine Beatty, does not have these things going for her. She's a woman. Women have vaginas. I know we women like to believe that Cristal and fireworks issue forth from our vaginas, but at the end of the day, pussy is a dime a dozen. I'm willing to wager that the strippers that were busting it open at Magoonian Mansion could teach her a thing or two. I'm sorry, but a woman that texts "Did you miss me sexually" sounds a bit too Jane Hathaway to hold a candle to Lexus and Shardonnay (yes, that's with an "S"). That being said, who wants to be the man with the manure munching grin standing next to the dime a dozen pussy bitch on national television? That dude is at this very moment, getting plastic surgery and changing his Social Security number.

I have a new toy. Get your mind out the gutter. It's a Palm Centro. I haven't completely mastered how to use it as of yet. I'm wack.

What part of the game is this? The only thing that baffles me more than a person having the nerve to espouse their hatred in a place that SHOULD be founded on love, is the wonder at why a gay individual would WANT to support such an establishment. I'm sorry, I have enough on my hands dealing with my own orifices. As long as your sexual preference does not involve children, and especially MY children, I could really give less than a damn what you do. And even more pathetic is the fact that I'll bet at least HALF of those "real men" that stepped up are fucking around on their wives, as "uber Christian" men are wont to do. (See where Kilpatrick offered his shitty apology.)

I think I ran out of words, so until next time.

(Actually, I'm just being lazy, it's time to go home, and I can't think of a clever way to close this. So...Smooches, love, luck and lollipops!)

Not the one

2008-01-22T13:54:00.001-05:00

I recently made a difficult decision. When my kids' father calls, he gets sent directly to voice mail. I'm sure some may dismiss me as bitter baby mama, but that matters not to me.

I've grown weary of the Wack-a-Mole style of fathering he seems to have adopted. Whenever he decided he didn't want to contribute financially, or didn't want to be a parent during that time, he would be ghost. And for a long time, I tolerated it. When he would reappear, it would be as though nothing happened. It's been like this for almost seven years. And for almost seven years, I've tolerated it. He has not sent a dime to them since March of 2007. He's never sent them a pair of long underwear, boots, pencils for school, or done anything that shows he gives a damn.

Saturday, he called for the first time in two weeks. Now, one could argue that he's been busy. Well, if that were so, that means he's working, so he could send them provisions. One could argue that he has not been working. Well, if that were so, that means he has time, so he can call more regularly. Either way, it doesn't add up, so his ass went to voice mail.

So I made a judgment call. I am not going to act like his deadbeatism is something that will pass, and I will suffer it for the sake of some mythical benefit to my kids. The rollercoaster fucks them up. Everytime he disappears, my kids act a fool. And almost on schedule, when they're settled into their routine, he pops back up again. That's just not something I'm going to stand for. I can't in good conscience allow it.

If my kids were to come to me about a friend who only had time for them when it was convenient, or they had nothing better to do, I would tell them they need a new friend. Now, as he is their father, I can't exactly tell them that; but I refuse to treat him as though his sperm dontation gives him free reign to mishandle them as he sees fit. So, as far as I'm concerned, my kids call the shots. If they so happen to ask to talk to him, they are free to call. Two weeks and counting and they haven't asked for him yet. Sad.

"Fi Fie Fo Figga" Part Deux!

2008-01-18T12:03:00.000-05:00

I'm STILL fired up ya'll!! But I feel that I owe you an explanation why.

In addition to the inaction of our Black "leaders" and "voices," and piss poor job of spin that others have attempted, a young black woman got on the radio a week or so ago, and fixed her ghetto ass mouth to say that Obama should stop trying to run for President and be Clinton's VP. "BITCH is you smokin reefer?!" (c) Kanye West. When they went on to ask her why, she said, "Iono...he just...I mean...um..." then proceeded to recite some innacurate drivel that shows she was about as politically educated as Jenna Jameson is a virgin.

I am incensed by the fact that we see the biased images in the media day after day, and yet we believe that the media will give Obama a fair shake. I am INCENSED by the fact that Bob Johnson had the absolute gall to try and speak negatively about a brother who is truly trying to effect change. I am incensed by the fact that Al Sharpton seems to have taken a "Well, yall muhfukkas ain't vote for me, I ain't supporting his ass neevah!" THE FIRST BLACK PRESIDENT CAN NOT HAVE A PERM YA SELF SERVING BASTARD! And what incenses me more than anything? In all of this, who agrees with me? FUCKING OPRAH!! Has the world really come to this? Me and Oprah are on the same page? Get the hell outta here!

As I said yesterday, no matter what you think of her (and for the record, I do not dislike Hillary) she KNOWS this politics shit. Go to www.HillaryClinton.com. Notice anything? No? Not even the curiously absent "Rodham?" It doesn't even appear in her bio, except when referencing her father (though I half expected to read "Hugh Father-In-Law-to-Bill-Clinton"). Additionally, where's the lezzie haircut that she had been sporting before? (Personally, I was glad when she got rid of those hairbands, but that's neither here nor there.) Do you find it a mere coincidence that she started with the Obama attacks almost immediately after she got shut down on her national healthcare joint.

I'm not saying that any old Joe who runs for President should be supported by us just because he has a black face. However, I dare one person to highlight how Obama is "any old Joe." Maybe if Arsenio comes back, he can jump on his show and do some niggerish shit. Maybe folks will like him then.

* Also brought to you by Getyoshitryte Productions

"Fi Fie Fo Figga, I Can't Stand a Nigga" (c) Chris Rock

2008-01-17T16:02:00.000-05:00

You know what grinds my gears? NIGGAS! Yes, niggas. I am vaguely annoyed with the number of prominent black voices that seem to go out of their way to not endorse Barack Obama. I think voting is a personal thing, and if you want to know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em" when it comes to who garners your support, more power to you. However, it admittedly makes their cries for increases in black progress ring a little hollow. Al Sharpton, Tavis Smiley, Michael Baisden all fall into this category. This doesn't, however, make them niggas. It just makes me believe that I was right to view them as questionable.

That being said: Bob Johnson - YOUSE A SUPANIGGA! I will not bother to further print his original ignorant statement, nor his equally ignorant and lying "retraction." But I will say this: exactly what have YOU done for the black community Mr. Johnson? Let's flip it despite being a product of a single parent family AND making damaging mistakes in his youth, he went on to position himself as the first black man to have a true shot at becoming President. And as he was positioning himself to make this a reality, you were. . .? Oh yeah, perpetuating the glorification of gangster culture, drug abuse, and bringing us BET uncut. I'm also fairly certain you weren't a teenager when you did this. My math may be rusty, but I'm certain you were comfortably in your fifties.

I want to say this to my black folks: It's okay to support Obama. You don't have to apologize for it. For those of you who will say that I like him because he's black, allow me to quote Bernie Mac: "You muthafuckin right." He is black, he is the product of a single parent home, graduated from one of the most respected Universities in the country, IS MARRIED TO A BLACK WOMAN, IS A BLACK FATHER, and I agree with his politics. And I'll keep it real: if it's a contest between a black man and a white woman, I'LL CHOOSE A BLACK MAN EVERY DAY OF THE WEEK AND TWICE ON SUNDAYS. And I'm going to go so far as to say that not enough black people will do that. If it's a beauty contest, and the only contests are Buster Douglas and that light eyed white woman in the Victoria's Secret catalogue, Buster will be a sash wearing so-and-so, and Leon Spinks will be the first runner up. And I'll do it because not enough of us are willing to stand up FOR us.

As far as the Clintons go, I appreciate the fact that black folks came up during the Clinton administration, but let's not be fooled: I don't know of anyone who voted the "Clinton/Clinton" ticket. A friend reminded me of a Chris Rock quote, "If my wife gets up here and starts telling jokes, you're gonna want your money back." I'm not saying that she's automatically UNqualified, but as I said before Bill Clinton sperm does not automatically make you a qualified President.

I've seen a lot of accusations of Obama running the "race" ticket. Where? Despite ALL that has been said, show me ONE INSTANCE where he has displayed "Angry/Paranoid Blackmanism." The Clintons know this politics shit backward and forward. So do their people. Don't think for one moment that the things that have gone on are "slip ups." Don't think for one moment that what Bob Johnson said was him being accidentally overzealous. It's bait. Bait that Obama has YET to take, and yet, far too many people, black and white, have been willing to believe what's been said. We ceaselessly complain about black misrepresentation in the media, and yet, believe that everything about the first black man with a valid shot at the Presidency is going to get a fair shake. We are not that naive. A long time ago, I read the first book in the Left Behind series. In it, the villian shot a man in a room full of people. He then turned to that same room full of people, mentioned the tragedy of that man shooting himself, and they accepted it as gospel.

And I would like to dispel, once and for all, Clinton as the first black president. Give me a reasonable explanation as to why 800,000 Africans in Rwanda were killed and "our" President did NOTHING (besides the explanation that white people are already running all things financial in Africa), then don't come to me with that shit. Or explain why during his administration, while waging the war on drugs, people of color were disproportionately receiving harsher sentences than their white counterparts (other than prison labor is legalized slavery), I would appreciate that as well. Until then, don't come to me with that weak shit.

I'm sure I have more ranting, but it's quittin time.

*Brought to you by Getyoshitryte Productions

Blogging to Exhale

2008-01-12T20:50:00.000-05:00

I'm posting from my BlackBerry, so excuse the typos. I've been attempting to get back into my more organic writing, so I broke out the old composition notebook and started banging out some work.I had some success yesterday, which made me happy. Today, it was a little harder to "flow." I didn't let it stop me, of course, but it was slightly distressing.

One of my favorite CDs is Amel Larrieux's "Morning." Aside from the fact that I have always found her a wonderful talent, the CD came at a very timely point in my life. It wasn't supposed to be my CD. The guy I was dating at the time mentioned that he wanted it, and I bought it for him for his birthday. He kind of dumped me before I had the chance to give it to him, so the CD was mine.

I have this habit where I inadvertently ignore the last song on a CD, particularly when there are quite a few songs that I love ahead of it. So this week, I really listened to the final song on Amel's CD, "Great Mountain of When."

I'm going through some sort of crisis, where I suddenly feel unfulfilled and empty. I believe "lost" is the correct word. Of all the things in my life that I lacked, direction was never one of them.

I acknowledge that I'm not driven in the traditional sense; I'm not ascending the corporate ladder, and such. But I have always handled my business. I've always excelled at my job and enjoyed what I did. I've always fed my literary hunger and never have up on my writing. So this toilet spiral thing that I'm feeling is scaring me shitless.

I'm beginning to feel that, by not taking my writing more seriously, I've cheated myself. My writing, my art, is my heart. As Erykah Badu said, "I'm an artist, and I'm sensitive about my shit." My reasons for not taking my writing to the next level are tantamount to a commitmentphobe halting a relationship. "What if it doesn't work out?"

Getting back to my point, in her song, Amel says:

"Plotting the course
While I'm stick at the bend
Penchant for rocky terrains and dead ends
Wind myself up just to unravel into
A great mountain of when

Predicting a loss
Before I begin
So it don't cut too deep when I don't win
I hate it when I'm right
I'd rather be wrong
I'd rather be wrong..."

I really have to put on my big girl drawers and deal with it.

This is for your own safety

2008-01-09T11:11:00.000-05:00

I'm about to discuss some real personal shit, which may or may not be for the faint of heart. Now, don't get yourself hyped up, because it may not be that exciting. I'm not even completely sure what I'm going to say here. But, at least you can say you've been warned.

A week or two ago, I was talking to my pops. In the past year, I've added roughly 20 pounds to my already overburdened frame. As it is the beginning of the year, there are a host of weight loss programs trying to get you down with their shit, and I was politicking with him over some choices. Somehow, we got into how I just love food -- arguably a trait that I inherited from him. He then said, "Well, that's understandable. What's probably going on is that you're using food as a companion."

