The END!

Well folks, it’s been real. All good things must come to an end. I’m done with the daily posting. The beginning of April completes my dry run of National Blog Posting Month. It’s been an interesting experience. I started a day late at the urgings of Cee but kept it up. I thought this would be a hard challenge to undertake but really got into it. Several times I posted after midnight, thus dating the entry for the next day. Also I skipped a few days for no real reason other than laziness.

Initially it seemed creating daily topics would be the hard part. Apparently my head is filled with random writing material. I also set a limit of how much to write. Using only about 365 words wasn’t always an easy task. There was so much more of my colorful commentary I wanted to incorporate. I felt some posts lacked my certain style due to the length. However, the limit also kept me from rambling. I got to the point quicker. There is hope for my quest to be a columnista after all.

I hope my fan club of four enjoyed my posts during this time. Every post was not award worthy, but I did enjoy writing each one. My favorites were “A lesson in limericks,” “Name that identity” and “The mum of all fears.”

The officially National Blog Post Month is November. I plan to participate and step-up my game a notch. The goal is to continue to stick with a word limit. Perhaps it will increase to 365-500. Also I want to post earlier. No more 11:59 p.m. postings. Blogger marks it as 12:00 a.m. by the time it uploads. And maybe, just maybe, I will write about something other than me. Then again this isn’t called the Antonia Chronicles just for kicks and giggles.

Posts will come a lot less frequently now, but don’t fret. I will write at least twice a week: One for Writing Wednesday and another random day. I still have a few topics my muse is ready to unleash. Inspiration is often loss if I delay writing. For now my journey in writing for NaBloPoMo is complete.

The age of lying

It always amazes me when people, women especially, don’t want to reveal their age. Ask some women their ages and they will nervously laugh and giggle your question away. Others will straight up say, “It’s none of your business.” If you don’t want to share it, well then fine by me. But I consider it even crazier to just lie about it. Why even bother to say anything?

I posted Thursday on Twitter about an exchange I had with a woman recently. She is older and someone I thought might be a good mentor. During the conversation I said I was 26. She responded, “I’m younger than you.” I had to ask, “You’re 25?” It wasn’t because I believed her. Not too many 25-year-olds have children that are sophomores in college or even in middle school. She must have popped out babies in pre-school. The woman then admitted she has been lying about her age for so long she doesn’t remember what it actually is. “I’m going to be 25 forever,” she said. I was at a loss for words. If you’re going to lie about your age, at least pick a number that’s a lot more believable.

Several of my friends have expressed not wanting to ever grow old. I wonder if one day they will lie about their ages.  I could probably get away with saying I’m 21-25, but I am enjoying 26. But unlike Jay-Z, I don’t want to be forever young. Do you know how many stupid things I did during 25 and below? Age should bring wisdom. I feel a little wiser with each year.

Lying about your age might not seem serious things to some people, but it demonstrates insecurity to me. You feel lying is necessary for acceptance. Perhaps you didn’t accomplish certain goals in your younger years and finally did. Maybe you alter your age to get kudos from others. I tweeted, “Saying you are 25 when you are 35 is not going to turn back the hands of time.” Thirty is not the new 20. It’s still the same 30. A wise person knows you must embrace your age. At least I know that at 26.

The mum of all fears

There are just some things you don’t do to your parents. Talking back is a big no-no of course. It’s also against the child rules to not obey them. Perhaps the worst thing possible is hitting your parents. I read this report on AP News Tuesday:

FORT MYERS, Fla. — Authorities in southwest Florida say a 17-year-old girl pointed a gun at her mother, pistol-whipped her and forced her to drive to a dealership to buy her a used car.
The sheriff's office in Lee County said Monday that the teen has been charged with aggravated assault with a deadly weapon without intent to kill, among other counts, and was being held at a juvenile detention center. The Associated Press doesn't identify minors charged with juvenile crimes.
According to officials, the mother said she didn't want to press charges because her daughter had been accepted to several Ivy League schools.
Authorities said they decided to arrest the teenager after learning that the gun had been stolen last year. The teen was not charged in that crime.

Stop the presses! Who does that? Who pistol-whips their mama for a car? Better yet, what parents allow their children to even pistol-whip them? There is something extremely wrong with the children of today. They have no type of respect for their parents. Actually, forget respect. They don’t have the fear.

The fear makes me flinch if I even think about saying a curse word around my parents. The fear keeps me respectful to them. Furthermore the fear keeps me from rolling up on one of my parents like that girl. The fear hasn’t diminished in 26 years. It just gets stronger. I am still scared of what my parents might do to me, especially my mother. Whereas my daddy might yell about something, she would probably knock me out. I can picture it now. Ma Dukes says something I don’t like and I roll my eyes. The next thing you know, I’m being rolled into a hospital with no eyes.

That girl’s mother did not instill the fear. She might want to start now by pressing charges. Big Shirley in lockdown will definitely teach her the fear.

a list look

Sometimes lists can be a beneficial tool to help you discover things to experience before death. There’s a list of places to see, foods to eat and even things to do all before your name is called up yonder. It might seem a bit morbid, but imagine how much a person would miss out on without the guidance of these lists. Recently my friend Cee and I were talking about books. She mentioned the list of 1,001 books you must read before dying. The list is split up into time periods with the largest cluster from the 1900s.

At first thought it seemed like a decent list to follow. Quite a few of the books I can already check off from a combination of required readings from school and an overall interest in the written word. There are also several books I have yet to never but know the basic premise thanks to Wikipedia and Cliffnotes (I have a fondness for spoilers). That still leaves at least more than 900 books to go on the list.

Reading that many books before dying is quite a lofty goal. This is something I should have started the day I learned how to read. I’m not a spring chicken anymore. It would take me almost 20 years to finish that list if I read one book a week. Somewhere in there I would have to find the time to read other books not on the list.

I’m not too sure I will complete the list. Most of those books don’t even appeal to me. Perhaps I am narrow-minded, but I read what I like. There are only two books out of 69 on the list from the 2000s I am even remotely interested in reading, “Middlesex” and "The Human Stain." I feel like I know “Robinson Crusoe” so well that I’ll probably never pick it up. And I know “The 120 Days of Sodom” is not for me in the least. Life is too short to read books that don’t interest me. There are too many others to read. The same goes for trying things from those other lists. I’ll simply compile a list of books I want to read before dying.

