I am going to be bigger than Oprah one day (in name only, not weight).
In my continuing quest to take over her empire, I have decided it is now time to present a few of my favorite things.
She highlights them on her show and O Magazine and tells you where to get them.
It shall be called A Magazine when I take over. Hilarity will ensue similar to the “Who’s on First” shtick.
But I digress.
In no particular order, my favorite things include:
1. Birthday Cake. I love cake. It is my weakness. Any problem can be solved with a slice or two of birthday cake. And no, I am not talking about that corn bread with icing they sell at Wal-Mart. I have a special fondness in my heart for birthday cake from Publix. Of course a real bakery is always a good choice too.
2. Reading. Not only is it fundamental, it’s entertaining. I read an equal amount of fiction and non-fiction each day. I like reading mystery novels first and foremost. I’m also starting to really get into speculative fiction. On the non-fiction sphere I enjoy newspapers, magazines and blogs. But I will read a good non-fiction book, if it’s written like a novel.
3. Ryan Leslie. Not only is his voice amazing, but he has superb lyrics. Furthermore, his backing music touches my soul. Just listen to “Irina” and you’ll hear the greatness that is him. I love that song simply because of the music. The lyrics are really sweet too. And the good thing is all of his songs are like that.
4. Solange. She is not the anti-Beyonce, she is just herself. I follow her on Twitter and the girl is raw. We should totally hang out and become BFFs. Also, her music speaks to my soul. I feel like some of the songs on Sol-Angel and the Hadley Street Dreams were taken from a page in my journal. Great minds do indeed think alike.
5. Cee’s nephew. He’s adorable, entertaining and 3. He is the epitome of my favorite thing. I’ve only seen him once but he stole my heart. If I was a preschooler we would absolutely have to hang in the same circle. Cee says he has me wrapped around his finger. I think she’s a hater. He said I was one of his favorite people too.
6. The phrase, “I can’t be bothered.” That one sentence is versatile for any situation. It conveys my exact sentiments. Sometimes you just can’t be bothered. When I say that, you know exactly how I feel. There is no need to say any more.
7. Twitter. God bless the inventor of Twitter. Mirco-blogging is the wave of the future. I do so enjoy keeping a journal, but it is not feasible to write my every thought every second of the day. Well it is with Twitter (providing it’s in 140 characters or less). I might not post a note or blog for days, but I tweet at least 10 times an hour. What I love best about Twitter is it allows a random person like me an additional outlet to post my random ramblings.
8.Ralphie. Yes, the fish made the list. I don’t think people realize just how much I love that little red betta. He helps calm my nerves on any given day. He is also an excellent listener (yes, I do talk to my fish). If everyone owned a betta fish the world would be a better place.
9. Turkey meat. I don’t know why some people treat turkey like the red-headed step cousin of the food world. It’s not just for special occasions like Thanksgiving. I only cook chicken and turkey. On any given night you will find turkey wings, ground turkey, turkey breast filets and much more in my house. Turkey meat is absolutely delicious.
10. My family/friends. They’re crazy, loud and annoying at times, but I wouldn’t trade them for the world. It takes a special person to deal with me. Some are born into it. Others (for some strange reason) choose to. I appreciate each and everyone of them. I might not call as much as I should, but they’re never far from my thoughts.
Now if only someone would just list me as one of their favorite things...
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Chronicles of Life ... the best man i can’t be
I have a not so secret addiction to Esquire.
Each month, I read over every single page of the magazine, soaking in all that is carefully written.
Some of the information I can apply to my own life, like knowing how to soothe a crying baby, jump-starting a car or making a great omelette.
Others not so much, well, because I’m not a man.
Esquire is the quintessential men’s magazine.
It has almost everything a man needs to know to be at his best. That is after all its motto: man at his best.
Well what magazine is the female equivalent? None of them!
I would have to get at least 10 women magazines to equal one issue of Esquire.
I can’t be bothered!
I have subscriptions to three magazines: Esquire because it’s amazing, Rolling Stone for the music lover in me, and Essence to inspire me as a black woman.
Clearly there is no time to read nine other women magazines.
Don’t get me wrong. I adore being a girl, but my fear is I’ll know how to be the best man possible and end up the worst woman ever.
The pages of Esquire teach how to dress, impress and jest in an easy-to-follow guide.
Each issue is filled with practical information and tackles diverse topics from politics to fashion and everything in between. And the articles, oh those magnificent articles, are always thought-provoking, informative and enriching.
Women’s magazines, such as Cosmo, are too superficial for me. There is more to a woman than just relationships, wearing the latest trends and getting a hot body.
Can I get an article of some substance, please? The likes of "Ways to train your boyfriend" do not count.
You can't even compare that to stories like "Tonight on Dateline This Man Will Die," which can be found in Esquire. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.
I will admit Essence comes pretty close to a comprehensive women’s magazine. But sometimes it seems to only scratch the surface, leaving me hungry as if I only ate an appetizer. I need more depth, more substance, more something.
Where is my main course like Esquire?
I guess wanting an end-all be-all women’s magazine is asking for a little too much.
As one friend pointed out, men are simple creatures. One magazine can very well suit their purposes.
Women on the other hand are too complex to have an all-encompassing magazine. Therefore we have several dedicated to our womanly issues such as fashion, sex, good house keeping, etc.
Perhaps I shouldn’t try to look in the pages of a magazine to learn how to be the best I can be. I just have to live and learn.
But a few cliff notes would be nice.
Each month, I read over every single page of the magazine, soaking in all that is carefully written.
Some of the information I can apply to my own life, like knowing how to soothe a crying baby, jump-starting a car or making a great omelette.
Others not so much, well, because I’m not a man.