*SCREEEEEEEEEEEEECH* Did my pops just say that I'm not getting any dick, so I've made pie my lover? You fanny pack wearing mutha...

In the two years that I've lived here, I haven't dated much. Admittedly, though I lacked quantity, the quality was nice. We're talking late 20s/early 30s, so that's how it should be anyway.

Let me go on record as saying that (partially due to circumstance, dating out of my area code and such) I have more fingers and toes than I have had sexual encounters in the last two years. It's not surprising. I work, I have kids, I write, I spend time plotting and scheming my way to greatness, I don't go out much. At the present time, I'm still dealing with whatever feelings I have for El Chupacabra Hunter. So I haven't always had the time, and more recently, the inclination to be involved with anyone on that level. I simply take matters into my own hands, as it were.

But I think I've lost my mojo.

Make no mistake, extra poundage and all, I still have "it." Men dig me. If I were a lesbian, I'd be backstroking in hoes. I've got swagger because, though I can use improvement, I like what I see in the mirror. I fucks with me. That's not the issue.

Recently, more times than I care to count, while attempting to ascend Mt. St. Mamba, and . . . remember that time in Spiderman 2, when he was sailing through the sky, then suddenly, he couldn't get his web off? Yeeeeeaaaaahhhh . . .

WHAT

THE

FUCK?!

For the record, me, my pieces, parts, and "trusty friend" are like *crossing fingers* THIS son! This is me baby! It's win-win. I don't have to finesse my own ass, I don't need to consult Google maps for directions, I don't have to ask myself if I had a good time. YOU DAMNED RIGHT I HAD A GOOD TIME. Therefore, this new situation is quite disturbing. A couple of times, it has ended with me throwing up my hands in disgust and saying, "This is some old bullshit!"

I've tried switching up the game - porn, "mood lighting," throwing on sandals and capris and reciting bad poetry - yet the only thing missing is the Family Feud buzzer sound.

This is a major issue for me people. And do not think for one moment that this has not been reflected in my disposition. Grizzly came around here talking that dumb shit, and even his socially inept ass looked at my face and realized that he'd better break out. I'm screaming on old folks in traffic, I almost punched a cashier, and I asked a stupid customer service rep if her parents were siblings.

I feel compelled to state for the record that I'm not peddling my ass on the net, nor am I looking for offers. I'm really beyond the random hook-up/maintenance thing. I know that this is the symptom, and not the problem, but getting to the root of this problem is crucial. I considered titling this blog "The Audacity of Busting a Nut," but I don't want no beef with Obama. Therefore, I'll just close with a little of Jill Scott's "Celibacy Blues."

This here celibacy thing
Lawd, just got something over me
Like an addict, I could really use a thing
You know what I'm talking about
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

It's been hard to sleep at night
And ying ying ying ying just ain't
Scratching it right
I get some new batteries almost every night
Lawd,this here celibacy thing

The stresses of this world
You know how they come down on a girl
I'm trying to clear my mind
But all I seem to find
Is this gangsta,gangsta,type of need

People say mind over matter
But,I don't mind what they say
And it don't matter
This here celibacy thing
Is working on me...

Celebrity Hodge Podge and Other Stuff

2008-01-08T16:52:00.000-05:00

Beyonce is a beautiful woman. She's got a dynamite body. Her singing voice is that of the angels. So can someone please tell me what the fuck happens when she starts talking? I know I wasn't the only one who thought, "If this girl is the 'leader' of the group, why is Kelly doing all the talking." Uh...we found out. In and of itself, big damn deal. Nobody's perfect. She can't enunciate. But how in the hell does she keep getting gigs as a spokesperson? Right now, she's got L'Oreal, DirecTV, and American Express. I won't count the fragrance, because she's singing, and she can do the hell out of that. I'm taking bets on how many takes she had to run through before she properly pronounced "infallible." Sometimes she talks and I can't help but think, "Is this heffa about to rob me?" I'm not hating the player, but I'm definitely questioning the game.

Maybe if Reggie Bush would have pulled himself from betwixt the rump cheeks of Kim Kardashian, the Saints could have gone to the damned playoffs. That thing is clearly a distraction.

I saw a picture of Sean "Puffy" Combs' (that Negro will ALWAYS be Puffy to me) twin girls. They are quite adorable. However, it would seem they eat other babies. Great day in the morning they're fluffy. Let me say that the sight of them in cheetah print light years beyond country. But what do you expect when they're mother is the Bamma Drag Queen of the Undead. (Say what you will about Puffy, I am hard pressed to believe that he sanctioned country ass cheetah print on toddlers.)

I enjoy cooking shows. I really like Paula Deen, even though she scares me sometimes. Adding short ribs to french onion soup was really a bit much for me. I like that she's somewhat off the beaten path, and her meals are doable. Doable and drenched in butter. I believe that simply watching her show raises your cholesterol.

On the opposite end of the spectrum - who in the hell did Rachel Ray blow to get a job? (A friend relayed a funny story about a guy not wanting a BJ from Rachel Ray because she'd probably talk through the whole thing.) I understand the whole "meals for everywoman" mentality, because not every woman is a cook. But is this bitch really getting paid for showing me how to warm up a Hot Pocket?

When I first moved to Maryland, I documented on this very blog my hatred for Ikea. I believe I named it "Satan's Workshop" or something of the sort. Quite frankly, furnishing your house with them can be hellacious. But there is no denying that their annual winter sale commercial is entirely off the chain. The way she "runs" is priceless, and her husband looked like he was was about to shit his pants.

Does consuming "the sacrament" of Bill Clinton make one an experienced politician? If so, shouldn't that fat pasty bitch from back in the day be running for mayor? (For the life of me, I can't remember her name...Monica something? Monica Selles keeps popping up, but I know that's the tennis chick.)

Happy New Year Bitches!

2008-01-01T00:45:00.000-05:00

The shit really has to stop. Will someone please give me the number to elderly and infirm abuse services or whatever agency applies? Because if I see these New Years Eve folks pimp out Dick Clark's ass one mo' gin, it's gonna be a misunderstanding. It was all good until he got excited and started talking fast. I will quote my aunt from Plaquemines Parish who would say, "Y'all need ta leave him set where he at."

I did find it funny when that Chuck Wagon Stew eating brawd said that her New Year's Resolution waws to not date ugly guys. WTF? I was sitting there asking, "This heffa is getting dates?!"

I guess I believe more in goals that resolutions. So here are a few personal reminders and goals for 2008:

My children are my greatest assets, loves, adventures and reflections.

To try and live my life according to what I believe is true and right.

Love is perfect; people are not. We will be disappointed by the people we love and will will disappoint those who love us. Shortcomings don't make us any less worthy.

Every person has a story. If I can remember that, I will be more inclined towards understanding rather than harsh judgment.

"Seconds" are not a necessary part of a meal, pie is not a food group and pilates is not of the devil.

Continuing to be unabashedly Breez, Black Mamba, Lady Sol and Melanie seems to suit me just fine, so I think I'll stick with that script.

Happy 2008, people!!!

Rap Beef Nigga!

2007-12-29T01:38:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I'm admittedly flip at the mouth. Though I typically think before I say things, there are times where I intentionally use strong words and can be a bit abrasive. But that usually takes place when the topic itself is abrasive and controversial. I do not mince words.

I found myself in a exchange regarding the housing situation in New Orleans. I'm sure that many of you have been aware of the controversy related to the projects and low income housing in New Orleans. They're tearing down "da bricks" to make room for "mixed income housing." Now on the surface, it sounds good. Unfortunately, there is not one monumental task in the city of New Orleans that has been seen to fruition without a load of bullshit. Don't believe I have a cause for concern? How's that levee thing going? The BIGGEST issue in New Orleans history, and the city is still not hurricane ready, almost two-and-a-half years later. So pardon me if I don't believe that poor people will not get the shaft here.

Now, there are an abundance of people that chide project dwellers for "always wanting a handout" and "not wanting to work" and blah blah blah. When you point out the fallacy of their almost robotic regurgitation of "I got mine" rhetoric, offense is automatically taken. And honestly, that's cool. I have the right to my opinion, and everyone else has the right to be offended by my opinion. But at the end of the day, I still hold on to my opinion.

My big question, which has never been answered to any degree of satisfaction is this: who is willing to pay their janitors $30K a year? Who is willing to pay pharmacy technicians $15 an hour? How about hotel maintenance staff? The very backbone of what keeps the New Orleans tourism industry running pays crap. These are all taxing jobs. Yet, many these folks can barely make rent without public assistance, living in the projects, etc.

I remember being newly separated, with a four month old daughter and a two month old son. I worked at Hibernia National Bank FULL TIME, and after four promotions, I made $1300 a month. My rent was $500, my child care was $650 at the time. When all was said and done, I had $150 to pay for groceries, electricity, a telephone, bus fare, doctor's appointments, medicine, you name it. I remember locking myself in my room crying, because my son dropped the last roll of toilet paper in the toilet, and I didn't have enough money to get another roll AND buy the milk that we needed. Me, a woman who worked every day. A woman who kept working hard to get to the next level like she was told to, only to realize that next level came with a salary instead of overtime pay. At the end of the year, I was thanked with a $12 gift certificate to Sav-A-Center to go towards my family's holiday dinner. What made this particularly fucked up was that my landlord gave me a $25.00 gift certificate.

The end result for me, was being homeless. No, not under the bridge homeless, or in my car homeless, but homeless nonetheless. Make no mistake, when you are above the age of majority, and you "live" in a place where your name isn't on anything involved in keeping that place running, and for that matter, you don't even know if someone's bad mood require your moving, your ass is homeless. I lived in a hotel for four months. Me, a woman who worked every day.

Now, eventually, I got another job. But you'd better believe that I was replaced with SOMEONE -- someone who was probably making less than I (since, keep in mind, I attained my beloved salary after a host of promotions and five years on the job). And I had a "good" job. Hmph.

So, until someone answers me with any satisfaction, I will have major beef with this housing demolition. It's not about being pro-black. It's about a moral obligation to people who are doing the best that they can. Are there people sitting on their asses in these places? Yes. However, if we had fewer city EMPLOYEES getting paid to sit on their asses and do nothing, maybe system abuses could be better monitored. Or maybe if NOPD wasn't so damned corrupt, the criminals wouldn't be running the bricks with abandon.

But I guess that's too much like the right damned thing to do.

I could go on, but really, people are going to say what they're going to say and feel what they're going to feel. This just so happens to be my spot, so I'm doing it here.

Happy Belated Festivus!

2007-12-25T20:53:00.000-05:00

I grew up not celebrating Christmas. So of course, when I got older, one of the first things I decided to do was to celebrate Christmas...and ultimately felt a little silly. I'm sure if I grew up with a firm tradition, it would be easy-peazy. However, I did not, so going through the motions of something that I don't quite believe in rang a little hollow with me. Plus, I could not bring myself to teach my kids that Santa Claus exists, only to shatter that belief years down the line, forever branding myself as the parent that lies to kids because that's what they want to hear. I'm saying all that to say, Christmas really isn't my thing.

That being said, something about a passing year makes me long for my friends and family. It's hard for me to fathom that an entire year has passed and the memories that I have made with my friends and loved ones are so few and far between. This is the first time I've ever felt truly lonely during the holiday season. I called my sister the other day and she said she was playing Scrabble. I got incredibly sad at the thought of not being able to call a friend, or shit, even a casual acquaintance to do something as simple as play a game of Scrabble.