Liquor is quicker

It’s happening again. The dreaded yuckies are attacking me. But I refuse to let a cold bring me down. Not too long ago it seemed like I was sick for a year. Actually it was just November and half of December. I exaggerate sometimes. Normally I’m never sick for more than a few days each month – blame my week immune system - but something got a hold of me back then an wouldn’t let go, and I don’t mean the Holy Ghost.

It took a while for me to realize I wasn’t getting better after my first week. I tried Benadryl, Sudafed, Nightquil and two bottles of Robitussin. I drunk tea with honey by the pound and went through 10 boxes of tissues. The sickness still lingered. Finally I gave up and went to the doctor who diagnosed me with bronchitis. I got a prescription for Amoxicillin and thought everything would be cleared up by the time the bottle ran out. Wrong! I continued coughing like death was right around the corner. The constant runny nose and overall feeling of fatigue would not leave.

I went back to the doctor and he prescribed a Z-Pack which finally got the job done. Apparently, all of that could have been avoided if I had listened to old school remedies. Not the mustard plaster and garlic in the shoe my mother is always talking about (Voodoo). Or Father John – which tastes like death - my daddy champions. I’m breaking out alcohol, lemon juice and honey.

I heard so many variants of that remedy while sick. Some said use gin. Others prescribed whiskey. I’ve even heard vodka. I guess which alcohol is used doesn’t really matter. The point is it will knock you out and knock out whatever you have in the process. Getting drunk is the answer to sickness per the old folks. And you thought Grandma kept that Captain Morgan around just for rum cakes.

I have no fear of becoming a lush. There’s a bottle of vodka and tequila from about two years ago still in the bar. Maybe instead of reaching for that pack of Theraflu, I’ll try the bar. Liquor might just be quicker (just kidding).

Au Natural Haters

There is something so special about natural hair that people just have to hate it. Many think it’s unmanageable, unattractive or unprofessional, and they have no problem sharing those sentiments. People have forgotten the courtesy rule, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”

Six years ago I transitioned from silky straight locks to an afro puff. Most people love my hair, but there are a few haters. Papa Duke is my chief hair hater. He constantly tells me to get a relaxer. One opinion of his is my hair will limit me in the professional world. It hasn’t stopped me yet. A longtime bestie already told me my hair must be straight for her wedding. OK I will straighten it for a day, but it will be twisted back up by the next. They both would prefer I have it bone straight with a bouncy wrap style. No thank you!

My granny and aunt both think my hair hinders my dating appeal. I’m often told I need to do something with my hair if I want to attract anyone. Another bestie shared a guy friend told her no man really likes natural hair. She pointed out a mutual friend with natural hair started straightening it and got a man, thus I need to do the same. In that case sign me up for cat ladyhood. I’m not one to change for other people.

Perhaps the biggest haters come from people at church. One member told me God wasn’t pleased with my hair. I told her God wasn’t pleased with her attitude. Another called my hair was short and nappy compared to my brother’s nice and silky grade. I had cut my hair off in solidarity for him losing his due to chemo. His hair grew back a different texture after treatments. She got the side-eye. Of course there are just the plain old rude ones that say “I don’t like it.” Well good thing it’s on my head and not yours.

I can’t make people accept my natural hair. They can’t make me relax it either. If loving my natural hair is wrong, I refuse to be right. Just keep hating haters.

The Rotten Cousin

Only one word can describe me as a child: rotten. I was the brat of the family for the longest time. I grew up mainly around my paternal family. Many of us went to the same church or schools and lived close to each other. My rottenness wasn’t to everyone. Oh I could be so sweet and innocent to my grandma, aunts and uncles. It was my cousins who had to deal with all my misdeeds.

Not too long ago I had an in-depth conversation with Ma Dukes about my rotten years. She knew I was pretty terrible as her child, but didn’t know of just how bad my cousins got it from me too. I was the family tattle tale if any of my cousins said or did something I didn’t like. One year at Christmas the big cousins wouldn’t let me play The Game of Life. I whined to our grandma who promptly fussed at them for keeping me out of the game.

There were also two older cousins I always had to bother. I called one stupid all the time and hit another (for no reason other than pure evilness). Only because I was little girl saved me from a few well-deserved beat downs. But I wasn’t mean to all my cousins. A few others just probably thought I was annoying for always following them underfoot.

Ma Dukes said it’s a wonder any of my cousins still talk to me today because of my behavior. It was hard being one of the youngest cousins in a big family. No one takes you seriously (until you kick them). I was just an “innocent” bystander in the cousin hierarchy. Little cousins are supposed to be bad.

Now I’m a big cousin, but most of my little cousins aren’t interested in me. I was away in college while most were born, and they all seem to adore my younger brother. However, they did take revenge for their parents at my graduation party by all jumping on my back. Guess I deserved it. But no one is beating up on me or calling me names. Unlike my older cousins I will fight a rotten little child.

A temperamental tale

The ancient Greek physician Hippocrates was on to something when he came up with the ancient medical concept of humorism. Essentially he believed a person’s personality was caused by body fluids or humors: blood, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm. From there sprung up the four temperaments of psychology. The humors were correlated to temperaments: sanguine for blood, melancholic for yellow bile, choleric for black bile and phlegmatic for phlegm.

It was during a leadership conference I first learned of the four temperaments. The presenter in one session had us take a temperament test to see where we fell in the scale. Some were half and half, others were a mix of all four. I was solidly sanguine and couldn’t have been happier. Sanguines are known as extroverts, talkers and optimists. Who wouldn’t want to be that temperament? Plus it sounds a whole lot better than the rest of the lot.

Everyone was grouped into their temperament categories, and the speaker started reading off the strengths and weaknesses. Cholerics are leaders but have type A personalities. Melancholics are deeply thoughtful yet can be perfectionists. Phelegmatics are easy going but can seem unmotivated. Then she got to Sanguines: the people person.

Sanguines are talkative (check), have energy and enthusiasm (double check) and are great storytellers (BINGO). What could possibly be weaknesses of this temperament? Unfortunately a Sanguine is a Compulsive talker (so I talk a lot), has restless energy (is it a crime to want to move around?) and exaggerates and elaborates (OK I might tell a tall tale here or there). When you get right down to it a Sanguine’s strength is also its weakness. I’m my own worst enemy. Oh the horror!

If others point out one of my tragic character flaws – such as forgetting names – I say it’s because of my temperament. But I can’t just chalk up shortcomings to my temperament, despite how much I want to. Knowing your temperament is only good if you not only learn your strengths but work to improve weaknesses. It is up to me to break out of the negative areas of my temperament. I wouldn’t be a sanguine otherwise. We’re known for changeable dispositions anyway.