Esquire is the quintessential men’s magazine.
It has almost everything a man needs to know to be at his best. That is after all its motto: man at his best.
Well what magazine is the female equivalent? None of them!
I would have to get at least 10 women magazines to equal one issue of Esquire.
I can’t be bothered!
I have subscriptions to three magazines: Esquire because it’s amazing, Rolling Stone for the music lover in me, and Essence to inspire me as a black woman.
Clearly there is no time to read nine other women magazines.
Don’t get me wrong. I adore being a girl, but my fear is I’ll know how to be the best man possible and end up the worst woman ever.
The pages of Esquire teach how to dress, impress and jest in an easy-to-follow guide.
Each issue is filled with practical information and tackles diverse topics from politics to fashion and everything in between. And the articles, oh those magnificent articles, are always thought-provoking, informative and enriching.
Women’s magazines, such as Cosmo, are too superficial for me. There is more to a woman than just relationships, wearing the latest trends and getting a hot body.
Can I get an article of some substance, please? The likes of "Ways to train your boyfriend" do not count.
You can't even compare that to stories like "Tonight on Dateline This Man Will Die," which can be found in Esquire. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.
I will admit Essence comes pretty close to a comprehensive women’s magazine. But sometimes it seems to only scratch the surface, leaving me hungry as if I only ate an appetizer. I need more depth, more substance, more something.
Where is my main course like Esquire?
I guess wanting an end-all be-all women’s magazine is asking for a little too much.
As one friend pointed out, men are simple creatures. One magazine can very well suit their purposes.
Women on the other hand are too complex to have an all-encompassing magazine. Therefore we have several dedicated to our womanly issues such as fashion, sex, good house keeping, etc.
Perhaps I shouldn’t try to look in the pages of a magazine to learn how to be the best I can be. I just have to live and learn.
But a few cliff notes would be nice.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Chronicles of Life ... random religious thoughts
Some people look for signs of Jesus’ existence in big booming miracles.
Not so for me. Give me the little things.
I have “Jesus is real” moments everyday.
Take for instance gas prices.
At one point gas was nearing $4 a gallon. It was costing a small fortune to fill up the Green Machine.
Monday gas was $2.16, and I filled up for $23. Jesus is real!
Then there was the time when I was starving and ready to eat a small child. I had no money and lunch was still a few hours off.
I went to my car to get a note pad, and voila, there was nearly $1 in change on the floor. Just enough money for me to head to the snack machine.
Yet another “Jesus is real” moment.
My all time favorite is when I see a fine looking specimen of a man. I’m talking about one who just bring tears to your eyes because of his beauty.
As Cee would say, “Jesus is real and there is a God.”
The Lord wakes me up each morning, but I tend to take that for granted. Having my “Jesus is Real” moments helps me remember to thank the Lord for every blessing, no matter how big or how small... Does anyone else think those e-mail and text message forwards about God are annoying? You know, the ones where it says send to 10 people if you love God.
Well I love God but I hate forwarding, so I usually don’t send them.
They always have some message at the bottom calling you out if you don’t join the e-mail/text chain.
No, I am not ashamed of God. I highly doubt I am blocking a financial blessing. And the little e-mail angel is definitely not watching over me.
Last I checked, my relationship with God was not dependent upon responding to modern technology. It’s a personal thing.
Send me your forwards and e-mails if you must, just know you won’t get one back from me... I think people say the phrase, “God knows my heart,” a little to loosely.
Even I used to throw it out without really thinking.
Then one day I realized God indeed knows my heart. He sees that evil streak inside.
Personally, that made me a little nervous. Here I am saying it all lightly and he could just zap me.
I don’t know about you, but I’m not saying it anymore... I have a serious problem. I am a sermon critic.
Maybe that’s why I’m not a member of any church.
Despite what my parents think, I don’t stay home out of laziness. I stay home because if I don’t like a sermon I can’t be bothered.
I think it’s my daddy’s fault.
I’ve been hearing his preaching for as long as I can remember and tend to critique others based on his style.
I can take bad singing. I can stand Sunday morning service chaos. However, I will not and can not tolerate a bad sermon.
I look for several things in a sermon including: were there points and illustrations, was it informative and entertaining and was it grammatically sound?
This year Cee and I set out on our “get right before you get left” weekly worship experience. That was a bust
It’s July and I’m still churchless.
We often said we wished my daddy had a church here. We definitely could get right then.
Nevertheless, I will continue on my search for a church home.
In the meantime I need to start getting taped copies of my daddy’s sermons... I am so glad God is patience and loving. I am not.
Once Cee was reading a few stories from the Bible. One told of how Sarah lied to the Lord.
She laughed and God asked her why did she do it, then Sarah had the nerve to say she didn’t.
Now if it had been me I would have just went, “Zap, your dead.”
You don’t lie to the Lord!
The Bible is filled with zap moments.
If left up to me, there wouldn’t be an old testament because Abraham, Moses and a few others would have been zapped
It’s a wonder we even have any people.
I know God probably gets fed up with us and wants to zapped everybody. But he doesn’t.
Thank God for grace and mercy.
Not so for me. Give me the little things.
I have “Jesus is real” moments everyday.
Take for instance gas prices.
At one point gas was nearing $4 a gallon. It was costing a small fortune to fill up the Green Machine.
Monday gas was $2.16, and I filled up for $23. Jesus is real!
Then there was the time when I was starving and ready to eat a small child. I had no money and lunch was still a few hours off.
I went to my car to get a note pad, and voila, there was nearly $1 in change on the floor. Just enough money for me to head to the snack machine.
Yet another “Jesus is real” moment.