I'm never one to believe that I'm the only one going through rough times. I'm sure that I've got friends out there who are down as well, so, if you're feeling a little down or lonely or what have you during this holiday season, I hope this song picks you up like it picked me up.

Ignance!

2007-12-18T13:22:00.000-05:00

Hey guys, it's your favorite cynic returning from a brief hiatus. It's not that I haven't had anything to say, it's not that I haven't had time, and it's definitely not that I don't love you. My computer desk at home collapsed (yes, collapsed, this is not an exaggeration) and since I have yet to replace it, I have to sit on the floor to use the computer. This makes my butt fall asleep, which hurts people. So, the blog has been lacking.

But fear not, I have some December jewels or you. It's winter, so you want something warm and fuzzy don't you? Well, fortunately for you, I'm a good mama, so I'm going to give you what you NEED: a heaping helping of my caustic mental gumbo. Please note the plethora of tags/labels here.

It would seem that prisons should make "The Shawshank Redemption" required viewing for their employees. Jose Espinoza, recently plead guilty to aggravated manslaughter, and Otis Blunt, was being held on robbery and weapons charges. Blunt dug a hole into Espinoza's cell. Espinoza dug a hole to the outside. I'm sorry; did I mention they were in the "most secure area of the facility?" The most secure area of the facility had one cinderblock separating an admitted killer from the great outdoors. Like Shawshank, they concealed their progress by covering the holes with bikini clad women. It was funny to watch the New Jersey prosecutor poo-poo the similarities. And by similarity, I mean that they did the exact same shit that was done in the movie. . .except it was more difficult for dude to get out in the movie. Two armed and dangerous criminals, who were kind enough to leave a thank you note to the prison, are now running loose in suburban New Jersey. AWESOME!

Meanwhile, in Iowa, John Edwards was involved in an exchange between an older white guy who essentially has no interest in Obama and the rest of his watermelon eating cronies leaving chicken bones on the White House Lawn. And uh, somehow, the O.J. verdict came up? Something about O.J. and Obama being payback for black mistreatment by white society. First of all, black people ain't fuck with O.J. like that since before "Naked Gun." I will have to defer (once again) to another quote from one of my favorite movies to wrap up my feelings on this.

Copperhead: You have every right to want to get even.
The Bride: No. No. To get even? Even-Steven? I would have to kill you, go up to Nikki's room, kill her, then wait for your husband to come home, and kill him. That would be even, Verntia. That'd be about square.

So don't think for one second payback, if such a thing were desired, would come so easily.

Pamela Anderson Lee Rock Salomon. She was married to Tommy Lee once. Then they separated, and reconciled and divorced. Wash, rinse, repeat with Kid Rock. So she married Rick Salomon in October, filed for divorce this past week, and they are now trying to work it out. Five dollars says what happens next. This proves only one thing: douchebags are unafraid of exposing themselves to sexually transmitted hepatitis. Then again, Kid Rock kind of reminds me of a cross between Pigpen and a petri dish. Who knows what he's had!

This past weekend, I watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Show of hands: who can watch these movies and escape the desire to smite someone's ruins upon a mountainside? Anyone? Anyone at all? That's what the hell I thought. Them shits are the BOMB!!!

As a pre-Christmas gift, I'm saving the best for last. I was caught in, what can best be defined as a nigga moment. I unapologetically offended someone. I firmly believe that every action has a reaction. I also believe that when a person feels you have wronged them, you can't control how they feel and/or respond. Unfortunately, that's not my fucking problem. Maybe I should elaborate.

I was involved in a conversation with two other coworkers, when the topic of hustlin' and slangin' somehow came up. I made the statement that such behavior is ignorant. I did know that one of those parties used to hustle. I did know that he would get a gleam in his eye at the mere mention of the name Rayful Edmond. I did not know that he was going to spontaneously menstruate at my desk. My firm conviction led me to be called "naive," "a slave to the man," "judgmental," "think you're better than people," and ultimately, my problem was diagnosed as "thinking I know every fucking thing." I'm hating on the hustlers for "grabbing the bull by the horns." In addition, since I work in the litigation department, what I do is no better than hustling, because "crime is crime, just because it's white collar crime doesn't make it any different."

Good argument. Crime is crime. And I'll be the first to say that ain't no thug like a corporate thug. I'll second that with saying that this justice system is deplorable. You know and I know that the right people lobbied for THEIR drugs, and they lobbied harder (i.e. paid off more people) to get their shit pushed and make their competitors shit illegal. I'll concede every bit of that.

Unfortunately for his argument, my job is not illegal. Unfortunately for his argument, my job is not the reason people look over their shoulders at the ATM. Unfortunately for his argument, my job is not the crutch that the middle and upper middle class "haves" use to justify why low income "have-nots" in New Orleans should be denied their homes. My job doesn't create chain snatchers, and orphans. My job does not lead people to the legal institutionalized slavery that is the United States Justice system.

Naive? No sir. I learned the rules to this game a LONG time ago. I think son was just pissed that this sheltered East Shore kid schooled his hustling ass to the game. But as Money Mike said, "You can lead a ho to water, but you can't make [him] think."

Today's Mental Oasis

2007-12-05T13:11:00.000-05:00

Dust of Snow

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

- Robert Frost

Today, we're getting our first snow of the season. I am visualizing myself in this very moment, at home in my cushy chair; covered by warm blanket fresh out of the dryer; a mug full of hot egg nog healthily dosed with some of the most delicious dominican rum on earth. I've just dozed off with a book in my hand because Coltrane's "Stardust" is softly playing in the background. As the song ends, I become alert. I then put on my thickest cable-knit sweater, jeans, boots, coat, scarf and gloves and venture outside.

Once downstairs, I dust off the bench below my bedroom window and just sit there for a couple of minutes. I watch the powdery snow cover the table in front of me, and I write my name in it; the way I used to when I was 15. I'd curve the final "e" all the way up and over, then draw a smiley face inside of it. Undoubtedly silly, but I wrote my name that way for a solid year. I deliberately came outside without a hat, because I love when snow gets in my hair (plus my hats no longer fit). I try to see how many good things in my life I can list before the snow that touches my lips melts.

Sitting there I realize, even when things are bad, they're not that bad.

And since I couldn't sit on that bench in the snow physically, I think this is the next best thing.

Stop in the name of love!

2007-12-03T12:05:00.000-05:00

Fewer things irritate me more than dating based reality TV shows. Watching a group of misguided, love starved souls vie for the attention of another misguided, love starved soul of the desired sex is not my idea of good television. Though I pride myself as the person who doesn't stop and stare at accidents, occasionally, my curiosity gets the better of me and I play looky-loo.

Flavor of Love 1 & 2: The powers-that-be don't think civilization has sunk far enough into the abyss, so we will soon be cursed with a third installment of this travesty. A group of women vie for the affections of Flavor Flav. Did you just vomit in your mouth? Yeah. Me too. Basically, women kick, scream, claw and otherwise degrade their way to the position as Flav's chosen one. He proceeds to rename the women as it suits him; you know, like in slavery. At the end of it all, she's presented with a grill. My heart is all aflutter.

I Love New York 1 & 2: When tallying the sins committed by Flav's show, few are as unforgivable as the unleashing of Tiffany "New York" Pollard upon humanity. After being twice dumped by Flav, her own reality show was launched. She fills her house with a bunch of suspect dudes. At the end of the first season, the "finalists" (because she's the "prize?") were this beefy dude named named Mango or something like that, and another dude who essentially needed subtitles in real life. Currently, it is in the midst of it's second installment, and a bigger group of pussies I've never seen. There's this dude that looks like he lives with his mama, a swole Puerto Rican with a press-n-curl, and a general assortment of douche bags. Now, I must say, there is one dude named Buddha that caused my eyes to linger for a moment...Until I realized "This nigga wears smedium tank tops and evidently pursues women who are obviously no stranger to the free clinic." Next.

Rock of Love: Bret Michaels of the hair band Poison headlines this show. Basically, imagine Flavor of Love, but white trashy. I could elaborate, but I believe Joe McHale of "The Soup" said it best: "It's like a Tupperware party...but with chlamydia." To my dismay, this too shall repeat.

A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila: This one kind of confuses me. I know who Flavor Flav is. I know who Bret Michaels is. I even know who New York is. But, Tila Tequila? No fucking clue. So I'll tell you what I do know. This bisexual midget brings slew of men and women into her house (I love that they refer to it as their houses, I'm sure it's the network's joint). Though uncertain of her gender preference, she just knows that she wants to be fucking - something. I swear that every time my television passes this channel, I feel the need to pop an antibiotic just to be safe. Since there are so many individuals there, she dismisses them two at a time. Soon we shall find who has the greater appreciation for skanks: emotionally damaged lesbians, or douchebag heterosexual males.

And this, my people, is entertainment. It's strangely ironic that my feelings can be summed up best by Public Enemy: "Burn, Hollywood, burn!"

What's Good in My Hood

2007-11-30T09:53:00.000-05:00

The Whip: Last week when I won my car, I was on the verge of tears, but I didn't cry. I was really just overwhelmed. However, this morning, when I watched the woman receive her car, I started bawling. Life has been so much easier with the aid of my new baby though. My free $15 gas card gave me 3/4 of a tank, so though the gas station ass raping is certain, it will be more Ryan Seacrest and less Lexington Steele.

Hot Steaming Relations: It's been a while since I've had sex. I'm not saying I qualify as a female eunuch, but seasons have changed and shit. But given my general disinterest in dating at the present time, combined the report that 37.5% of HIV occurrences in DC stem from heterosexual contact, I guess I'll stick to masturbation, chocolate, the gym, shoe shopping and, um, masturbation.

Good Ass Television: For those of you looking for good television, now is the time to reacquaint yourself with "Law & Order: Special Victims Unit." This has been a stellar season. I know that some were getting burned out on Mariska Hargitay, but now that she's finally received her Emmy, they're giving us a break. Additionally, "Life" (Wednesday, 9:00 p.m. EST) is delightful.

The Math Master: Last night, I asked Finge how he was doing in school, and questioned him about math. His reply? "I'm sorry, are you talking to me? Are you asking ME about math? ME? The MATH MASTER?"

Neck Tattoos: Color me judgmental, but I find it hard to believe that one has a serious life plan in place when you have "Sexy Black" tattooed on your neck. Other people's names and Asian symbols are even worse. I'm not taking your seriously. I'm not.

Husband Auditions: My homeboy has opined (and I am inclined to agree) that women past a certain age do not so much date, as they audition husbands. To a certain extent, I have done that. Not that I'm in a hurry to walk down the aisle and such, but I have to honestly weigh out, "Can I tolerate the fact that he always corrects my sentences/scratches his ass in public?" and shit like that. Another homeboy of mine stated that more women would do well to do so. With that, I'm on the fence. When you treat every man like a "prospect" you WILL find a husband. However, this does not guarantee you will find the husband that you want. Caveat emptor.

Being Alive: While in conference with my brother from another mother, I was telling him about my blues. His response was that I've been so busy surviving and I need to start living. And, though that sounds right, I haven't got the first clue where to begin. But I'll be damned of the prospect of beginning that journey in my brand new car doesn't sound positively delicious!

Good things come to those who

2007-11-23T19:30:00.000-05:00

PRAY!

So, it's no secret that autumn hasn't brought the best of news. I found out some more earth shaking information that makes my other issues pale in comparison, but I'm still scratching and surviving.

So imagine how I felt when this happened to me this morning.

It turns out my homegirl was in on the WHOLE thing. Let me state for the record that old girl was really taking a big chance with the police knock that time of morning, but it's gravy. I've been saying prayers of thanks ALL DAY.

Whoa, that was angry...