Blocking the writing flow

It’s Writing Wednesday. Do you know where your post is? Neither do I. I was hit by the dreaded – dun, dun, dun – writer’s block. It happens. I am only a mere mortal. Sometimes writing for the man takes away my writing creativity and energy. That great idea I had in my head turns out to be not so great once typed up. The last paragraph in a potential post won’t come to me. Or I lack motivation to even write about a particular topic. And writing everyday for National Blog Posting Month has taken all the good ideas.

I used to stare at a blank screen wishing for inspiration to flow from the heavens above into my hands below to cure writer’s block. Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that. Staring gets you nowhere. Instead you have to take more drastic measures. Several different “cures” help with my writer’s block as I’ve discovered over the years.

Reading. Sometimes I’ll read a newspaper, visit a blog or look at old posts of mine. Reading gets your mind off of what you need to write and clears the way for creative inspiration. And remember a good writer is a good reader.

Word Jumble. There is something about having to organize random letters to figure out a word that relaxes my writing muscles. If I’m stressed at work, or lacking inspiration I head to the daily jumble. Plus the accompanying joke is always good for a laugh.

Coloring. There’s a reason I ask Ma Dukes for a coloring book in my Easter baskets. I have an assumed alias named Hambone Fisher (age 5) that colors pictures for people. I’m usually ready to write after Hambone finishes a masterpiece.

Clawdeen Wolf. My Clawdeen Wolf doll sits on my desk waiting for her hair to be styled at a moment’s notice. It’s amazing how inspiring a French braid can be.

Writing. When all else fails, I just write whatever whenever to ease the block. Sometimes it doesn’t make sense, but it gets thoughts out. I make heads and tails of the words once the writer’s block is gone. Much like I did with this post. Perhaps there is method to my madness.

The reader

Reading has been my favorite hobby since I was a child. It comes in handy for my line of work anyway. I have it on very good authority that most of the best writers are also readers. One of my best friends thinks I’m lame because I spend the majority of my time reading instead of watching TV. I think Grouch Marx said it best, “I find television to be very educating. Every time somebody turns on the set, I go in the other room and read a book.” Mysteries are my preferred genre of choice, but I have been known to throw science fiction, romance or something else in the mix. Here are a few of my favorite authors.

Walter Mosley
I’ve read every book in the Easy Rawlings series, and my favorite is “Black Betty.” One of my goals in life is to have Walter Mosley read a chapter of it aloud to me. Also I have a school girl crush on Easy Rawlings . If only he were real.

Lillian Jackson Braun
She’s probably close to 100 these days and is the author of “The Cat Who” series which features a former reporter, turned millionaire and amateur sleuth. He gets help in solving mysteries from his exceptionally talented Siamese cat. For a while I wanted a Siamese cat because of this series.

Valerie Wilson Wesley
She is my third favorite mystery novelist. Her Tamara Hayle mysteries feature a relatable character who reminds me of my mom, close friends and self. I don’t read her books. I devour them. One does not last a day with me.

Carl Hiassen
He writes “environmental thrillers” which make the reader root for nature. The first book I read by him was “Tourist Season” for my History of Journalism class. It was a page turner, much like all his books. I loved it and have a copy for my library.

Tananarive Due
I never heard of speculative fiction (a branch of sci-fi) until I started reading her books. It’s a hard call, but “The Between” is probably my favorite book by her. She meshes elements of the supernatural with just good old-fashion solid storytelling.

Career Days

Teacher: What do you want to be when you grow up?
Student: I want to be a ... doctor, ballerina, ninja.

Most children don’t really know what they want to be as adults. Visit an elementary school on career day and students will emphatically pick a certain career this year and something totally different the next. Young Logan probably wanted to be a rich logging tycoon before becoming the beloved X-Men Wolverine. I proclaimed my career choice in fourth grade. To this day I’ve actually stuck with it.

One day my fourth grade teacher, Ms. Brown, made the class write an essay entitled “If I ran away to the circus I would be...” I said the ring master because I loved talking and being the center of attention. I also said I would be a clown to make others laugh (even though I strongly dislike clowns). The essay was forgotten until several weeks later the principal announced in music class it won four tickets to the Ringling Bros. Circus. Apparently our class assignment was part of a citywide radio station contest. Winning that contest sparked something in me: I could write. I declared myself a writer from that moment on and was blessed to have the support of family, friends and school officials.

Folks had me writing for any and every thing after that day. No one was really sure what area of writing I would go into, especially me. Would I write poetry (I’m not that deep), plays (I have writing ADD) or short stories (fiction is hard to make up)? In middle school I decided to be a reporter. Getting a round of applause for my first article in the school paper was a major ego boost. It reinforced my childhood theory, “you get things for writing.”

Here I am 16 years later living my childhood dream as a newspaper writer (an award winning one too). I’m just glad I outgrew my pre-school career choice of a pay-for- lady (a cashier). Children might be fickle in their aspirations now, but encourage them in their quest for finding their dream career. One day they might really just grow up to be that childhood dream.

Deep in Thought

Draped in all black and wearing a turban, the spoken word artist grabs the microphone with a fury. It is now her turn in the poetry slam. She begins a spoken word piece which parallels the genocide in Darfur to the inner turmoil facing black Americans in the debate of natural versus relaxed hair. The audience is drawn in to every word, nodding to the rhythm that flows so easily from her lips. At the end, fingers come together to snap admiration and approval, and everyone rises to their feet – except for one person. The lone figure in the front that whispered to a friend, “She didn’t even rhyme in this poem.”

Unfortunately I wasn’t blessed with much in the department of street smarts or common sense. Why else would I touch that straightening comb as a child after my grandmother warned me not to? But what I lack in those areas I make up for intellectually, right? After all I went to one of the top middle and high schools for academics. I studied at one of the best state colleges. By all accounts I should be a highly profound intellectual that can pontificate on any subject in the news. Yeah right. Not too long ago it hit me: I am not that deep. Did I even use pontificate correctly? Sometimes I wonder if I’m closer to an idiot than an intellectual. My preferred genre of choice for movies and TV shows is comedy. Instead of playing Sudoku or a cross word puzzle, I stimulate my brain with a word jumble or word search. Is my mind filled with just thoughts of bubblegum and popcorn?