My all time favorite is when I see a fine looking specimen of a man. I’m talking about one who just bring tears to your eyes because of his beauty.
As Cee would say, “Jesus is real and there is a God.”
The Lord wakes me up each morning, but I tend to take that for granted. Having my “Jesus is Real” moments helps me remember to thank the Lord for every blessing, no matter how big or how small... Does anyone else think those e-mail and text message forwards about God are annoying? You know, the ones where it says send to 10 people if you love God.
Well I love God but I hate forwarding, so I usually don’t send them.
They always have some message at the bottom calling you out if you don’t join the e-mail/text chain.
No, I am not ashamed of God. I highly doubt I am blocking a financial blessing. And the little e-mail angel is definitely not watching over me.
Last I checked, my relationship with God was not dependent upon responding to modern technology. It’s a personal thing.
Send me your forwards and e-mails if you must, just know you won’t get one back from me... I think people say the phrase, “God knows my heart,” a little to loosely.
Even I used to throw it out without really thinking.
Then one day I realized God indeed knows my heart. He sees that evil streak inside.
Personally, that made me a little nervous. Here I am saying it all lightly and he could just zap me.
I don’t know about you, but I’m not saying it anymore... I have a serious problem. I am a sermon critic.
Maybe that’s why I’m not a member of any church.
Despite what my parents think, I don’t stay home out of laziness. I stay home because if I don’t like a sermon I can’t be bothered.
I think it’s my daddy’s fault.
I’ve been hearing his preaching for as long as I can remember and tend to critique others based on his style.
I can take bad singing. I can stand Sunday morning service chaos. However, I will not and can not tolerate a bad sermon.
I look for several things in a sermon including: were there points and illustrations, was it informative and entertaining and was it grammatically sound?
This year Cee and I set out on our “get right before you get left” weekly worship experience. That was a bust
It’s July and I’m still churchless.
We often said we wished my daddy had a church here. We definitely could get right then.
Nevertheless, I will continue on my search for a church home.
In the meantime I need to start getting taped copies of my daddy’s sermons... I am so glad God is patience and loving. I am not.
Once Cee was reading a few stories from the Bible. One told of how Sarah lied to the Lord.
She laughed and God asked her why did she do it, then Sarah had the nerve to say she didn’t.
Now if it had been me I would have just went, “Zap, your dead.”
You don’t lie to the Lord!
The Bible is filled with zap moments.
If left up to me, there wouldn’t be an old testament because Abraham, Moses and a few others would have been zapped
It’s a wonder we even have any people.
I know God probably gets fed up with us and wants to zapped everybody. But he doesn’t.
Thank God for grace and mercy.
The Hartwell Chronicles ... Have you seen me?
I’ve always heard that everyone has a twin. You know, a person totally unrelated who looks (and in some cases even acts) like you.
Apparently, I have a few in Georgia.
The first person was actually another reporter at a sister paper.
I went to a play one night and several people kept saying her name. I didn’t realize they were talking to me.
Finally, one woman came up and asked, “Aren’t you XYZ?”
“No, I’m me.”
“Oh you two look just alike,” she said.
After that I was itching to meet my twin. We finally met at a company conference.
And guess what? We look nothing alike.
She’s taller, thinner and has relaxed hair. Her complexion is a bit lighter too.
Other than the fact we’re both reporters that wear glasses and are black, we look and act nothing alike. We often joke about how people mix us up.
She’s a really nice person. So it’s not so bad being mistaken for her.
I’d rather be mistaken for her then Evillene, the Wicked Witch of the West.
There’s another woman in town people call my twin. I think it’s because we both have natural hair, and even that’s a stretch.
Her hair is past shoulder length and in locs. I tend to keep my short and in a puff or twists.
She’s a cool cat too, though.
One day I’m going to ask her if anyone ever mistakes her for me.
It was about a year before I met my so called “true blue twin.”
Several people thought I was either her or related to her. Someone even said her son looks more like me than my own little brother.
I once met her aunt, and she thought I was my twin at first glance.
I knew I had to meet this woman.
Finally I did, by chance.
I was out interviewing people and came across her one day. She asked my name and said, “You’re the one everybody says I look like.”
“You must be my twin,” I said. “It’s nice to finally met you.”
And it was except, again, I saw no similarities.
I was expecting to see a lot more, since even her aunt said we looked alike.
Personally, I don’t really think I have a twin. I look uniquely like me.
Then again it was years before I saw how much I looked like my parents.
There is a photographer named Francois Brunelle who likes to find non-related twins around the world and photograph them together for his Web site, http://www.francoisbrunelle.com/.
So if you should happen to see my “twin” let me know and we can get photographed for the Web site.
It would be a shame to not share double the beauty.
Apparently, I have a few in Georgia.
The first person was actually another reporter at a sister paper.
I went to a play one night and several people kept saying her name. I didn’t realize they were talking to me.
Finally, one woman came up and asked, “Aren’t you XYZ?”
“No, I’m me.”
“Oh you two look just alike,” she said.
After that I was itching to meet my twin. We finally met at a company conference.
And guess what? We look nothing alike.
She’s taller, thinner and has relaxed hair. Her complexion is a bit lighter too.
Other than the fact we’re both reporters that wear glasses and are black, we look and act nothing alike. We often joke about how people mix us up.
She’s a really nice person. So it’s not so bad being mistaken for her.
I’d rather be mistaken for her then Evillene, the Wicked Witch of the West.
There’s another woman in town people call my twin. I think it’s because we both have natural hair, and even that’s a stretch.
Her hair is past shoulder length and in locs. I tend to keep my short and in a puff or twists.
She’s a cool cat too, though.
One day I’m going to ask her if anyone ever mistakes her for me.