2007-11-18T13:07:00.000-05:00

"I been sayin' that shit for years. And if you ever heard it, it meant your ass. I never really questioned what it meant. I thought it was just a cold-blooded thing to say to a motherfucker before you popped a cap in his ass. But I saw some shit this mornin' made me think twice. Now I'm thinkin': it could mean you're the evil man. And I'm the righteous man. And Mr. 9mm here, he's the shepherd protecting my righteous ass in the valley of darkness. Or it could be you're the righteous man and I'm the shepherd and it's the world that's evil and selfish. I'd like that. But that shit ain't the truth. The truth is you're the weak. And I'm the tyranny of evil men. But I'm tryin', Ringo. I'm tryin' real hard to be a shepherd."
- Jules Winnfield [Samuel Jackson] "Pulp Fiction"

So, um, wow, that last post ended on kind of a sour note. I broke my rules and altered the post, for the sake of my own dignity more than anything else. The fact remains I'm still angry. And maybe the anger is unfair, and maybe were one to hear the other side of the story, I would come out looking like a complete bitch. If so, I'll BE that. But I think I have the right to be angry, considering after constant reassurance, I get dumped by email and never hear from dude again.

And maybe he has his reasons, and maybe this is a shitty way to air my dirty laundry. But you know what? That was a shitty and fucked up way to handle me, so for now, I am going to pout and stomp my feet and be angry for a little while.

Admittedly, do I have a million other things going on that are exacerbating my issues? Sure. But this is my blog, and I'm going to say what I want on it.

Part of me is thankful, because if a person can walk away so thoughtlessly, well, good fucking riddance. But it's still hurtful and it's still fucked up and it's still shitty. And SICK. Most of all, THAT SHIT IS SICK AND MEAN. And for the record, I'm trying REALLY hard to be the shepherd. I swear I am. But sometimes, it's necessary to be the tyranny of evil men, just to keep yourself from exploding.

Please note, I'm not posting this for "men ain't shit" commentary (though I don't think my female readers subscribe to that theory anyway) nor do I want sympathy. I really just wanted to purge in my own space and be done with it, because I'll be damned if I'm going to ruin my fucking Sunday sniffling and choking back tears all day...fucking up my pedicure and shit.

You know I got posts!

2007-11-18T12:38:00.000-05:00

"It's been a long time, I shouldn'ta left you, without a strong [blog] to step to!"
- Rakim "I Know You Got Soul"

Your favorite blogger (that would be me, you ain't know?) has found herself in some heavy shit these last two weeks, which partially explains my being incognegro. Essentially, I've been engaging in some heavy "scheme, scheme, plot, plot" to handle my situation. Well, I've been doing that and playing Hobo Wars on Facebook. Friggin Amadeo got me hooked. (Usually, I would place a link to his blog here, but he's in my "Must Reads" column to your right, so, I'm going to be lazy.) To him, I can say but one thing for getting me hooked on this legalized crack. KHHHHHHAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNN!!!

So I'll be moving, downsizing actually. I'm not thrilled with the ideas, but I'm short on time and choices, so I'm handling my biz. The icing on the cake is that I lost my wallet Friday night. Fortunately, I rarely keep money in it, so I had my trusty $5 in the zippered portion of my purse. I guess that's good. Of course, now I need to get a new driver's license, wait for my new bank and credit cards to come and put out an alert on my license and credit card. This sucks ASS. Last year this time, I was the shuttle bus headed to my cruise. Happy 31st Birthday? (Well, not yet, next Saturday is actually the day.)

I have decided that next year, I am going on an adventure? Have I blogged about this already? Well, I had tentative plans to go on an exciting vacation this summer, but those plans fell through. SOOOOOOO, next year, I'm planning an excursion of my own. I've always wanted to see Venice.

I've come to terms with happily ever after not being for me, and the whole "domestic" thing really not fitting into the lifestyle of this Maverick, so, fuck it. I've finally got it in my mind that obsessing over a person who couldn't give so much as a fart bubble about me is a fairly stupid and pathetic way to live ones life. Frankly, I was doing just fine before his bullshit.

There. I said it.

Do You!

2007-11-10T22:36:00.000-05:00

When life happens, particularly to women, it is really easy to let yourself go. I woke up this morning and watched "Tim Gunn's Guide to Style." For the most part, the show is made up of women who ease into their roles of wife and/or mother, and forget themselves. I remember when I was going through my drama toward the end of my marriage, I went through a transformation of Quasimodo proportions. My daughter was only three months old, I was as big as a Buick and I felt as though I had the world on my shoulders. I know what it's like to forget who you are. I know what it's like to lose yourself. I know what it's like to spend so much time catering to everyone else's needs, that you know longer see yourself as a being that needs catering of her own.

But I reclaimed my life. And one of the first things I did to signify reclaiming myself was getting a hair weave. . .down my back. In retrospect, I was still lost, and the concept was slightly silly, but it was a step toward rediscovery. Let me rephrase: it was MY step toward rediscovering MYself.

After taking your first step up, no matter how minor it may seem to the outside world, looking back at yourself and where you were is akin to peering down at the Grand Canyon. That's how I felt.

I'm no expert, but when I feel things are out of control, here are seven things that help me:

1) Stop. Literally. You are not Atlas. The world is not going to collapse if you take a breather, Send your kid to the sitter, go in late to work, call in to work altogether, take a power nap. You'd be surprised a brief respite can give you a fresh eye and the ability to cope with any situation.

2) Buy something. Do not talk about retail therapy like it is a bad thing. Granted, I'm not telling you to spend the rent money on a pair of Jimmy Choo slingbacks (*drool* shoes). It doesn't have to be major. Spending $10 on a book or $5 on a latte can do wonders for your attitude. It's not even about the purchase, it's about the feeling of doing something for yourself.

3) Fuzzy slippers and a terrycloth robe are necessities! This is something that is hard to explain. If you own these things, you know what I'm talking about. If you do not own these things, purchase them immediately, and you will know what I'm talking about.

4) Do something that inspires compliments. If you are a good cook, fix a meal for friends or organize a pot luck. If you've got great gams, wear a skirt while you're running your errands. If you have a great smile, show it. When you're down, sometimes you NEED external positive reinforcement.

5) Go to where the cute men are. When I'm in a bad mood, I like to go to Sexy Mart a/k/a Whole Foods Market. Denzel Washington movies are nice, but something about seeing a fine man up close and in person does wonders for the disposition.

6) Stand naked in the mirror and do affirmations. Yeah, you have stretch marks, or a double chin, or, hell, a double stomach. Running from the mirror is not going to change any of those things. You are still a jewel. If you are avoiding yourself, how do you expect other people to be drawn to you? Be comfortable with who you are. Embrace you. The affirmation can either be something you wrote yourself, or it can be something that you borrow until you are able to write your own.

7) Dress up the windows to your soul. When I'm feeling blah, I like to put on liquid eyeliner. There's something magnificently divalicious about it. I've seen even the mousiest of girls "pop" with a little liquid liner. You can't go wrong when you make it sexy.

You betta work!!!!

Basket Case

2007-11-09T10:39:00.001-05:00

"Do you have the time to listen to me whine
About nothing and everything all at once
I am one of those
Melodramatic fools
Neurotic to the bone
No doubt about it
Sometimes I give myself the creeps
Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me
It all keeps adding up
I think I'm cracking up
Am I just paranoid?
I'm just stoned..."
- "Basket Case" Green Day

So for the past three months or so, I've really thought that I was slowly losing my mind. Murphy's Law reigned my domain. I thought it was an evil ploy. I thought the cosmos had convened and my fate had been decided. I thought that it WAS as bad as I thought and they WERE out to get me.

It all came to a head Monday night. It was seemingly innocuous. Finge checked the mail over the weekend, and somehow, neglected to return the house key to me. I did not discover it was missing until Monday morning. Thank God for the thug in me, because I had to leave home without the key and break into my house that evening. Monday night, I searched my house from top to bottom. Still no key. I broke.

No. You don't understand. I really broke. Over my fucking keys. I searched my house, for three hours, to no avail. I talked to my younger sister, who basically said, "pull it together before I beat the hell out of you." Then, she sent me to bed. For real ya'll. The only thing I was allowed to do was take my shower and go to bed. I turned on the television. She called me back and asked, with bass in her voice I might add, "You have the television on?"

It was just like everything had finally come crashing down on me, and I couldn't take it. I couldn't deal with my kids, my job, my friends. My heart was breaking into a million different pieces for a million different reasons, and I could get a handle on not ONE of those situations. So I went to bed.

And it was Tuesday morning. I woke up, got ready, did my hair (ravashing) and make-up (flawless). It was then that a remembered a quote contained in an email I received a long time ago:

When you feel that nobody loves you,

Nobody cares for you,

And everyone is ignoring you,

You should really ask yourself...

Am I TOO sexy?

Santa Clause is a Bla...GREEDY BASTARD!!

2007-11-07T09:17:00.000-05:00

I would greatly appreciated it if someone would explain the following to me: Last night, on my journey home, I looked to my right and, behold, the strip mall was decorated with Christmas wreaths. WHAT? On November SIXTH?! You've got to be shitting me.

Honestly, I've come to terms with the fact that my connection to Kevin Bacon is probably stronger than Jesus' connection to Christmas, but damn.

File this along with "Speaks So Well"

2007-11-06T15:57:00.000-05:00

Hi . . . clueless white people? Hey. It's Mamba. Oh. I'm fine. What's that? No, I'm not calling to finally tell you how I get my hair to "do that." I was reading the pa . . . yes, I read. So, I was reading the paper, and I noticed an item that I was virtually certain we discussed a while back. To be more specific, this item in particular. Now, it was determined, quite some time ago, that black face is racist and offensive.

Wait guys, Kelly Nantel of Homeland Security's Immigration and Customs Enforcement is speaking. What was that, Kelly? "He was not wearing blackface but makeup that was a darker color than his skin?" So, he was just portraying a racially nonspecific dark skinned male with locks - characteristics typically associated with black people. . .on his face? Kelly - sit your stupid ass down.

So, here's an idea, and this is going to be fun. Since people of your ilk seem to enjoy emulating your idea of the black prisoner, people of my ilk will have no choice but to play white policeman and beat you like you stole something. Because, you know, since you're a black prisoner, you probably have. Equitable? No. Well, what about this? After whatever function you are attending ends (because people of your sort seem to think a party ain't a party without blackface), and you are sufficiently liquored up, I drop you off in the hood so you can be effectively, uh, embraced by your element. Still not working?

Well let's try this: every time you think of engaging in your shenanigans, think to yourself, "In another setting, would this get my ass whipped?" If the answer is yes, make another selection. Pleading ignorance is old, and frankly, we are tired.

Untitled

2007-11-05T14:17:00.000-05:00

When I got to the door, I couldn't push it open. I tried to pull it, and that didn't work either. I saw a woman walk through the other door, so I figured this one had to be locked. I pushed. I pulled. When I realized I didn't even have the strength to open the door, I asked myself how I thought I could get up and go to work every day. I turned around and went home.

Thus goes the tale of my mother's first time giving up and her last attempt at a job interview. In my heart, I believe that is the day she began dying.

Truth be told, my mother was the original Maverick. She had been on her own from the age of 18, and there was precious little she could not do for herself - in 3" heels. Her talents were infinite: she was a teacher, a writer, an artist, a fashionista and a counselor. And of course, since she chose to be a mother, she was underappreciated.

She always felt a pang of guilt for putting me through painful procedures that, at two years old, I could not understand. She said that the first time my pain medication wore off, and I felt the effects of what was going on with me, I gave her a look that said, "You did this to me." But I think part of that was just the feelings of a good mother, a healer, who could not ease a pain for which she felt responsible. Rather than handicapping me, she chose to make me strong.