Part of me feels like I wasn’t always this dense. I used to be deep or at least more of an intellectual. The peak time was probably in college. I was surrounded by other learned individuals. Then I graduated and the denseness set in. Or was it always there to begin with? Apparently I need to go pick up a “Deepness for Dummies” book. Then again I could be stressing over nothing. Maybe we aren’t all meant to be philosophers. Perhaps knowing your intellectual limitations is deep in itself.

case not closed

In a perfect world there would always be closure for a situation. That ex would explain exactly why he dumped you. Your favorite TV series would have an official ending. The bully from middle school would apologize. Unfortunately we live in a world of perfect imperfections. Those fairy tale examples of getting that closure we desire often never occur. Sometimes you have to let go of that pipe dream of perfectly closing the case of emotions spurred by a particular experience. We don’t always get the closure we want.


One of my tragic character flows is holding grudges. I’ve let go most of them, but every now and then I get riled up about an old one that dates back to middle school. I wrote about “The Grudge” in August and will spare rehashing the details. I’m still very bitter about everything that went down between me and she who shall not be named. It’s pretty sad considering that was more than 10 years ago (don’t judge me).

I just want closure. I would like to look back on that time and not feel any ill will toward her (or my crappy ex-boyfriend). One should not continue going through life hoping the people that have done you wrong stub their toe. I know that and you know that. Will someone please tell my head that too?

Perhaps if I really do want closure I have to get it myself. I see home girl every time I hit up my granny’s church. Part of me wants to go up to her and say something. Forget the apology on Oprah I use to want. I just want to hear out of her own mouth why she felt the need to pick on me. Sure I have an idea why (I was a nerd), but getting her to acknowledge it would do my heart a world of good for some reason. The problem is there is a good chance she doesn’t even remember me. That would probably make me even bitter. Ultimately I should just leave well enough alone and keep working to let it go. One day this case will be closed.

Now introducing ... television

There was a time when I didn’t watch television. It started during my college years because I was too busy to watch TV. I missed out on hit shows such as “Lost” or “Grey’s Anatomy.” Then Cee introduced me to Hulu and all that changed. I finally didn’t have to worry about watching the exact air date. Instead I could watch my shows online.

I started watching several of my shows mid-series. They didn’t require knowing too much back history to understand the dynamics of the show.

“The Simpsons”
My first experience with this show was watching the movie in 2007. It makes me smile.

“Family Guy”
I absolutely love Stewie and Brian. Their back and forth relationship keeps me grinning.

“The Office”
Michael Scott – the man you love and hate at the same time. I watch this show because of him.

“Psych”
Shawn and Gus have one of the best bromances of all times. Not to mention they’re both adorable.

Last year I decided to expand my horizons and ride the wave with several new shows. Some of my favorites were canceled (R.I.P. “Eastwick” and “Dollhouse”) but the rest have survived the chopping block.

“Community”
The bromance between Abed and Troy is perhaps the second best of all times. Watch out “Psych.”

“Parks and Recreation”
There is something about Leslie Knopes’ character that reminds me of myself. She’s socially inept but loveable.

“Glee”
For the love of music, they sing in this show. Cee bought me several of the albums from the show and I absolutely love it.

“The Event”
This is for the Sci-Fi lover in me. The first episode had me so caught up I couldn’t stop watching.

“The Cleveland Show”
Sometimes this show has me laugh even harder than “Family Guy.”

“Modern Family”
Dysfunctional families telling their tales to the camera. What’s not to love?

The main link between the majority of the shows I watch is comedy. I like to laugh. Only one really makes me think, “The Event.” My time of TV watching is a chance to escape life with a laugh here and there. Thanks to the wonders of Hulu I can keep the laughs coming forever more.

Summertime crush

Crushes have been an important part of my life since I was a child. Someone has always been an object of my affection. Sometimes they’ve been a celebrity, such as Ray J. and Jason Weaver (don’t judge me). For the most part it’s someone I know and even interact with. Usually they don’t know I have a crush. At least that’s what I’d like to think. Subtlety is not one of my strong suits. Cee says it’s not even in my closet (she’s such a joker).


I can’t remember a time without me having a crush, until now. These days I’m going through a dry spell. My old crush got engaged so I had to end that one. He has yet to provide a crush replacement, and pickings are slim around here. There is no one that has captured my attention as of late. Celebrities. Real people. Not one person. I tried having a not-so-secret crush on one person I see on the regular. Nobody could take it seriously. He’s not my actual type, and in theory my crush should be someone I really would want to date and relate to. Good crushes just don’t seem to come easy anymore. This can’t be life. I have no one to fawn over or come up with a special crush song.

If only I could find someone to crush on these days. I don’t ask for much. I just need someone I find attractive with a good personality. Cee is trying to push off one of her friends on me for a crush. He’s cute as pie (as she would say) but I don’t feel that crush connection. That connection is key for a successful crush. Plus I never see him. I need to be in constant interaction with my crush. I need to see my crush on the regular in some form.
One of my friends thinks it’s abnormal for a mid-20 something to have adult crushes. Perhaps it is, but I am not motivated to date. I crush instead. I prefer to window shop than actually purchase something out the store. A crush is an easy breezy carefree type activity. Let it be known I’m accepting applications for a summertime crush.

Name that identity

Maybe the question isn’t “What’s in a name?” as Shakespeare so eloquently put it but “who is the name?” Growing up I answered to quite a few names. Actually I still hear all of them. Antonia is what my parents named me, but my granddaddy said it was too hard to say or remember. He christened me Sunday instead. Then Tone-Tone was bestowed on me by a relative on my dad’s side of the family. I introduced myself as “Toni like the tiger except with an I” in college. Antonia. Sunday. Tone-Tone. Toni. It’s a wonder I don’t have split personalities for each name. Talking to a friend the other day made me think about how many of us go by nicknames with family and close friends. Are we different people with each name? Does a name make us change?


I’d like to think I’m the same person with every name, but in certain instances I can see some variations in personality. That’s not to say there are 27 different people living inside of me. But Tone-Tone is definitely not the same as Toni or Sunday. Tone-Tone is the child-like little cousin and full of restless energy. It’s a name I grew out of for the most part, like someone called Boo-Boo or Pumpkin. I do still hear it from time to time. Toni is the talkative but humorous friend. That nickname is used with casual acquaintances and close friends alike. Sunday is the charming and ambitious grandchild. Use of this name demonstrates a closeness only found with old, old friends and family. I’m likely to be even goofier around my friends as Toni. Of course Sunday will make you smile, but she’s a lot more practical at times. Tone-Tone comes out when a moment calls for a child-like innocence.