It was about a year before I met my so called “true blue twin.”
Several people thought I was either her or related to her. Someone even said her son looks more like me than my own little brother.
I once met her aunt, and she thought I was my twin at first glance.
I knew I had to meet this woman.
Finally I did, by chance.
I was out interviewing people and came across her one day. She asked my name and said, “You’re the one everybody says I look like.”
“You must be my twin,” I said. “It’s nice to finally met you.”
And it was except, again, I saw no similarities.
I was expecting to see a lot more, since even her aunt said we looked alike.
Personally, I don’t really think I have a twin. I look uniquely like me.
Then again it was years before I saw how much I looked like my parents.
There is a photographer named Francois Brunelle who likes to find non-related twins around the world and photograph them together for his Web site, http://www.francoisbrunelle.com/.
So if you should happen to see my “twin” let me know and we can get photographed for the Web site.
It would be a shame to not share double the beauty.
Chronicles of Life ... When insanity attacks
Perhaps, I really have gone off the deep end.
The signs have been apparent to everyone else for some time now. But I’m just finally recognizing them.
Recently Cee told me, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
Well just sign me up for a brand new jacket that makes me hug myself constantly, because by golly I always do that.
For instance, I know that if I wash my hair on an empty stomach I’ll will soon feel faint in the shower. My blood sugar level always seems to drop in all of the heat and steam.
Yet once a week, I still end up in the shower dizzy. Then I have to hurry and rinse out my shampoo so I can add the conditioner, hop out the shower and gulp down some orange juice to bring my blood sugar level back up.
After the ordeal, I always pledge to start eating before my weekly hair washing ritual.
That pledge lasts until the conditioner is washed out.
Next week I’m back in the same predicament.
You would think I’ve learned by now.
But hair is the least of my worries.
I tend to do bad repeats in many facets of my life: relationships, money and anything else you can name.
Clearly someone needs to call the nut house for me.
Maybe I’m not insane, just a simpleton. But how could that be?
I graduated from one of the top high schools and colleges in the nation.
My mother certainly didn’t raise any dummies.
At the very least, I’m smarter than the average bear.
But smart in what way, books only?
I am totally lacking in the common sense department.
Am I insane in the membrane or just a Simple Simone?
Either way it goes, that’s a problem and making me a prime candidate for a do better award.
I know the saying is if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Maybe I need to start trying again with new methods to get the end results I want.
Otherwise I’m just plain crazy.
The signs have been apparent to everyone else for some time now. But I’m just finally recognizing them.
Recently Cee told me, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
Well just sign me up for a brand new jacket that makes me hug myself constantly, because by golly I always do that.
For instance, I know that if I wash my hair on an empty stomach I’ll will soon feel faint in the shower. My blood sugar level always seems to drop in all of the heat and steam.
Yet once a week, I still end up in the shower dizzy. Then I have to hurry and rinse out my shampoo so I can add the conditioner, hop out the shower and gulp down some orange juice to bring my blood sugar level back up.
After the ordeal, I always pledge to start eating before my weekly hair washing ritual.
That pledge lasts until the conditioner is washed out.
Next week I’m back in the same predicament.
You would think I’ve learned by now.
But hair is the least of my worries.
I tend to do bad repeats in many facets of my life: relationships, money and anything else you can name.
Clearly someone needs to call the nut house for me.
Maybe I’m not insane, just a simpleton. But how could that be?
I graduated from one of the top high schools and colleges in the nation.
My mother certainly didn’t raise any dummies.
At the very least, I’m smarter than the average bear.
But smart in what way, books only?
I am totally lacking in the common sense department.
Am I insane in the membrane or just a Simple Simone?
Either way it goes, that’s a problem and making me a prime candidate for a do better award.
I know the saying is if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Maybe I need to start trying again with new methods to get the end results I want.
Otherwise I’m just plain crazy.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Chronicles of Life ... Writer’s Block
It’s been a while since I’ve posted to my blog, Facebook or anywhere, but not due to a lack of ideas. Moreso a lack of liking the end results of said ideas.
I think I’ve been dealing with a bout of writer’s block. But it’s not the traditional kind where you can’t write.
On the contrary, I have been writing quite a bit. I am just not motivated to post it.
I think the problem is I’m my own worse critic.
Aren’t we all?
So I write something and then think it sucks and decide to let it marinate in my mind for a few.
Well a few days turns into weeks, months maybe even years.
I think I’ve been too concerned with whether anyone else will like it or not.
Poppycock!
My chronicles are actual (altered) entries from my journal.
Since when does one start caring what others think about their journal entries? Exactly when did I start caring?
I don’t know. What I do know is it’s time for me to get back to I can’t be bothered mode. Otherwise I’ll scrutinize every little thing I write.
Don’t get me wrong, some scrutiny is always needed. But not to the point where I’m second guessing myself.
It’s giving me an ulcer and flaring up my acid reflex.
Therefore, I pledge to do better in the month of July. I will write and post and post and write until my fingers fall off.
And I will do it for myself.
I’ll still continue to critique my stuff, but at least I’ll post first.
There’s nothing worse than a pile of chronicles of my computer that have never been posted.
I only have so much free space on my new laptop anyway. The least I could do is free it up.
Maybe then I’ll be free from the writer’s block.
I think I’ve been dealing with a bout of writer’s block. But it’s not the traditional kind where you can’t write.
On the contrary, I have been writing quite a bit. I am just not motivated to post it.
I think the problem is I’m my own worse critic.
Aren’t we all?
So I write something and then think it sucks and decide to let it marinate in my mind for a few.
Well a few days turns into weeks, months maybe even years.