On the one hand, my mother celebrated my spunk. When I wanted to try something new, or difficult, or even just weird and off-kilter, she let me do my thing. Often, it was a benefit to my family. I cooked at an early age (even tackling difficult dishes from scratch), could help with combing hair (which is a big deal when you have four daughters), changed diapers, prepared bottles, you name it. She would often refer to me as "her right arm."

There was a part of her, I know, that viewed my independence with fear. I believe she partially viewed it as a personal rejection. Advice was dispensed in a manner that indicated she didn't expect me to follow it. "I'm saying this, but of course you know everything, so you can do whatever you want." If I was feeling particularly ornery, I would do precisely what I wanted. Unfortunately, what I wanted was usually to irritate her for presuming what I would do. I wasn't engaging in any life-altering behavior, so it was really no big deal. Hell, nobody's perfect; not my mother, and definitely not me.

She had the same love/hate relationship with my fighting spirit. She liked the fact that I wasn't a pushover, but she was concerned about me having a chip on my shoulder. Once, after picking a senseless argument with a much larger girl, she yanked me inside and exclaimed, "SHIT, you'd fight a circle saw knowing you'll get cut!"

Once I became a teenager, as is custom, our realtionship had it's series of ups and downs and downs and downs. From ages 12 to 16, we lived around each other. We sat at opposite ends of the table. Many times I pretended to be engrossed in some such project or another so I wouldn't have to eat with my family, or more specifically her. We were, to a certain degree, strangers. My mother actually went to her deathbed never knowing that I was a writer. At 16, I tried to run away from home. She tracked me down, at that point from her sick bed, and brought me back. When I got home that night, she tearfully looked at me and said, "I know things aren't easy, but I am not your enemy." At the time, I thought she was being dramatic, but that's exactly how I was treating her. But then, I felt that's how she was treating me as well.

My mother, in her way, was shaping me. See, as much as I felt she didn't understand me (and no one ever completely understands anyone else), she knew me. She knew I would be a maverick. She knew I would be THE Maverick. So she made sure I would be able to pay the cost to be the boss.

The second, and last, time I ran away, it was the day after my graduation. We didn't know it, but we would only have six more months together. When she had my father bring me back home, again, we had what I think was the first real, honest conversation in our lives. We don't spend the beginning of our lives listening to our mothers. We hear them, we may follow their advice, but we don't really listen. She told me that when she saw that I was gone, she felt relief. Maybe the house would finally be peaceful. In truth, I can't think of any household ruckus that I wasn't in some way a part of. Her second thought was, I am her child and this was my home. I left because I was hurting, and if I was hurting, I needed to be in my home where I could heal.

And on that day, we both started to heal. We would wake up and drink tea and watch Law & Order and talk. By this time, she was confined to a hospital bed in our den, and I typically put the sofa cushions on the floor and slept there.

My parents sent me on a trip to the East Coast in October of 1994, and shortly upon my return, my mother was admitted to the hospital. I thought it was just one of her "regular" trips, until the day I called her and she began crying on the phone. Her inability to care for herself was tearing her apart. It was then that I understood my mother, for then, I felt rejected. Didn't she know we would have cared for her forever? That was the last time I heard her voice.

I prefer not to remember the last time I saw her. It was the night before she died. She was gasping for breath and was trying to tell me something. Her eyes said it. "Get out." She didn't want to be remembered that way. On our way to see her the next day, there was a terrible traffic jam. She died shortly before our arrival. Five days before my 18th birthday.

Despite that, despite the hurt of losing someone so precious, so soon, I'm okay with my relationship with my mother. I recently reached some sort of explanation:

"The Mundo have a saying that any real love completes itself. The way that you tell a love is not real is that it is always unfinished. It is just sort of hanging there, maybe throughout your whole life, this ache, this longing.

And why is that? I ask him.

It is because when you truly love someone you wish them no suffering, although they must suffer, just in the course of life. You are always reaching out to them, to heal them. They instinctively do the same for you."*

My mother, through her words, stories, examples, and yes, love, even still heals me.

A family friend told me that very shortly before her death, my mother told her, "M is my child that scared me the most. I was so worried. But now, I'm confident that no matter what happens, she's going to be okay. If she's okay, I know the rest of the girls will be too."

I guess that means I healed her too.

*By the Light of My Father's Smile Alice Walker

Nosy Bastid

2007-11-02T20:20:00.000-04:00

"Sometimes I feel like I've lost so much I have to find new things to lose. "
- Mozelle Batiste Delacroix "Eve's Bayou"

Today Grumbles, for some reason, decided to ask me about the Chupacabra hunter. My response was a very cool, "We're not together anymore." *deep breath* I got it out. For the first time. Without crying. Milestone. Then he said, "Aw man, what happened?" Well I had no idea the words, "I don't know," could be so difficult to formulate. Even more difficult than that was attempting to master the ability to stave off the tears that were screaming to escape my eyes. Being emotional is one thing. Turning into a basket case in front of a workmate is something entirely different. The more I tried to insist that it was a part of life, and not that big of a deal, the harder I had to fight my tears.

I said some things that I really meant, but really didn't mean. Make sense? I told someone, who I deeply care for, and who before now, was a heavy presence in my corner, that I couldn't be his friend. And on the one hand, I don't know if I can. On the other, I don't know if I can't. I thought if I could actually make a definitive decision for myself, then I could begin to at least make sense of myself, since making sense of what happened between us seems impossible. Nobody told me it would make me feel worse.

My sister said I believe that to live is to suffer. I don't believe my outlook is that morbid, but I have said on more than one occasion that my struggle is what keeps me alive. It is true that I have become so accustomed to scratching and surviving, I fear contentment, because it can be snatched away so quickly. Within a weeks of appreciating my mother as a human being and coming to an understanding, she died. The very week I found out I was pregnant with Ladybug, the very day my then-husband and I finalized our reconciliation and signed our new lease, and within the same HOUR that I bought our bathroom decorations for our new home, I discovered that he had fathered another child - who was three weeks old. Within days of finally gaining the light at the end of the financial tunnel and believing that I had some grasp on what course my life would take, Katrina took everything away. So, when I realized that I met someone who could really pull me in, I was uneasy. When I came to the realization that he had, in fact, pulled me in, I was scared shitless. And though I invested in it, and threw caution to the wind, and did everything else the scarred, yet optimistic do, secretly, I waited for the "boom."

Be careful what you wish for.

I see why I've battled against this for so long. Love is a bitch. Plus, as a wise man once said, "Even the married folks I know (though they love their sig others) are a couple of dirty dishes left in the sink away from calling it quits."

I just wish I wasn't so damn sad. I've always known that I'm ultra emotional, but crying for 35 out of 38 days is a bit much, even for me.

Part of me wishes that I could just forget everything, and go back to the me I was before, because this just hurts so damned bad. Usually, I welcome all experiences, including pain, because it shapes me. However, this time, it just all feels so senseless, I don't know what the lesson could be other than love just isn't for me, and I don't know if I'm ready to accept that.

Maverick

2007-11-01T23:42:00.000-04:00

The carpet is a green shag - tres seventies; the stairs seem impossibly high. No one else is around. I want to be upstairs, so I decide to climb. I place my hands on the second step from the bottom; lifting my right leg, I lurch upward and forward. Step one. This process is repeated a second time. I don't have the floor as a balance, so I use my hands to assist my right leg in pulling me upward. On the third attempt, my right leg gets caught in the long Holly Hobby dress my mother made for me, I lose my grip on the carpet and slide backward - back to square one. I try this again with the same result - two steps; slide. I try again, and again, and again. Finally, I scream in frustration. The body cast that begins beneath my rib cage, goes across both hips and renders my entire left leg immobile is truly cramping my style. I am alone. I am fighting. I am two years old.

This is my first memory of myself, and as such, I consider it my defining moment. Whenever I recall this, it is assigned the mental caption "Birth of the Maverick" (who preceded Black Mamba by several years.) I know that my parents were somewhere nearby, because when I screamed, one of them promptly came to my aid; yet, even then, I needed to do things myself. Go take care of those other suckers. I GOT this.

I've always hated to admit that there are things in this world I can't handle myself. This trait infuriated my parents, and I'm fairly certain they believed I did this to spite them. Rather than surmising that I came from self-sufficient stock, they presumed that I was rejecting them, so, in a sense, they rejected me. This wasn't done in a neglectful way. It was actually quite subtle. And also quite understandable. Part of me liked it that way. They had a loose idea of my interests, kept tabs on my friends, made sure I was home on time, talked to me about sex and drugs. The definitely followed the good parents rule book. Most of all, they loved me, which is something I can't stress enough. I live by the rule that I love people in the way they allow me. I think that is what my parents did with me. They didn't exactly quit, but they didn't put themselves in a position where they could be fired either. Ours was a relationship filled with ferocious love, yet casual disinterest.

In order for me to do this justice, get some sleep, and avoid being a terrible bore, I think I'll address my relationship with each of them in my next two posts.

Prose in the Key of Self - Foreword

2007-10-31T20:07:00.000-04:00

Everyone has a story. Every story is compelling. The mousy guy that you hardly notice has a heartrending tale that explains his demeanor. No story should be take for granted. As a writer, I feel obligated to share my story. Maybe there's someone else who is a maverick, or audacious, or unrequitedly in love with a mighty Chupacabra hunter and needs to know that things will be okay. That's my responsibility.

But despite that, I don't think I could ever go the autobiographical (or even semi-autobiographical) route - for profit. Because, when I speak, I will speak the truth, and people don't always want to hear the truth about themselves. So, if I give it away, here, then maybe it won't be so bad. So, when I feel stuck, or lacking a topic, I will talk what I know: me.

Fear Stupiditiy!

2007-10-20T09:30:00.000-04:00

From an early age, I developed passion words. I read fluently at age four, and upon entering kindergarten, I was reading at a second grade level. Shortly after learning to read, my parents, through our church, introduced me to public speaking. That gave me a desire to read more, because if people were going to listen to me, I wanted to make sure I had something interesting to say. I read the encyclopedia ("Funky Wagnalls"), cereal boxes (which irritated me because no one could explain the use of riboflavin, or agree on which vowels had short or long sounds), the newspaper, and every book that came through the house. I read Great Expectations at eight, began devouring Shakespeare at eleven, and had a full fledged seven-book-a-week habit at twelve.

At ten, I began composing my own works - poems, songs, short stories - for my own private entertainment. I shared my work for the first time in sixth grade. When my teacher pulled me on the side and asked who helped me to write my assignment, I knew I was on to something. I can converse with the urbane, the uncultured, and everyone in-between. I am life's student. I am a writer. I am a mother who passes these same values on to her children. I am the parent of a future Johns Hopkins alum. I am a black woman. I am a product of the public school system. I am not an island. There are many like me.

Therefore, white people who just don't get it, THIS is why "speaks so well" pisses us off. (Thanks ACT.) This is why "he's so articulate" makes us liken you to the worst of bigots. Because we KNOW what you mean. We KNOW what you are expecting. Hell, YOU, most often, have had a hand in creating the system that was meant to crank out this ignorant subculture. And yet, it still didn't work. So, your back-handed slights WILL be checked. YES, every time.

So this has you "afraid" to speak your mind? Good. Be afraid. Be mortified. Let it make you think, "Exactly how long has unchecked stupidity been pouring from my piehole?" Don't let the La Shawn Barbers *cough symbolic house negroes* gas you into believing your actions are acceptable ("Massa ain't mean dat de way you sed"). Did he not know he would be speaking to a national audience? It wasn't "awkward," it was ignorant. (Thanks Mr. Clemens.) Racism is ignorance at it's finest.