So who is Antonia? The sum and difference of all these names. The name that looks good on the surface. The professional name. There are slight differences in how I respond depending on what name is used. Ultimately each one equals me, Antonia. The only name without an identity is my middle name. J. is in hiding for now. One day she’ll come out to play.

would be spinster

Lately becoming a cat lady has seemed quite appealing. I will likely end up a spinster because I cannot be bothered with the dating scene. Blame it on a lack of suitable prospects and my irritable personality syndrome. Dating is just not my thing. Supposedly it is the key to getting into a relationship and actually ending up married. I’ve been trying to get my parents to arrange a marriage for years so I can avoid dating. Apparently that’s not their thing either.


I made a list of several goals for 2010 including an ambitious one of going on 12 dates. It did not happen, and I realized I didn’t even care I failed. If I actually was motivated to go outside my house and meet people, I could possible scrounge up a date. Club Walmart for the record is not the hookup spot. I know from personal experience.

Maybe if I lowered my standards and accepted offers from any and everybody I might have met the dating quota. I tried to be accepting, but people weren’t up to par. There was the guy at Walmart who was put on the cut list after saying his adopted sister accused him of rape. That was too much drama for me. Then a guy at church ruined my worship experience one Sunday. I’m trying to get right with the Lord and he was spitting game during the service. And I can’t forget this one guy I met at a wedding. He started off good but lost interest.

Maybe it’s me. Everyone isn’t meant to be married anyway. My daddy, grandmother and aunt are praying daily I don’t end up an old maid. But would that be so bad? If I do end up a spinster, it won’t be the end of the world. No kids. No husband. No worries. That sounds like a decent tradeoff to me. Having a family of my own would be nice, and I would love to have a wedding. But if by 40 I’m still unmarried you can call it a wrap. This chick is throwing a spinster party in style. I’m going to marry myself. And I’ll actually buy a cat.

public perception

Perception is everything to some people. It doesn’t matter what the truth is about a situation. Their truth is how they perceive it. Unfortunately I learned that lesson growing up as a preacher’s kid, or a PK. I have never been a fan of have a pastor for a daddy. Growing up, and even now, I felt that he gave so much of his time and attention to other people and church issues that our family was sometimes placed on the backburner. And of course there was that whole issue of perception. Everyone always thinks preacher’s children are spoiled and wild. There are some who fit that profile of course, but that can be said about the children of doctors, lawyers or whoever. I wasn’t the best child or the worst. I was just a child. But I sometimes felt like I had to be extra good because of that perception. PKs were also expected to have a talent such as singing, playing an instrument or speaking. I played the piano for years until I realized it really wasn’t my thing.


The April issue of Ebony magazine asked several pastors’ wives about their life as a first lady. One of the questions was “Who has the most pressure on them: pastors, first ladies or their children.” I was happy to see them answer the children. “They have to conform to the expectations of those around them. And there are preconceived notions of how the children of a minister should behave or whether they will go into ministry,” said Elder Karen Bernard of Christian Cultural Center in Brooklyn, N.Y. A pastor has a calling on his life and the wife supports him, said Jamell Meeks of Salem Baptist Church in Chicago, Ill. “A pastor’s kids were born into it, unlike the pastor or his wife. From birth, everything the children do is judged. Anything they do that people feel is not right, that fact is going to be verbalized.”

I’m not sure what perception my dad’s members have of me these days. They probably think I’m so wild adult. Now that I’m in my mid-20s I don’t care anymore. The only perception that matters to me is God’s.

Family bonding time

My trips home are sometimes few and far between. I don’t do much when I come to visit anyway. Usually it consists of me coming home late on a Friday night or early on a Saturday morning, sleeping, visiting my grandma and going to church with my parents on a Sunday. Did I mention I have to sleep on the couch? There is no bed for me to lay my head, and my former room is now used for storage. Also my parents never had food. I usually have to grocery shop for myself. Not too much of a reason to come home, right?


Then last week at church I had an epiphany while the pastor was delivering his sermon: I missed my daddy’s preaching. That’s not to say the pastor in Lake City wasn’t a decent preacher, but after growing up under my daddy’s tutelage I have developed a certain affinity for his sermons. I toyed with the idea of going home this weekend. I was just home about two weeks ago, and I don’t like them getting too used to visits from me. Ma Dukes mentioned she was speaking at a church Sunday and that sealed the deal for me to come home.

I’m glad I did. If nothing else I got to enjoy ample amounts of family togetherness with the top people in my family. My mother and I were cuddle bunnies Friday night, and I talked her ear off while she tried to sleep. She probably wasn’t listening but just our moments of closeness made my night (until my daddy kicked me out the bedroom). Then Saturday night my daddy and I bonded over a showing of “Our Family Wedding.” We laughed and joked about what my wedding would be like (if it ever happens) Sunday night brought bonding with my little brother. Together we went to our granny’s house and visited with her and an aunt.

I might not do much on my trips homes but there is one activity that is always a given: family bonding. I may lack a bed and a room but their love is always there. That’s enough to make me come home any weekend.

Foul language musings

There’s just something about profane language that gets to me, and not in a good way. It actually makes me cringe a little inside. After all these years I should be used to it. My parents’ don’t always speak words filled with sprinkles and sunshine. My brother’s mouth often spouts crude terms. Several of my friends drop curse bombs. A few of them would put sailors to shame. That’s not to say I don’t curse. I do but not that much. I try to keep my language clean.


Sometimes I feel like people unnecessarily use choice words. While out with a friend once she dropped so many F- and S-bombs I wanted to hide. Did I mention children were nearby? The F-bomb does not need to be used in every single sentence. It shows a weak command of the English language in my humble opinion. If someone is dropping too many hard-hitting words I shout out “language, language.” It’s my little way of trying to clean up the swearing.

There are times when you might have to “make it plain” as my father would say. A simple phrase might need juicing up to address that person who cut you off while driving. Emphasis is sometimes involved by using a certain word in a story. Even still those moments should be few and far between.