I think I’ve been too concerned with whether anyone else will like it or not.
Poppycock!
My chronicles are actual (altered) entries from my journal.
Since when does one start caring what others think about their journal entries? Exactly when did I start caring?
I don’t know. What I do know is it’s time for me to get back to I can’t be bothered mode. Otherwise I’ll scrutinize every little thing I write.
Don’t get me wrong, some scrutiny is always needed. But not to the point where I’m second guessing myself.
It’s giving me an ulcer and flaring up my acid reflex.
Therefore, I pledge to do better in the month of July. I will write and post and post and write until my fingers fall off.
And I will do it for myself.
I’ll still continue to critique my stuff, but at least I’ll post first.
There’s nothing worse than a pile of chronicles of my computer that have never been posted.
I only have so much free space on my new laptop anyway. The least I could do is free it up.
Maybe then I’ll be free from the writer’s block.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Chronicles of Life… are you Easy
I sort of have a school girl crush on Ezekiel “Easy” Rawlins.
He is everything a girl/woman could want: street-wise, hard-boiled and downright sexy. Easy has the swagger THAT young and old men alike only wish they could possess.
Men either love or hate him. And women just love him.
Despite being in his late 40s, he can hang with the best of them.
He takes care of his own children, as well as countless others, and watches out for his fellow man.
Can you blame me for drooling over the very thought of him?
I met Easy one night after coming home from a long day’s work.
See he’s a private eye. But not your every day, average run of the mill type PI.
He learns what people want hidden. Find what the police can’t, and makes it all seem so “Easy.”
Easy used to be an unlicensed PI. But he’s so smooth the cops practically begged to give him a license.
But I digress.
He was on the trail of the murderer of a missing woman when I was first introduced to him.
Yes, he’s constantly in harms way. I feared for his safety every turn of the page.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, Easy’s not real. He’s the protagonist of Walter Mosley’s Easy Rawlins Mysteries.
Denzel Washington brought him to life in the movie “Devil in a Blue Dress,” which was based on the first book of the series. Soon as I finish the series, I plan on watching the movie to see if it’s close to the book.
That’s going to be a bittersweet moment.
I started reading the series backwards in chronological order because I’m crazy. So I already know how it ends … for now.
Yes, Walter Mosley is trying to punk us all into thinking Easy is dead. I refuse to believe it.
If people can still believe Elvis, Tupac and Biggie are alive, why can’t I hold out for Easy?
I still have two books left in the series, and I’m almost certain I might cry when I’m through.
This crush didn’t happen over night.
The first book merely had me intrigued with Easy. Book two deepened my interest.
But by book three I was sprung like spring.
If only I could meet a real Easy.
Part of me wonders if the character is somewhat based on Mosley himself. I can dig it.
Sure he may be 56, but have you heard his voice? He sounds simply irresistible.
I could love that voice.
Mosley has been added to the list of people I have to meet.
When that day comes, I am simply going to ask “Are you Easy?” Then he is required to read no less than three chapters of one of the books aloud to me, while I sit and swoon over him.
I haven’t decided on which book yet. Maybe “Black Betty” because the ending was purely poetic justice.
Easy has a tendency of doing that.
So how am I going to ever survive without him?
Maybe the Fearless Jones series will spark a new crush. And I am eagerly anticipating reading the Leonid McGill series.
But deep down I know none can quite compare to Easy.
He is everything a girl/woman could want: street-wise, hard-boiled and downright sexy. Easy has the swagger THAT young and old men alike only wish they could possess.
Men either love or hate him. And women just love him.
Despite being in his late 40s, he can hang with the best of them.
He takes care of his own children, as well as countless others, and watches out for his fellow man.
Can you blame me for drooling over the very thought of him?
I met Easy one night after coming home from a long day’s work.
See he’s a private eye. But not your every day, average run of the mill type PI.
He learns what people want hidden. Find what the police can’t, and makes it all seem so “Easy.”
Easy used to be an unlicensed PI. But he’s so smooth the cops practically begged to give him a license.
But I digress.
He was on the trail of the murderer of a missing woman when I was first introduced to him.
Yes, he’s constantly in harms way. I feared for his safety every turn of the page.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, Easy’s not real. He’s the protagonist of Walter Mosley’s Easy Rawlins Mysteries.
Denzel Washington brought him to life in the movie “Devil in a Blue Dress,” which was based on the first book of the series. Soon as I finish the series, I plan on watching the movie to see if it’s close to the book.
That’s going to be a bittersweet moment.
I started reading the series backwards in chronological order because I’m crazy. So I already know how it ends … for now.
Yes, Walter Mosley is trying to punk us all into thinking Easy is dead. I refuse to believe it.
If people can still believe Elvis, Tupac and Biggie are alive, why can’t I hold out for Easy?
I still have two books left in the series, and I’m almost certain I might cry when I’m through.
This crush didn’t happen over night.
The first book merely had me intrigued with Easy. Book two deepened my interest.
But by book three I was sprung like spring.
If only I could meet a real Easy.
Part of me wonders if the character is somewhat based on Mosley himself. I can dig it.
Sure he may be 56, but have you heard his voice? He sounds simply irresistible.
I could love that voice.
Mosley has been added to the list of people I have to meet.
When that day comes, I am simply going to ask “Are you Easy?” Then he is required to read no less than three chapters of one of the books aloud to me, while I sit and swoon over him.
I haven’t decided on which book yet. Maybe “Black Betty” because the ending was purely poetic justice.
Easy has a tendency of doing that.
So how am I going to ever survive without him?
Maybe the Fearless Jones series will spark a new crush. And I am eagerly anticipating reading the Leonid McGill series.
But deep down I know none can quite compare to Easy.
