You know I got posts!

"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!

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

"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!!

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"

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

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

"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

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

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!

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

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

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

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. . .

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

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

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

"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

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

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!

Honestly...what else needs to be said.