Personally I think it sounds unbecoming of a lady to carelessly drop choice words. There was a time when gentlemen never used profane language around a lady. These days it doesn’t matter. Granted I’m not exactly the perfect epitome of a lady. I don’t wear pantyhose. I chuck globs of spit randomly to the side (I’m not swallowing it). And I chew gum like a cow chews cud. Not cussing has to count for something right? Certain words have a melodious sound to them. Whimsical. Facetious. Intrepid. There’s nothing pretty about cuss words. You can’t arrange them to produce a pleasing sound to the ear. Perhaps I’m just old fashion in my thinking. Besides people are going to cuss anyway. But there are too many other words out there to only use the crudest ones. Language is just as lovely clean.

limit the lines

I talk a lot. Not a little, but a lot. A. Whole. Lot. My grandmother used to call me Mouth Almighty, Tongue Everlasting. However, I am the first to admit I can be a bit too talkative. I go from topic to topic with random rants thrown in and lose focus easily. Unfortunately that same trait carries over to my writing.


The news industry often tells reporters to write tight, meaning keep it to the point, clear and concise. I have to keep that rule in mind constantly at work because space is limited sometimes. In my personal writing and reflections I tend to throw that rule out the window. My early days of blogging started on Facebook. Each Facebook note probably read more like a college essay. I wrote and wrote and wrote some more. And just when you’d think I was done, I added another 2,000 words for good measure. That’s not to say what I wrote was bad. Some of it was fairly good, but it was too long. 


I knew writing 10,000 word blog posts wasn’t going to be an option while participating in NaBloPoMo. Lengthy posts, even though they are my own thoughts, take time to write depending on the subject matter. I set up a word limit of 365 for each post, which is about half of what I normally write. A person’s attention span is only so long. Following a word limit can sometimes be challenging. You have so much to say but are only allocated a certain amount of space. It’s kind of like using Twitter. You only have 140 characters to tweet.


I am starting to see some improvement with my self-imposed word limit. It’s helping me cut out a lot of fluff in my writing and become a stronger storyteller. This should hopefully carry over to the day job. There might come a time when I feel the need to write a good 500 words again, but for now I’m following the limit. I still tend to write with no end in sight in my personal journal. Readers can rest assured there’s a limit to my posts now. I’ll keep it simple.

a head full of personality

“'Cause you've got (personality).
Walk (with personality).
Talk (with personality).
Smile (with personality).
Charm (with personality).
Love (with personality).
An' plus you got a great big heart.”

Personality is usually attributed to people or animals. Tell that to my hair. It’s always had a mind of its own. I began to fully comprehend that idea after I went natural. That’s not to say my hair lacked personality while chemically processed. Personality has seemed to shine through even more so in its natural state.

Over time I’ve noticed several consistent traits about my hair. My hair is outgoing. It’s always all over the place, making friends with people. It’s also adaptable. I used to rock twists out every week, then I started braiding it. Now I’ve ventured into Bantu knots, flat twists and more. Whatever style I throw its way, my hair can handle. There are times when my hair can be assertive too. Some days it won’t even humble down to be styled. I usually end up letting it flow free as it wants to be.

The second time I cut all my hair off a cousin had a fit. Apparently rocking the tapered fro didn’t seem to fit my personality. A drastically different look invoked a new hair personality. This hair was more mature, refined and serious. It was fun while it lasted, but eventually I started to miss my longer locks and the personality that went with twists and braid outs or whatnot.

Essentially I’ve realized my hair is a reflection of me or who I want to be. “Hair is often an excellent predictor of someone’s self-image and lifestyle,” according to Jo-Ellan Dimitrius in “Reading People: How to Understand People and Predict Their Behavior – Anyplace, Anytime.” Most people would agree I’m outgoing. I never meet a stranger and talk to any and every body. I’m also fairly adaptable. One minute I have to be a writer and the next I’m a photographer. I’m not as assertive as I want to be, but it’s a work in progress. At the end of the day my hair is a mirror image of me. I’ve got personality. Of course my hair would have it too.

Spontaneously a bust

There was a time when I lived spontaneously. Nike’s motto, “Just Do It,” was also my own, and I freely gave into any impulse. Each day was different from the last. The only schedule I followed was for classes, and everything else was played by ear. Breakfast might be at 1 p.m. today or 8 a.m. tomorrow. Studying was thrown in the loop somewhere. Club meetings were attended as needed. Fun was 24/7. There was no set time for most activities. It was all free flowing.

Then I graduated from college, and the real world set in. Gone are the days of just going with the flow. Spontaneity often seems to be a foreign concept. My life is all about schedules now. Get up at 8:30 a.m. Work at 9 a.m. Lunch at 12 p.m. Bed at 11 p.m. Does anyone know how to build a time machine? Please send me back to those carefree days of college.

I tried to not conform to a regular schedule at first. How hard could it be to just follow impulsives? That didn’t work out too well. I gave in and started using a planner and making To Do Lists. Now everything must have an assigned appointment slot. No more random road trips with my friends. We have to plan months and months in advance. On those rare occasions when I don't make a schedule, I sleep all day. This can’t be life. Something has to give.

Being an adult can be a drag with all the responsibilities. Unlike the carefree days of youth, there is much more rigidness and structure to follow. You can’t just take a mental health day and skip work or push aside projects to party hearty. But that doesn’t mean adulthood has to lack fun. It’s up to me to spice up life. I can’t be completely carefree and throw caution to the wind. I can, however, have weekly moments of spontaneity. Yes, I will schedule the fun. Maybe I’ll pop into a movie out of the blue or bake a peach cobbler at 1 a.m. just for fun. I refuse to be a dull 20-something. I’ll live spontaneously – at least once in a while.

The point of all annoyance

My irritable personality syndrome is flaring up again. Little things are starting to set me on edge. It’s not so much with everyone, but a few select people. Don’t blame PMS. There’s just something in my nature that makes me lose patience easily about minor things. A friend texted me during my time of sustained silent reading Tuesday. I might have possibly overacted. The text transcript, with my thoughts, is as follows:

“Real Gs move in silence like lasagna…” he wrote

“What?” I replied.

“It’s true. The modern day philosopher Weezy F, please say the baby, hath decreed it.”

Now was it really that important to send me this text message at 9:13 p.m. in the first place? We are not cool like that.

“OK and on that note I return to reading.”

At this point he should have left me alone, but no. Clearly he was asking for my wrath.

“Oh what you getting into?”

“A book.”

Didn’t I just say this a few seconds ago?

“Don’t be coy. What book?”

I was not being coy. I was being curt so he would get the message to leave me be. That didn’t help so I had to get rude.

“CAN I READ IN PEACE?”

“Why do you always make things difficult? For once can you be friendly without catching an attitude? You never talk to (our other friends) like this. What’s your problem with me?”

“I would like to read in peace.”

“Go ahead and read, friend.”