Chronicles of Life ... the bald and the beautiful Share
It’s starting again! The urge to cut, that is.
The last time I felt like this I cut my hair down to the new growth at 3 a.m.
It was six months after I started growing out my relaxer. My cousin twisted my hair every few months with extensions to aid the transition process.
But one night, while taking some old twists out, it happened. I picked up the scissors and couldn’t stop.
Hair was all over the sink.
My hair looked a hot mess, but at least I was getting it re-twisted the next morning.
Having a fall back was excellent, because I am no stylist. Sure I do a little this and that every now and then, but I know my limitations.
That’s not the case this time.
Lately my split ends have really been irking me.
It’s my own fault. I don’t go get my ends trimmed like I should.
I go to a hairdresser maybe every six months.
For some reason, the split ends really got the best of me a few weeks ago. So I washed my hair, twisted it up and arbitrarily cut off two-three inches at 3 a.m. again.
The feeling was exhilarating! I felt alive!
And my hair was split end free, or so I thought.
Then I noticed a few leftover split ends the next week. The urge to cut returned with a vengeance.
I had to remove all the evil split ends so my hair could truly be healthy. It was the only hope.
So I cut off another two inches.
I was OK for a while. Then just the other day I saw a split end.
You know what I’m thinking about doing?
My mother says I need to stop playing hair dresser and go see a professional. There is no time!
My hair is crying out for help. I must pick up the scissors one last time.
Two more inches should do the job.
If not...OK there is a good chance the next time my parents see me I will be bald.
Not totally bald, mind you, because my daddy would have a cow.
Personally, I have wanted to cut most of my hair off for some time. I’ve done practically everything else to it, and always loved my hair when it was short.
How cool would it be to have only one inch of hair on my head?
Maybe the split ends are just the nudge in that direction.
Some say it won’t look right. Sorry, but my ego makes me fully believe I can pull off any hair style, and quite well I might add.
I can always get a wig as a fall back.
I’m not sure if the world is ready for a “bald” new Antonia.
But there’s only one way to find out... to be continued.
The last time I felt like this I cut my hair down to the new growth at 3 a.m.
It was six months after I started growing out my relaxer. My cousin twisted my hair every few months with extensions to aid the transition process.
But one night, while taking some old twists out, it happened. I picked up the scissors and couldn’t stop.
Hair was all over the sink.
My hair looked a hot mess, but at least I was getting it re-twisted the next morning.
Having a fall back was excellent, because I am no stylist. Sure I do a little this and that every now and then, but I know my limitations.
That’s not the case this time.
Lately my split ends have really been irking me.
It’s my own fault. I don’t go get my ends trimmed like I should.
I go to a hairdresser maybe every six months.
For some reason, the split ends really got the best of me a few weeks ago. So I washed my hair, twisted it up and arbitrarily cut off two-three inches at 3 a.m. again.
The feeling was exhilarating! I felt alive!
And my hair was split end free, or so I thought.
Then I noticed a few leftover split ends the next week. The urge to cut returned with a vengeance.
I had to remove all the evil split ends so my hair could truly be healthy. It was the only hope.
So I cut off another two inches.
I was OK for a while. Then just the other day I saw a split end.
You know what I’m thinking about doing?
My mother says I need to stop playing hair dresser and go see a professional. There is no time!
My hair is crying out for help. I must pick up the scissors one last time.
Two more inches should do the job.
If not...OK there is a good chance the next time my parents see me I will be bald.
Not totally bald, mind you, because my daddy would have a cow.
Personally, I have wanted to cut most of my hair off for some time. I’ve done practically everything else to it, and always loved my hair when it was short.
How cool would it be to have only one inch of hair on my head?
Maybe the split ends are just the nudge in that direction.
Some say it won’t look right. Sorry, but my ego makes me fully believe I can pull off any hair style, and quite well I might add.
I can always get a wig as a fall back.
I’m not sure if the world is ready for a “bald” new Antonia.
But there’s only one way to find out... to be continued.
Chronicles of Life … the non-benchwarmer
Allow me to formerly introduce someone to you. You’ve seen him before at a number of sporting events.
He is the teammate that pass was intended for on the football field; the outfielder who was supposed to catch that stray baseball; or the player who everyone thought had the basketball rebound.
Still don’t know who he is?
It’s none other than Jeff, the imaginary teammate everyone loves to bring into the game.
I got to witness Jeff first hand at several sporting events a few weeks ago: two basketball and one hockey game.
Yep, Jeff is multitalented and plays all sports.
But he has really been in the spotlight during March Madness.
In case you didn’t know, Jeff blows games. Big time!
Sure you might have a 10 point lead. But you can forget it once Jeff comes off the bench.
He does not catch passes, block goals or go in for the rebound. Jeff has even been known to drop a few batons in relay races.
Does no one pay attention to Jeff’s stats for each game? He has none.
Jeff officially is the world’s worst teammate. Yet he’s on every team.
I don’t know why teams keep recruiting Jeff. Maybe it’s because he has this good camaraderie with all the teammates.
I think Jeff keeps telling everyone he’s in it to win it. Team members want to trust each other, so they give Jeff chance after chance.
He must keep saying he’ll redeem himself next game, and in he goes.
Jeff is a habitual liar, apparently.
He may be cool and all after the game, but the point is to win. National championships are on the line here.
I don’t mind seeing Jeff play with the young’uns during rec department games. That is the age when it’s all about the joys of the game and learning the fundamentals of whatever sport.
But Jeff has to leave the team once high school starts.
Maybe Jeff can take on a different, less important team role. I think Jeff the imaginary team mascot has a nice ring to it.
I know people want to protect their teammates. But hear me out.
