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.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
It's the Douchebag Commandments! WHA!
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!
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
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
Monday, May 05, 2008
Friday, May 02, 2008
Yippie
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?
Anyone want to keep this gift giving chain a-movin?
Thursday, May 01, 2008
The other side of strength
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Maverick's Review
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.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
What matters most
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.
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.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Comedy is. . .
. . .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.
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.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Chronicles of the Luscious
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.
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.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Springtime Goodness
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!
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!
Monday, March 17, 2008
Petty Inconvenience
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?]
Friday, March 14, 2008
Calling All Readers
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!
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!
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Psalms for Our Sons
"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.
'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.
Monday, February 25, 2008
My body is my temple; pie is the sacrament
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.
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.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Bored
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.
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.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
An Amalgamation of Hodge Podgery
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!)
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!)
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Not the one
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.
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.
Friday, January 18, 2008
"Fi Fie Fo Figga" Part Deux!
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
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
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