So you're damn right, we're sensitive. And we will remain so as long as overt racism is seen as nothing more than a big misunderstanding.

The Douche Bag Zone

2007-10-15T15:45:00.000-04:00

So, I went to my first meeting of the Pink People (think Purple People sans veils and lots more lipstick), and the shorties were so well behaved, I promised them I'd take them out to dinner last Friday. Mr. Finge, never one to forget a promise, reminded me, so we made the sojourn to Red Lobster. After I got my electronic cattle prod (a/k/a pager), I stood outside with the kiddies. I figured, that was a safe spot, in the event they wanted to run around or be loud, outside is as good a place as any. There I stood, minding my own business, when I heard what I thought was a compliment toward my hair. I turned to confirm that I was the subject of the compliment, and prepared to offer thanks if I was. Unfortunately, I was stopped in my tracks by her goat-mouthed companion ("The Douche Bag") who said, smirking, "That's a wig." My mouth lay frozen. She then gave me a look that said, "Yeah, bitch, I said it."

I was taken aback, not so much by the fact that she said my hair was a wig; I could care less, I know I grew it. The vehemence is what threw me. She said it like I went in her douche bag palace, blew her man, and left my wig on her night stand. Now, I know with virtual certainty that her issue had absolutely nothing to do with my hair, and everything to do with the fact that her over-relaxed hair was thinning at the top of her Oompah Loompah mushroom. I'm just not sure how that became my fault.

Despite the fact that I wanted to thank the woman who complimented me, I didn't trust my lips to stop there. Douchie was old enough to be my mother, however, that only takes one so far. She passed me two more times with that same look on her face, without any idea of how close she came to this story ending, ". . . then I hit that cow in the mouth."

There is something in the DNA of women that almost forces us to detract from any compliment sent to anyONE who is not us. "She probably got booty implants." "She got acne though." "Her right titty is bigger than her left titty." Fortunately, I had a mother who instilled in me that blocking the shine of others, only makes you look that much more dull. It can also bring you dangerously close to being on the business end of one of the illest rabbit punches in the Mid-Atlantic.

Verbal Vomit

2007-10-10T09:39:00.001-04:00

I promise, I'm working on a cohesive post, but it's taking longer than I anticipated. Hopefully, it will not disappoint. But it has been long since I've thrown words up here, so I'm going to give you some thoughts of mine to discuss amongst yourselves - or in the comments section - whichever.

I have janky cable, and as such, no cable guide. So I have to flip through the channels to see what's going on. I passed some channel or another and saw Ann Coulter talking to somebody about something [because I just don't really listen to her], but I saw her throat. This bitch has a BODACIOUS Adam's apple. Can someone consult the rule book on this? I mean, she doesn't look like she used to be a man, but there's something has gone horribly awry. I think I looked at the show for five minutes, mesmerized by the Adam's apple bobbing up and down. It give's me the willies.

I need help in understanding why Harvey Keitel introduced Snoop Dogg at the VH1 Hip Hop Honors.

Yesterday my bus driver almost hit two pedestrians, a car stopped at a red light and a parked car. I see why they want to raise fares.

Show of hands: Do we care that within life is forming within the diseased husk also referred to as Jennifer Lopez's womb? Why do people care about this shit? I mean, a baby is a joyous occasion, but are we really celebrating children being born to crazy ass women who change relationships like they change shoes? Give it a rest.

The Boondocks premier was HILARIOUS! Who knew Ruckus was ill with the nunchucks? It won't necessarily go down in the books as my all time favorite episode, but the, "...or die tryin'" hook was nothing short of genius. (For all Adult Swim/Family Guy fans, do yourself a favor and tune in this Sunday, October 14, for the Family Guy & Robot Chicken Star Wars episodes. You WILL thank me.)

So last night, while dialoguing with my Harlem Ambassador (who is truly slackin' on his blog mackin') we discussed the conundrum of having too many good shows to watch this season. I am truly impressed. I've become so accustomed to the influx of sub par reality TV shows, I find myself speechless in light of my delimma. It seems I will have to get my DVR game on and popping once more, as Wednesday nights are hellacious. Though I don't think K-ville is the best the season has to offer, and it may well be one of the first cancellations of the season, I will represent and watch it. (No, I don't have a Neilson box, but I've still got that old team spirit.)

I think everyone should incorporate a little Ghostface in their life at least once a week. No, I'm not exactly sure that he's always speaking English, but still. . .

My morning commute is interesting. A couple of weeks ago, I decided that to pass the time, by giving the regulars names from Martin characters. So far, I've discovered Jerome, Roscoe, Mama Payne, Rickey Fontaine, Shenehneh and KeyLoLo, and would you believe KING BEEF. Monday and Tuesday, I created storylines for them. DANCE PUPPETS!

I'm not sure if you are familiar with Tim Gunn (who leaves no stone untunred in the fashion world, considering he unearthed Veronica Webb), but he makes my list of one of my favorite celebs. Here is a designer on "Project Runway" doing a spot-on imitation of him:

What makes this even better, is that when he discovered Santino's homage, this was his reaction (forgive the quality):

I love people who don't take themselves too seriously.

I am seriously slacking on my gym game.

The current state of my job has me humming the tune "9 to 5" just a bit too much. My end of the year gift and raise will be critically scrutinzed this year.

Yesterday, I did a free write that yielding some VERY promising fruit. Stay tuned.

Interlude

2007-10-08T15:18:00.000-04:00

As I am still working through my latest post, I figured I'd leave you with some, "whatchu know 'bout dat" shit to start out your week.

Not so easy like Sunday morning. . .

2007-09-30T09:42:00.000-04:00

This week has been hellacious. I'm a little better, but not great. It's funny when you're face to face with something you've spent the majority of your adult life avoiding. In any event, I'm trying to do things to keep myself busy. One of my major issues: I'm a broke mutha-shut-yo-mouth.

1. I really need to get on my writing grind. I want to get articles and such out there, but don't know where to start. Ideas?

2. I still want to get my staffing agency business off the ground. Again, no clue where to start. Now that I have extra time on my mental, I guess I can go back to the drawing board on that.

3. An immediate solution (and I promise death to all who laugh) is that I am now a Mary Kay consultant. I need money, people buy the stuff, and did I mention I need money. Plus, this leads back into that extra time on my mental thing. We'll see how this works in six months. This job requires dresses and skirts. Lord save us all.

"To be young, gifted and black. . ." (c) Nina Simone

2007-09-28T11:58:00.000-04:00

So, yeah people. I'm sad. Actually, I'm heartbroken. Yet, the sun has managed to come up each day since, so I guess I need to dust myself off as well. And besides, Tom Selleck is back on prime time television, so that's got to mean that things are going to be okay. Right? Well, at least that's the story I'm sticking to for now.

From time to time, I get into discussions about black entertainment: where it's going, where it's been, what must change, what must evolve and so forth. Of course, you can't have a discussion about black entertainment without discussing hip-hop. Sometimes I wonder though, how I even feel about the label "black entertainment." I mean, white folks own BET, lol. [Can we digest this for a moment: white people are essentially telling black people what "entertains" them. WOW. The even bigger wow: black people are LETTING THEM!] This, however, is not the only issue. Not every black person likes hip-hop; not even "good" hip-hop. Or R&B for that matter. I went to a high school where I'd say 40% of the black student body listened to metal, alternative, etc. And I'll say that a chunk of that 40% didn't have much interest in hip-hop or R&B (remember when those used to be completely separate entities?). So if Guns N' Roses also entertained me, why wasn't "November Rain" entertaining my black ass on the station that is supposed to be mine? But, I digress. . .

When I talk about hip-hop to those younger than I, inevitably, I assume the "young-whippersnappers-don't-know-a-dayum-thang-'bout-good-music" tone. It can't be helped. Of course, I sound like my parents, and I'm sure there are some songs that will come from newer artists that I may enjoy, but on the whole, it's crap. But if you know anyone from 29-40, you've probably heard this argument ad nauseum. Whether you're digging the old school, or getting crunk, this woman should be your she-ro.

Ponder

2007-09-26T14:18:00.000-04:00

Foreword: This post originated last week, after reading this article in my office cafe for the fiftieth time. At the time, I was in an entirely different frame of mind. It's interesting how things change in such a small time span. Even more interesting is how, this situation, viewed from two perspectives, moved me to tears each time. I'm hesitant to post it, because it can seem accusing, which is not my intent, but I feel as though posting it will be therapeutic.

Recently, I've been considering the state of romantic relationships, and why they fall apart so quickly. I've come to the conclusion that we don't really have the stomach for adversity.

Earlier this year, Jim and Nell Hamm, just shy of their 50th wedding anniversary, were hiking in the mountains. Suddenly, a mountain lion pounced on Jim and would not let go. If ever there was an instance where someone could have broke out and run, it would be this. Nell Hamm, however, is from an entirely different school of thought. She grabbed the nearest log and started beating the animal. When that didn't work, she tried to jab it's eyes out with an ink pen. Can you imagine? Living without her spouse seemed a more daunting task than attacking a mountain lion with a Uniball. "We fought harder than we ever have to save his life, and we fought together," she said.

I've sat down and given much thought to what this means, and I've tried to sort out whether this should be viewed as an aspiration or an anomaly. All I've managed to come up with is this: beautiful though this may be, it's not something that we are owed. And if this is the road not chosen, that doesn't make us bad, or weak, or wrong. I think it just means that when we pick our battles, we can do without the mountain lion.

Mamba Reborn

2007-09-24T15:56:00.000-04:00

"An essential characteristic of the superhero mythology is, there's the superhero, and there's the alter ego. Batman is actually Bruce Wayne, Spider-Man is actually Peter Parker. When he wakes up in the morning, he's Peter Parker. He has to put on a costume to become Spider-Man. And it is in that characteristic that Superman stands alone. Superman did not become Superman, Superman was born Superman. When Superman wakes up in the morning, he's Superman. His alter ego is Clark Kent. His outfit with the big red "S", that's the blanket he was wrapped in as a baby when the Kents found him. Those are his clothes. What Kent wears, the glasses, the business suit, that's the costume. That's the costume Superman wears to blend in with us. Clark Kent is how Superman views us. And what are the characteristics of Clark Kent? He's weak, he's unsure of himself... he's a coward. Clark Kent is Superman's critique on the whole human race. Sort of like Beatrix Kiddo and Mrs. Tommy Plympton."
- Bill "The Snake Charmer" "Kill Bill Vol. 2"

I wished and hoped and prayed that I didn't have to be the superhero anymore. I slipped for a moment and thought that I could finally put her to bed. I don't know why I always have to be wrong.

I'm precisely two months away from my 31st birthday, and I still can't get it right. And the fucked up part is that no matter how sad, or hurt or angry I am, it doesn't really matter because: 1) it won't do a damn thing and 2) I have to many responsibilities to take any type of "break." It just doesn't pay to be some people.

Damn you El Chupacabra. . .you win again.

Yoo Hoo

2007-09-23T00:19:00.000-04:00

I've got about eight million unfinished blog posts. Okay...slight exaggeration, but there's a crapload. Things have been pretty quiet around here. So I guess I'll engage in some word regurgitation.

So, my new goal is to learn to cook different types of foods. I bought three cookbooks from Borders last weekend. Two of them only costed $2. If anyone knows where I can buy some yucca, get at me. My South American cookbook has a recipe for yucca cake. Who knew?

I was going through my iTunes and found a lot of duplicates. This is not baller.

Am I the only person that finds the likes of Perez Hilton, TMZ and other shows of their ilk galactically boring? I have little to no concern for who's gay, who's coked out, who's fat, or who's losing custody of their kids. Are they taking my kids? Sneaking coke into my coffee? Please, if you know me, don't send me links to this stuff. I really don't give a monkey fart what "Perez Sez."