Jeff needs to go!
Side note: I don’t know who is worse; Jeff, the imaginary teammate, or a star player’s evil twin.
I have seen Jim Tebow stand in for Tim during games. And Rick Calathes has blown some for Nick.
Round them all up, evil twins and Jeff, and keep them on the bench.
He is the teammate that pass was intended for on the football field; the outfielder who was supposed to catch that stray baseball; or the player who everyone thought had the basketball rebound.
Still don’t know who he is?
It’s none other than Jeff, the imaginary teammate everyone loves to bring into the game.
I got to witness Jeff first hand at several sporting events a few weeks ago: two basketball and one hockey game.
Yep, Jeff is multitalented and plays all sports.
But he has really been in the spotlight during March Madness.
In case you didn’t know, Jeff blows games. Big time!
Sure you might have a 10 point lead. But you can forget it once Jeff comes off the bench.
He does not catch passes, block goals or go in for the rebound. Jeff has even been known to drop a few batons in relay races.
Does no one pay attention to Jeff’s stats for each game? He has none.
Jeff officially is the world’s worst teammate. Yet he’s on every team.
I don’t know why teams keep recruiting Jeff. Maybe it’s because he has this good camaraderie with all the teammates.
I think Jeff keeps telling everyone he’s in it to win it. Team members want to trust each other, so they give Jeff chance after chance.
He must keep saying he’ll redeem himself next game, and in he goes.
Jeff is a habitual liar, apparently.
He may be cool and all after the game, but the point is to win. National championships are on the line here.
I don’t mind seeing Jeff play with the young’uns during rec department games. That is the age when it’s all about the joys of the game and learning the fundamentals of whatever sport.
But Jeff has to leave the team once high school starts.
Maybe Jeff can take on a different, less important team role. I think Jeff the imaginary team mascot has a nice ring to it.
I know people want to protect their teammates. But hear me out.
Jeff needs to go!
Side note: I don’t know who is worse; Jeff, the imaginary teammate, or a star player’s evil twin.
I have seen Jim Tebow stand in for Tim during games. And Rick Calathes has blown some for Nick.
Round them all up, evil twins and Jeff, and keep them on the bench.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Chronicles of Life … crying spell
It hit me while writing my latest obituary. Around this time last year I was writing my first one, except it wasn’t for a stranger.
My grandmother died one year ago today.
Time does fly, but I still feel the lost as if it just happened
That was one trip to Jacksonville I didn’t want to make. Then I didn’t want to leave when it was time to return to Hartwell.
I thought the tears would never stop coming.
I felt like life couldn’t go on and wanted to wallow in a dark abyss of sadness for the rest of my life.
“I have no one left in this world,” I remember telling one friend.
She quickly reminded me of my massive family.
“Are you serious?” she asked. “What about all those people at your graduation?”
Yes, even in sorrow I am overly dramatic.
At that time it seemed like the end of my world. I was a bucket of tears.
Then I thought about how my mom probably felt. That made me cry 10 times worse.
She took care of my granny throughout her battle with dementia. That is no easy task.
A lesser daughter would have probably run away from it or crumbled under the pressure. She was able to handle it with no complaints.
My mom set aside her own tears on many occasion.
I decided I wanted to be strong for her if nothing else. Yes, I had my moment, but I was OK at the funeral.
Even now I want to be strong for my mother.
It was hard at first because everything reminds of my granny. Certain hymns, the color green, even Florence my peace lily (I got it from the funeral).
I still think about her today, but surprisingly I don’t necessarily get teary-eyed every time.
Mainly memories of her make me smile.
It was the same way when my granddaddy died. I cried during the whole funeral and thought I couldn’t make it.
Now I take pleasure and solace in the sweet memories.
I know my mom has her fair share of sad moments. So I tell her to just let it flow, whether she’s at work, out in public or by herself.
Sometimes the person that’s normally the rock needs to turn into the waterfall. M mom and I have switched roles in that sense.
I still do have my crying spells. You know the ones where you can barely breathe and start hiccupping.
I let the tears fall for however long.
Just Saturday I was cleaning my house and saw a copy of the funeral program and obituary. Instantly I went into hysterics.
So for two hours I vacuumed and cried, swept and cried and washed dishes and cried. I even took a break from cleaning to cry some more.
Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Kind of like Florida rain showers.
It’s funny how that happens. Maybe its part of the healing process.
*No tears were hurt in the making of this note.*
My grandmother died one year ago today.
Time does fly, but I still feel the lost as if it just happened
That was one trip to Jacksonville I didn’t want to make. Then I didn’t want to leave when it was time to return to Hartwell.
I thought the tears would never stop coming.
I felt like life couldn’t go on and wanted to wallow in a dark abyss of sadness for the rest of my life.
“I have no one left in this world,” I remember telling one friend.
She quickly reminded me of my massive family.
“Are you serious?” she asked. “What about all those people at your graduation?”
Yes, even in sorrow I am overly dramatic.
At that time it seemed like the end of my world. I was a bucket of tears.
Then I thought about how my mom probably felt. That made me cry 10 times worse.
She took care of my granny throughout her battle with dementia. That is no easy task.
A lesser daughter would have probably run away from it or crumbled under the pressure. She was able to handle it with no complaints.
My mom set aside her own tears on many occasion.
I decided I wanted to be strong for her if nothing else. Yes, I had my moment, but I was OK at the funeral.
Even now I want to be strong for my mother.
It was hard at first because everything reminds of my granny. Certain hymns, the color green, even Florence my peace lily (I got it from the funeral).
I still think about her today, but surprisingly I don’t necessarily get teary-eyed every time.
Mainly memories of her make me smile.