My problem with him is he couldn’t seem to understand I was reading. Don’t try to engage me in a conversation. Other friends don’t do stupid things to irritate me; therefore they don’t get an attitude.

Typing in all caps probably wasn’t the nicest way to handle this, but when I reach my annoyance boiling point there is no telling what will happen. I am sorry for my snippiness. I do need to stop. I have since asked God to help me have the same amount of patience with others that he would have with me. It’s only fair. Patience is a virtue I desire. It would just be so much easier if people didn’t annoy me.

Pursuit of happiness

“All I really want is to be happy and to find a love that's mine. It would be so sweet.” Mary J. Blige sung of happiness regarding a relationship. For me happiness relates to my career choices. My particular industry has never been known for the reasonable hours, large paychecks or praise and admiration. Some would say it downright sucks. That didn’t stop me one bit. Sure there are long hours, I get paid peanuts and most days are thankless. But I had passion for my job. It made me happy. Nothing could take that away.

Much to my parents’ chagrin I spent four years in college getting a degree in a field that makes no money. They wanted me to go to law school, get a master’s degree or do something more with life. I like observing court cases not being an active participant. School was hard enough the first go round, I couldn’t take any more. And I do something more with my life every day as a writer.

Now with any job there comes moments of frustration, self-doubt or lack of motivation. I’ve learned to not go to my parents looking for a boost. Their responses tend to be along the lines of, “We told you not to go into that field. Why don’t you teach school? Merrill Lynch is hiring.” Whatever happened to saying “It will be OK,” or “Keep pressing on and doing what you love?” So much for encouragement from them.

Personally, I can’t just do any and everything. There’s a little thing called happiness heavily involved. I must be happy. That wouldn’t be the case as a teacher. I don’t like large groups of students. There isn’t enough vacation time or money in the world to change that. I would suffocate to death in a cubicle. I can’t stand being in an office all day. I need to get out and about talking to and interviewing people. Granted what I do might not be the best job to some – OK most – people, but there is something special about it. It makes me happy (for the most part). That’s all anyone wants in a job (and to make money).

A lesson in limericks

Poetry writing has never been my strength. I can appreciate a good poem, of course, but don’t ask me to write one. Unless it’s a limerick.

Typically a limerick is a stanza of five lines with the first, second and fifth rhyming with each other. The third and fourth rhyme with each other. Back in the early days of limericks the first and fifth line ended with the same word. Limericks are witty, humorous and full of nonsense, kind of like me. What’s not to like about this style of poetry?

A character in one of my favorite book series, “The Cat Who ...” by Lillian Jackson Braun, wrote a column dedicated solely to limericks. I might not have a column, per say, but I do have this blog. Here are some limericks I find entertaining.

The limerick packs laughs anatomical                
In space that is quite economical,
But the good ones I've seen
So seldom are clean,
And the clean ones so seldom are comical.
Readers be warned. Limericks can be raunchy.

There was a Young Person of Smyrna
Whose grandmother threatened to burn her;
But she seized on the cat,
and said 'Granny, burn that!
You incongruous old woman of Smyrna!'
My granny used to threaten to spank me. Usually she did spank me. We didn’t have a cat handy.

There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all his gold in a bucket.
But his daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.
My mother used to tell me a dirtier version of this one. We’ll leave it at that.

There was an old man from Peru,
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke in the night
with a terrible fright
and found out that it was quite true.
This is one of my favorite limericks. My mom often recited it, and I used to hear it in school.

And now introducing my very own limerick.
There once was a nice girl named Toni
Who only ate Kraft macaroni
She refused to eat meat
Abhorred fruits and sweets
Her tombstone said, "Here lies Miss Bony."

Puberty … the return

Remember the days of puberty? Who can forget that magical time when the body went crazy? Eventually you grew into it. One of the biggest parts of puberty is acne which is triggered by hormones. My acne was really bad and required a trip to the dermatologist at one point. It calmed down by college, and gone were those days of giant pimples all over my face. Or so I thought until now.

My face is starting to look like puberty all over again. The acne has returned and with a vengeance. This is a scene from “Puberty II: Pimple Harder.” Something is causing me to break out, and I don’t like it. Not. One. Bit. It was hard enough to go through my younger years as a zit face. Must I face that again as an adult?


Acne affects 25 percent of all men and 50 percent of women at some time in their adult lives, according to Acne.org. At least I’m not the only character in “Puberty II.” The site also stated one third of adults affected with facial acne also have it on their body. I’m a member of that club too. "Recent epidemiological studies show that there appears to be an increase in post-adolescent acne, and that the disease is lasting longer and is requiring treatment well into the mid forties," according to a 2004 International Journal of Cosmetic Science article. Are you kidding me? I refuse to be middle-age with pimples.

Several things lead to adult acne including: stress, PMS and cosmetics. I’ve had the PMS flare ups before. Those last a day or two. My hair products can be oily, and I’ve change items and certain styles to avoid any problems. I’ve worked in a high stress environment for several years with no problems. What gives now?

This has all led me to one conclusion: I’m going through puberty again. Help, the end is near! OK it probably is just stress catching up with me. Perhaps I need to woo sah just a little bit more. And I’ve started washing my face three times a day. I kicked pimples in puberty. I can do it again as an adult.

Cleaning lady

It’s bad when your room gets so messy you can’t take it anymore. Starting today my Saturdays will be dedicated to cleaning my room. It’s been a bona fide mess for the past two weeks. Most people are familiar with the phrase, “Cleanliness is next to godliness.” Right about now the devil and I are best friends if my room is any indicator.

I have a tendency to let things pile up. Laundry in one corner. That bookshelf I need to assemble in the other. Trash scattered throughout. Sometimes disorganization sets in and rules supreme. I often have this same issue with my work desk. Clutter starts to spread like a deadly virus. Then suddenly I realize I can’t see the bottom of it anymore. That’s when it’s time for the cleaning lady to step in.

Initially my goal was to clean my room earlier in the week. I put together a to-do list and that was in the top three along with cooking and washing clothes. Alas and alack, the demanding hours of my profession, not to mention good old fashion laziness, kept me from getting anything done. I just washed clothes this morning. Lunch might happen by tomorrow. But by golly I am going to clean my entire room today.

There isn’t that much work to actually do in the grand scheme of things. Clean the dresser, organize the top of the book chest, hang up clothes, make the bed and voila, I’m done. Often I lack motivation to clean my room. It’s one of my least favorite activities, along with cooking, washing dishes and putting away laundry. What happened to those robots of the Jetson’s era? Shouldn’t there be a model available to clean my room for me? No? OK, guess it’s just me.