I bought a fresh pair of Nike Shox off eBay for $31. Don't hate!!!

A couple of days ago, I was reading Horton Hatches the Egg to the kiddies. The whole time, I'm thinking, "This story completely KICKS ASS!!!" In a world filled with crap, it's cool to have a story that is basically an ode to integrity. Having kids really lets me rediscover some literary hotness.

Going beddie bye now.

Peace

"When they reminisce over you, my God" (c) CL Smooth

2007-09-11T17:47:00.001-04:00

My children are the coolest individuals on the planet. Not just regular, "I'm their mom, so I have hype them up" cool. They're on some, "Even if they weren't my kids, I'd take to buses and a train to hang out with them" cool. They're well mannered and kind. I TRULY have no idea where they got that from, because I consider myself rather surly and unpolished, but I won't look a gift horse and all that. Don't misunderstand and think I'm pretending that they walk on water; they are still kids. They fight, bicker and without warning scream, "STOP LOOKING AT ME!" Overall, their virtues far outweigh their faults. Plus they're just so darned cute!

Of course, like most kids, they have a father. (Caveat: I often tread lightly on the topic of our "union," as it would open Pandora's existential box regarding The Chocolate Wonders.) Frankly, I don't like dude. Don't get it twisted, it has nothing to do with what happened to "us"; the decision to divorce was a stroke of genius. I don't discuss him much because 1) for all practical purposes, he's somebody else's problem; 2) my children hearing me bad-mouthing their father, even accidentally strikes me as being in bad form; and 3) he's essentially useless.

He subscribes to the Wack-A-Mole parenting style. He appears, then ducks out just in time to avoid any sort of adversity (read: anything remotely financial). It's been this way since 2002. Pain in the ass? Yes. But the show must go on. Initially, this would crush the kids. They couldn't comprehend why he was never returning their calls. How does one explain that to a child? "Well honey, the thought of having to send you money mortifies him to the point that occasionally forgets that you exist?"

At one point, I remember hoping and praying that they wouldn't feel the pain of missing him. Be careful what you pray for. They're five years older now. And now, his disappearance isn't so crushing. And his resurfacing is met with a casually polite demeanor. And if he doesn't call them, they don't call him. That is hellacious. Granted, I make no apologies about my feelings for him as a Grade A douchebag. But as a woman who has known and loved her father, and the descendant of people who knew and loved their fathers, it's sad to see this.

Lately, I've been thinking what they will be like five years from now - or ten. They are great kids...AWESOME kids. But I wonder how often they will forgive? When they look back, what will they recall? People say, "Your kids will remember that you were a good parent." That's not enough. I don't want to be the "good" parent. I don't want to be the "strong" parent. I don't want them to one day realize he attained his comfort at their expense. I want them to know that they can rely on both parents to have their backs, always.

But my wanting it isn't enough, is it?

AWWWWWWW SHIT!

2007-09-11T09:16:00.000-04:00

Honestly...what else needs to be said.

And it all started at dinnertime. . .

2007-08-28T10:16:00.000-04:00

This weekend, my children returned from visiting "down home," so I took the opportunity to restock my freezer. Soon the season of chicken noodle soup, stew and various pot pies will be upon us. I ordered my groceries via Peapod, because I was feeling like a lazy bum. As I shopped, I noticed chicken breasts were $1.79/lb. Who could pass up such a steal? I presumed the chicken simply needed to be frozen (Side note: I almost typed "freezed" and it took an embarrassing amount of time to figure that was not right) as soon as it arrived. What I discovered was much worse.

America, one single chicken breast should NEVER be bigger than the person about to eat it. I'm telling you - my chicken breast was four feet high. Maybe I'm exaggerating a little, but just a little. I cut it in HALF, and my kids said, "Mama...this is just too much chicken." Do you comprehend the gravity of two black children saying that chicken in ANY variety is "too much?"

It's really a damned conspiracy. Read here to get some perspective on what I'm saying. No coincidence that the poorest state in the nation is also the fattest. There's the main reason is lean meats, fresh fruits and veggies can be cost prohibitive. I've said it a million times: there is no reason a chicken leg should be one price and the chicken breast should be another. I will not sacrifice this argument until you point me to the Peruvian All Breasted chicken. No legs, no thighs; nothing but titties popping out all over the place on the chicken. Also, try explaining why 20 oz. of fresh pineapple slices is $4.99 and 20 oz. of canned is $1.79. Anybody seen a canned pineapple tree? If you think that simply going the lean meat, fresh produce route is expensive, think about the cost disparity when you go organic.

Then, when these healthier choices ARE in the price range of poor people, they are completely FUBAR. Plums with more bugs crawling inside of it than actual plum flesh, bananas that look like active participants in a Mexican hat dance-off and chicken breasts so injected with growth hormones that they ARE AS BIG AS A MAN! (It's also no coincidence that even when the children are not morbidly obese, they look like grown men and women. You should not have 38-24-36 proportions when you are ten years old.) So they're screwed even when they do what they are thinking is the right thing.

But, as Chris Rock said, "The money ain't in the cure, the money is the medicine." Diabetes, heart disease, cancer - these are all medical cash cows people!!! It also provides fodder for those with the "us vs. them" mentality. "Look at how they eat!"

If you're not rich, this country will do it's damnedest to keep you poor. You buy a car and go to work to pay for it, but you have to get another job to pay for gas and parking. You have kids, and you work to provide for them, but you have to get ANOTHER to afford child care unless you plan to entrust your kids to the "raper man." You pay for medical & hospitalization insurance that you may spend five years not really needing; but the moment you require a treatment that falls an inch outside of their stringent guidelines, you're sick and SOL.

So what's a scratchin' and survivin' single mother to do? Go home, eat the genetically mutated chicken (because though I'm not "poor," I damned sure don't have money to waste chicken) and pray that I don't have to buy a bra for my six year old next week.

Overwhelmed

2007-08-27T13:47:00.000-04:00

Have you ever had a day, where so much was swirling around your head, it almost made you puke?

Plus, I think I really fucked up something important in my life.

I've had better days.

Lovely Lauryn

2007-08-23T15:55:00.001-04:00

This morning, I received a picture of Lauryn Hill taken at a concert in Brooklyn, NY. It was a very unflattering comparison between Ms. Hill and Homey the Clown. Unfortunately, there was no denying the comparison.

This afternoon, I posed a question to STO. "Am I the only black person that finds Lauryn Hill's sanctimony just a little irritating?" I was then asked to elaborate because, well, it's Steve, and you can't pose a question like that without it requiring some elaboration. But since I'm me, I am very good about conveying genuine emotion, be it love, hate, or irritation. What I am not so good at, is giving the details as to why. At least, not all the time. It is easy to explain why I hate liver, or why I love my friends. To explain an irritation with someone you love is a much more daunting task.

On more than one occasion, I've found myself in the midst of the debate on whether or not she is a musical genius, or if that was an invalid theory because she only has one solo album to her credit. So last night, I sat down and listened, really listened, to "The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill." Not only did every cut resonate me, but some made me misty. Twice, I closed my eyes and was transported to "then." To accomplish that is genius.

But this new Lauryn, I don't dig at all. And it has nothing to do with her wacked out clothes, or her "different" music, or any of the other things people pick at like scabs. It's her. Lauryn was always beautiful to me. What made her such wasn't the way she wore her hair, or her ability to spit some of the illest verses ever uttered (period - I will not use the "by a female qualifier"). It was the light she had in her eyes because she was doing and saying something that came from her heart. You got the feeling that she was sharing an experience with you.

Not so with new Lauryn. Now, you get the sense that she's not sure we will understand or be interested in her experience, so she placates us with what she thinks we want. Unfortunately, we want her creativity. I would rather she shaved her head, played the cowbell and celebrated it than furnish us with the musical equivalent of a pity screw.

The going opinion is that she alienates her fans, but I believe that's only a by-product of her being alienated from herself. She is still at odds with where she's going and where she's been. She doesn't seem to realize that she is timeless; an entity altogether classic and and ceaselessly relevant.

I'm just a soul whose intentions are mediocre

2007-08-19T22:05:00.001-04:00

I haven't blogged here in a LONG time. As a matter of fact, I haven't done much blogging anywhere. I just came out of hibernation last Sunday I think. And that one wasn't even here. I think it was on MySpace...or maybe 360. I think all seven of my readers have those addresses, so I won't bother adding the link. I'm actually a little lazy today.

Here's what's not lazy. I've completed the first chapter of my book. It's a short chapter, but still, I finished it. Now I'm well into the second chapter, which will be longer. It feels so good to have things flowing, I just don't know what to do. That's also part of the reason I don't blog as much. It can quickly become a monster that stops me from doing my own writing. Basically, every time I miss my honey and start obsessing over it, I pull out my notebook and start writing. Though I do a lot of work on the computer, there's something organic about pulling out a huge notebook and a pencil and just getting down to it. That method better serves to isolate me from distractions.

My kids come home in another week. I've missed them so. I had a lot of time to just decompress and kick back. It's a beautiful thing.

Gonna pour myself a glass of wine and hit the hay.

Smooches!

Mmmm Mmm Bitch!

2007-08-01T15:47:00.000-04:00

In a world full of pretense and demands, happiness can be elusive. For some, it is virtually intangible, causing one to question the very meaning of life. However, I'm a simple brawd, and happiness can be summed up very simply - ramen.

Who knew that you could wrap paradise in cellophane and charge twenty cents? It's cheap, it's comforting, and if you can get beyond the fact that the flavor pack is tantamount to a .zip file for sodium, it's the best damn thing on the planet. Like, if someone were to ask me, "Hey, what do you want to do? Have sex, or eat ramen?" I'd choose sex, but I'd probably ask what flavor ramen first.

My Pell Grant and Stafford Loan people feel me. The college experience isn't complete unless you've pulled an all-nighter with nothing more than your trusty ramen to provide nourishment and comfort. When I say you have to go to the Vietnamese store to get the "real noodles" (and a hot pickle), my New Orleans people DEFINITELY feel me. (For in New Orleans, the word "ramen" is rarely, if ever used. "Noodles" is completely sufficient.) I'm willing to wager that if a steaming hot bowl of Oriental flavored ramen were placed in the middle of the Saudi dessert, they could coax bin Laden out of hiding. Just a theory.

Personally, I get artistic with my ramen. You'd be surprised how some green onions, red peppers and a scrambled egg can jazz it up. Don't even talk about if you throw in a little broccoli. Talk about a MEAL!

So here's to you ramen, for bringing us so much joy, for so little, for such a long time.

I couldn't resist

2007-07-27T11:16:00.000-04:00

You know what grinds my gears?

No, seriously, she does. I mean, people criticize Paris Hilton for being famous for doing nothing, but I actually prefer that to any displays of "talent." Plus, though this should really surprise no one, when she got caught doing dirt, she essentially came out her face with, "Oh, dude, that so wasn't me. The nigger was driving."

You know what grinds my gears? That little boy on the Verizon FiOS commercial. I mean, not the little boy per se, but I just really can't support little kids approaching strangers in vans. What next? The dude in the trenchcoat with a bunch of lollipops? I let ya'll live with Dora the Explorer roaming the jungle while her mama was running hoes in the daylight hours, but this is just too much!

You know what grinds my gears? Dweebs. Nerds are sexy, geeks are necessary, but dweebs are just...scary. An example of a dweeb? ANYBODY that participates in the show "Who Wants to be a Superhero." For the past three days, I walked through the valley of the shadow of death, and vegged out. It was terrifying how emotional these people got over this. But it lost me when the sole black woman was big as a Buick and named Fat Momma. Her weakness is diet foods yall. Evidently her strength stems from diabetes. Don't talk to me.