Maybe if I start cleaning my room in sections throughout the week it won’t seem like such a massive task. And playing music soothes me while cooking. I can perhaps start doing that during my cleaning sessions. The ultimate goal is to not let my room be such a mess every week. Every two weeks should be manageable. Then the cleaning lady can make a very brief appearance.

A Texture Tale

Once upon a time, but not long ago, a young woman realized there was something unusual about her hair. It was more than just the fact that fairy knots appeared mysteriously at the end of some strands each night. Instead she noticed there were two different textures in her hair. This caught the woman by surprise. Never had she noticed her hair to have more than one texture while rocking a relaxer. Her natural hair seemed to shine a light on the comparison.


The vast majority of her hair was of the Congo thick and kinky variety. Right dead center in the front patch was a variety of another. This patch was a lot finer and silkier compared to the course texture throughout the rest of the head. She dubbed it the North Africa Patch.

Normally the two textures united in hair harmony for most style. But one day the woman decided to just flat twist the patch and two strand twist the rest. A difference wasn’t noticeable – at first. The style remained in place for several days until it morphed into a twist out. Then a difference was visible. The entire head was coily and curly, but one little patch was ever so curlier. As the twist out faded, the Congo coils started morphing into an organized mess, due to a lack of a sleeping cap, but the North Africa patch remained vigilant in its defined curl pattern. What did this all mean? Was she the only one with this problem? The young woman decided to research and find out.

Hair websites, such as the Long Hair Care Forum, soon put the young woman to ease. Many other posters shared the same dilemma. It was indeed normal to have two different hair textures. Different circumstances could be the culprit, such as poor health, genetics or just because hair can be random in some cases. There was no need to be alarmed (not that she was worrying much anyway). So the girl went back to styling her hair with the same products. All was well in the world of her hair. And now dear reader this texture tale has come to an end.

The art of persuasion

Let the dry run of National Blog Posting Month begin (granted I’m a few days late). NaBloPoMo, which is officially in November, is an offshoot of National Novel Writing Month. Instead of writing a book in a month, bloggers post something every day. Different blog themes during the months leading up to November are set to help writers prepare for the challenge. The theme is “In a word” for the month of March.

Faithful reader and friend, Cee, participated in NaBlogPoMo a couple of years ago. She plans on doing it again and proclaimed March as her dry run. And guess who was dragged in to join her? I had no intent of even participating in this month’s challenge. I do good to participate in Writing Wednesday every week. I barely write a sports column quarterly for my job. What would possess me to take on the challenge of writing every single day? All I know is Cee asked me to try it Wednesday, and after some prodding I said yes. What can I say? She’s persuasive like that.

Cee always has her pulse on some of the coolest things out there. She was on Twitter before it became the next big thing. Perhaps that’s what makes her persuasion of me so easy. I know if she’s down with the cause it’s probably something I’ll enjoy.

If nothing else, this should help me improve myself as a “blogger.” My posts should become more concise and direct. Usually my blog posts are a wild reading tangent. Also I tend to feign being too busy writing for the man to write for myself when I miss Writing Wednesday. This will perhaps be an exercise in time management. I must post or die (well maybe not). Regular readers know I tend to be lackadaisical about posting. Sometimes months pass between new ones.

Hopefully I can come up with enough interesting posts. I’m already two days behind, but Cee said to continue the challenge for the rest of the month. If I make it through 28 days of March, perhaps there is hope for me in November. Cee will most certainly persuade me to participate in the official NaBloPoMo.

bad seeds

Little people should be seen and not heard. At least that’s what my granny used to tell me as a child. That saying didn’t mean too much to me as a child. Actually it was somewhat of an insult. I had a voice and was definitely going to use it. But I’m starting to better understand just what she meant by that very phrase. Quite a few parents of today need to take that statement to heart. Frame it on their wall. Put it in their wallet. Make it a personal family mantra. Actually I’m starting to feel little people shouldn’t be seen or heard.
More and more children have gone wild, and it’s driving me crazy. I wish it drove the parents crazy too. Then maybe they would do something about it. Head to the grocery story during the day and you’ll hear little Johnny throwing a tantrum because Mommy won’t buy a box of some sugary cereal. Like he needed it anyway. Little Johnny is already a demon spawn. That cereal would just make him 10 times worse. Go to a special event and have the (dis)pleasure of sitting in front of or next to a child. Little Becky will probably kick your seat non-stop and give you the evil eye when you confront her. Or she’ll just walk randomly over to your seat 10 feet from her parents. If you’re me you’ll ask ever so loudly, “Whose child is this? Where is your mother?”
My personal favorite sighting for children gone wild is church. If you want to mess up a person’s worship experience quicker than the devil, just bring some bad seeds into the mix. Little Lulu will whine and cry all during the service if she can’t get a church fan. Then Rosemary’s baby will proceed to shred it up on the pew while Mommy just ignores it. Then she’ll have the audacity to not share her snacks. I can’t stand it. I told my mother churches need to institute a cage system for children. Drop your child off at a designated spot, and little Lulu will be placed in her own personal kennel. Each kennel will have snacks, water and toys to entertain the child. You and everyone else that knows how to make their children behave can enjoy service in peace. A cage supervisor will be on hand to ensure your child is returned to you by the end of service. My mother said I would have everyone in jail (at least we’d be away from bad children).
I just don’t like bad children. They make me itch and then I have to sit on my hands before I snatch them up and show them what my granddaddy used to call “The Rod of Correction.” Even more so I don’t like bad parenting. Ignoring a child’s bad behavior is not going to make it stop. Do something with your child before I do.
Now I must confess I wasn’t the best little child growing up. There are some, namely my mother, who will allege I used to spit on people or tell them to shut up. Supposedly I even caused a Bible to go flying in the air during Bible Study. I don’t recall those times at all. Bad as I was, my mother was badder (yeah I know it’s not a word). She believed in discipline (read spankings). Lots and lots of discipline. Five times a day. As a result I grew out of my evil child ways.
I shudder to think about what will happen to the ones of today that receive no discipline. It doesn’t have to be a spanking. Send them to time out. Take a privilege away. Do something. Just rectify the bad behavior before it gets out of hand. Or they might have to face me. I’m not prejudice. I will fight a child. Child gone wild today. Girls Gone Wild tomorrow.