You know what grinds my gears? White America. Normal regular white folks are fine. White America is outrageous. Granted, I have labeled Michael Vick as a dumb nigga for doing dumb nigga shit. HOWEVER, my issue with him is, regardless of what he may or may not have participated in, he allowed his name to be affiliated with some old bullshit. Everything else will come out at trial. But not for White America. "THAT WIDE NOSTRILED NIGGER DID IT! HANG THAT NIGGER!" If White America showed half the concern for young black kids that they did for the fucking whales and dogs, maybe we'd have more doctors, lawyers and techie moguls and fewer unruly athletes.

And that's what grinds my gears.

The Call Out

2007-07-18T16:21:00.000-04:00

"Now, black people don't like to talk about crazy niggas, because white people may be listening, but I'm afraid the secret might be out." (c) Huey Freeman

Face it people. Some folks in this world are niggas. Whether or not you choose to point the finger and vocalize the words, "You'se a nigga," is honestly a matter of personal choice. However, I'm willing to wager that even the late Coretta Scott King saw some stuff that made her say, albeit only mentally, "Look at this nigga here." But that's why I'm here: to say what you're thinking. Ladies and gentlmen, I present to you, "The Call Out."

One can't have a conversation pertaining to niggas without bringing up the illustrious four star nigga, PACMAN JONES. Being merely suspended for one season due to your 31 flavors of nonsense, ignorance and general tom-foolery was, in my opinion, a gift. You make millions of dollars - MILLIONS - yet you can't stay out of trouble? Your salary makes mine look like lunch money, but I still live my life in a way that has kept me out of trouble with the law. Switching license plates? Seriously? What's wrong with you? Plus, we got beef because I had to explain to "making it rain" meant to my older relatives. Thanks alot.

After reading the details of the indictment, MICHEAL VICK, you are a nigga. In the best case scenario, the "trusting the wrong people" defense no longer flies. How many celebrities before you have found themselves in some shit for allegedly "trusting the wrong people?" So in 2007, if you haven't realized the need to at least cover your ASSets, then nothing can be said for you. Worst case scenario, you were involved in some unspeakable shit. Beyond the deplorable act of dog fighting, you sanctioned (and participated in) killing dogs that did not have enough fight in them.

CAFE 1200 BREAKFAST PATRON, you are also a nigga. I understand that you may have been upset with the cost of the food and even the demeanor of the worker. However, the screaming, threats and stomping up and down the cafe are what earned you your title. Whatever happened to not patronizing the establishment, or, in extreme circumstances, filing a complaint with the management or BBB? Then again, maybe that's too much work for niggas. Under normal circumstances, I would dismiss this as a "nigga moment," but everything about you said that this is an everyday occurrence for you. The flip flops and capris also worked against you.

UNNECESSARILY ANGRY FELLOW TRAIN PASSENGER, when the trains are behind, the trains get crowded. And lord know folks will talk sporty, sometimes mandating a response in kind. Unfortunately, we couldn't hear the other person. All we could hear was you. Every word, including the vaguely ominous, "I'll see you again." Who in the fuck are you? Michael Corleone? Let it go.

I'd be remiss if I neglected adding 50 CENT at least as an honorable mention. I've got a curious relationship with 50. Now granted, i think he's lyrical content is pretty garbage, I find the things that come out of his mouth astounding. He is, and I quote, "[s]mart enough not to overwhelm people with information." [Read full article here.] Dude, you are a muthafuckin' RHODES SCHOLAR at that shit. And though I'm not jumping on the bandwagon with everybody else saying, "FIDDY SAYIN' YOU SHOULDN'T READ," I really don't think he thought about what he said about Nas before saying it at all. You've gotta appreciate a person who is not afraid to say what's on his mind. But must everything that is on his mind be so damned scary?

Come listen to my story 'bout a girl named Breez

2007-07-17T13:32:00.000-04:00

So I jacked this post, from a chick who jacked this post from somebody else. It seemed fun, and I don't feel like coming up with thought provoking topics.

My ex is still.....

not even a factor in how we live our lives.

I am listening to...

"Romantic" by Goapele

Maybe I should...

color my hair

I love...

being loved. Not being "in" love, but having people who see past the facade, look my frailties square in the face and love me anyway...yeah, that's what's up.

My best friends are....

first and foremost, my sisters. After that, my cousin Amber. I am so blessed to have family members that I would want to befriend, even if we weren't related. In terms of old friends, I have Chasity and Tammelle: we go back like afros and fist picks. And for newer friends, there's Michelle. These are TRUE friends. It pays to keep your circle small people. And of course, Ro is definitely in the running.

I don't understand....

Calculus.

I lost my respect for....

individuals who don't care enough to have respect for themselves. Respect is a jewel, and I refuse to waste it on those who have no interest in it.

I hate....

that juicy-mouthed feeling one gets right before they barf.

The meaning of my screen name is...

there are two related to this page: Breez and Black Mamba. Think Bruce Banner/Incredible Hulk. Once you read a post, you can which alter-ego wrote it.

Love is...

never having to say you're sorry; yet being humble enough to say it anyway.

Somewhere, someone is...

thinking sweet thoughts about me.

I will always....

cherish my life and the blessings that it brings.

Forever seems.....

like just the right amount of time.

I never want to lose......

my memories and my family; possessions come and go.

My mobile phone is.....

to Breez as the Bat Phone is to Bruce Wayne.

When I wake up in the morning...

I realize how blessed I am.

I get annoyed at.....

complacent individuals. It bothers you? Do something!
Parties are....

essential outlets.

My pet(s)....

don't exist. I don't think it's in good "mommie form" to count one's children as pets.

Kisses are....

magic

Today I......

am beautiful.

I really wish i could......

assist my father financially.

I want to see.....

Venice with Ro.

I'm afraid of......

my children being without me. I know how hard it is to make it without a mother, and the mere thought of them ever having to go through that makes me incredibly sad.

I think I am.....

constantly evolving

Tomorrow will be...

a fresh opportunity.

In 5 years I...

want to know what it's like to be supremely happy.

Grindicus Gearius

2007-07-13T13:28:00.000-04:00

You know what grinds my gears? The BET game show "Take the Cake." There was a point in time where I REALLY liked Toccara Jones. She was representing for the big girls. She was beautiful, she was vivacious. Hell, plenty of us could relate to her. Then she opened her damn mouth. . .and I don't think it ever closed. And stupid words were always falling out of it. I found myself saying, on more than one occasion, "Sister, please just sit there and look pretty." (Though I MUST find out where she gets her strapless bras. MAGNIFICENT!) The game show couples her with the equally irritating Joe Clair. Should a television show incite the sudden desire to commit seppuku? I think not.

You know what grinds my gears? Natalie from "Monk." It's not about her being better or worse...She's just not Sharonna. But what FURTHER grinds my gears is the fact that there was full out beef on IMDB proclaiming "Bitty [Sharronna] is GONE." There was about two pages of back and forth. People will argue over ANYTHING. On the same vein. . .

You know what grinds my gears? Forum pricks. Well, they don't so much grind my gears as puzzle me. You disagree with me. Okay. We can't move on from this. This past week, Smashing Pumpkins held a 3.5 hour concert at the 9:30 club. The Post all but called it a stinker. Another two pages of forum pricks commiserating, and the bored engaging them. Give it a rest.

You know what grinds my gears? Train spreaders. This is not your chartered transportation service. It's PUBLIC transportation. Meaning any soul with $1.35 can ride this ho. Pick up your shit and move the hell over. Now I maintain, if you're fat, your seat is safe as far as I'm concerned, because the two of us sitting together can't do anything but make each other mad. Otherwise, push the hell over, because my behind needs every centimeter of my seat, and I can give less than a damn that you don't feel like holding your Dukes of Hazard lunch box.

You know what grinds my gears? Having to admit that the Spice Girls look FABULOUS! Yes, Posh could use a sandwich, and Ginger has always looked a tad aged, but time has done Sporty well. And for any of you who are judging me for referring to them by their Spice names, lighten the hell up! My sisters and friends used to give people we knew unflattering spice names. There was Stinky Spice, Greedy Spice, Moocher Spice, Old Spice (this lecherous dude that was just a SMIDGE too long in the tooth to roll with my crew. Ahhh the good old days.

You know what grinds my gears? Alli weight loss pills. You know you essentially shit on yourself right? I mean, yeah, you're skinny, but you shit oil in public. Diiiiiiidn't really think that one out, did you?

And that's what grinds my gears.

The Topic That Launched a Thousand Posts

2007-07-11T16:47:00.001-04:00

Of course I'm referring to the recent "funeral" with respect to the word "nigga." As I knew the topic would be discussed ad nauseum, I initially decided to leave this topic alone. Obviously, I couldn't resist.

I sincerely understand the desire to abolish any and all derivatives of the word "nigger." It was born of pain and venomous hatred. I don't believe someone my age can fully appreciate the power this word once held. We have not endured the same brand of racism that our forefathers did. Bigotry of that sort, though it does still exist, is decried as extreme and unacceptable behavior. Many of those individuals (and their offspring) believe that we need this word to be abolished, fully extinguishing its power so that we can heal and move on as a people.

However, there exists another school of thought. Some believe, transforming it's pronunciation and adopting the word as our own is also a means of depleting the strength of that word. It's a classic defense mechanism. By taking it, it removes the sting when someone else uses it.

I don't typically use the word. Well, that is to say, it's not a part of my daily lexicon. However, there are people in this world that I belive are niggas. Believe me, I am in no way being endearing when I use this term. Bobby Cutts is the perfect example of who I would put in this category. I also admit that I have occasionally used it for signifying purposes. I didn't grow up in a family that recognized themselves as such, so it's not something I would use to refer to my man, or my children.

As far as it being "buried," it's little more to me than a symbolic act from a symbolic organization. When was the last time the NAACP effected earth shattering change? (Beware the first person to post something re: Don Imus will be hunted down and flogged in the streets.) Can I also say that I find the National Association for the Advancement of COLORED People burying the word "nigga" ironic. If a white person used the term colored, we'd look at them like they asked our mama, "What that thang smell like?" Or is "colored" a word that we can use, but white people can't? And if that's the case, what makes "nigga" different? Just asking.

But honestly, they want to bury the word? Fine. Can you also bury public school systems that provide substandard, outdated books to inner city schools, while keeping public schools in more affluent areas up to par? How about burying the myth that most of our black men are in jail? Bury the judicial system that imposes harsher prison terms on African Americans than their white counterparts for committing the same crimes. Or if that's too much, would you simply bury the notion that something is "wrong" with our hair? Maybe you could start by getting Al Sharpton to step away from the Dark N Lovely? Just a thought. Bury the complacency that comes with expecting black men to cheat and/or abandon their families, black women to be Sapphires and hoochies and black children to be unruly and disrespectful.

My point is, if they focused more on burying the REAL issues that make people FEEL like niggas, a symbolic burial might not be necessary. Because we could stand up as black people.

Mel-and-Choly

2007-07-05T09:42:00.000-04:00

I can't sleep at night. I haven' t gotten a thorough night's sleep in well over a month. It's affecting everything. My thought processes, my moods, my reactions.

I feel like I'm drowning. Unfortunately, since I've always swam to safety before, nobody's asking if I need a life preserver. It's interesting. There hasn't been a day, over the last three weeks, that I haven't cried. Nobody seems to notice; or have any interest.

July 14 would have been my mother's 56th birthday. It's also the day that my babies are going to Louisiana. Despite the fact that it will afford me some much needed rest, it only reminds me of how alone I am.

I'm just dealing with a lot of bad feelings today.

I'm really hoping to feel better soon.