It was the same way when my granddaddy died. I cried during the whole funeral and thought I couldn’t make it.
Now I take pleasure and solace in the sweet memories.
I know my mom has her fair share of sad moments. So I tell her to just let it flow, whether she’s at work, out in public or by herself.
Sometimes the person that’s normally the rock needs to turn into the waterfall. M mom and I have switched roles in that sense.
I still do have my crying spells. You know the ones where you can barely breathe and start hiccupping.
I let the tears fall for however long.
Just Saturday I was cleaning my house and saw a copy of the funeral program and obituary. Instantly I went into hysterics.
So for two hours I vacuumed and cried, swept and cried and washed dishes and cried. I even took a break from cleaning to cry some more.
Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Kind of like Florida rain showers.
It’s funny how that happens. Maybe its part of the healing process.
*No tears were hurt in the making of this note.*
The Hartwell Chronicles … Unprepared for the hearing impaired
Random situations seem to be a main stay in my life.
Some of them I know how to handle. Most of them I throw up my hands and say “I can’t be bothered.”
But there are a few I am just down right unprepared for.
Like when this random man came into the office ever so quietly.
I saw him walk up to a co-worker without saying a word. Sometimes I’m paranoid, so I thought he was about to shoot up the place.
Eventually I realized he was just giving him a card, and I went back to work.
Out the corner of my eye I noticed him giving everyone else a card.
“Oh he’s probably giving out business cards,” I thought.
I guess you could say it was in a sense.
He soon came to me and handed the “card.”
It was a card with an American flag pin attached to it. It read “I am a deaf person making my living by selling these pins. Please make a donation.”
He then walked off.
I was dumbfounded!
My co-worker called me and we both shared how we didn’t even know how to respond to this. I mean really, is this really a normal way of soliciting?
Soon we went back around to everyone and collected donations.
Then he got to me.
I hardly ever carry cash and wasn’t expecting for someone to solicit donations in the office.
So I sadly shook my head no. And he took the pin back!
I was definitely not prepared for that. For some strange reason I thought I would be able to keep it.
What’s more is I wanted it too. On the back was the alphabet in sign language.
I already know how to say “Do better” in sign language. I was going to learn how to say “I can’t be bothered.”
I thought about signing “do better” to the man just for soliciting.
But maybe I need to stop the hating. He made more money in 10 minutes than all of us.
I need to learn how to hustle like that too.
So I should be telling this with a sigh.
Somewhere ages and ages hence.
A hearing impaired man stopped by, and I
Had no money so he said goodbye
And that has made all the difference…
Too bad Robert Frost didn’t write any poems about being unprepared.
Some of them I know how to handle. Most of them I throw up my hands and say “I can’t be bothered.”
But there are a few I am just down right unprepared for.
Like when this random man came into the office ever so quietly.
I saw him walk up to a co-worker without saying a word. Sometimes I’m paranoid, so I thought he was about to shoot up the place.
Eventually I realized he was just giving him a card, and I went back to work.
Out the corner of my eye I noticed him giving everyone else a card.
“Oh he’s probably giving out business cards,” I thought.
I guess you could say it was in a sense.
He soon came to me and handed the “card.”
It was a card with an American flag pin attached to it. It read “I am a deaf person making my living by selling these pins. Please make a donation.”
He then walked off.
I was dumbfounded!
My co-worker called me and we both shared how we didn’t even know how to respond to this. I mean really, is this really a normal way of soliciting?
Soon we went back around to everyone and collected donations.
Then he got to me.
I hardly ever carry cash and wasn’t expecting for someone to solicit donations in the office.
So I sadly shook my head no. And he took the pin back!
I was definitely not prepared for that. For some strange reason I thought I would be able to keep it.
What’s more is I wanted it too. On the back was the alphabet in sign language.
I already know how to say “Do better” in sign language. I was going to learn how to say “I can’t be bothered.”
I thought about signing “do better” to the man just for soliciting.
But maybe I need to stop the hating. He made more money in 10 minutes than all of us.
I need to learn how to hustle like that too.
So I should be telling this with a sigh.
Somewhere ages and ages hence.
A hearing impaired man stopped by, and I
Had no money so he said goodbye
And that has made all the difference…
Too bad Robert Frost didn’t write any poems about being unprepared.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Chronicles of Life…The Random Issue
Enough is enough! Obviously all the cool kids are doing it, so I will give into the peer pressure.
I’ve been tagged several times in these notes about posting 16, 25 or 100 random things, facts, habits, or goals about myself. Who am I to break the chain?
Here goes my 24 (one for every year out the womb).
1. My turbinates are the size of Cleveland, according to one ENT specialist. I have inferior turbinate hypertrophy. Therefore, I always sound congested or seem sick. Plus I have chronic sinus issues, which makes things even worse. A surgery could perhaps fix this issue. Doctors would cut about 20 percent of my turbinates. There is a 50-50 chance of it working and improving my breathing. Those odds suck to me. Plus I’m afraid it might mess up my nose.
2. Speaking of noses… I think they are the central point of beauty. That is what first attracts me to a person or what I will notice immediately. Think about it. Noses are on the center of your face. That reason alone makes Usher Raymond, Lloyd and Mario unappealing to me. The nose knows.
3. I dreamt the rapture happened once when I was younger. My parents left me home alone and I fell asleep thinking they were still there. I woke up, didn’t see anyone in the house or outside. I started crying and called my granddaddy. Luckily he answered and said obviously he wouldn’t be here too if it indeed had occurred. My parents still tease me about that to this day. I need to get right before I get left.
4. I didn’t like my first name when I was little because everyone kept messing it up and calling me Antonio or some derivative other than what it really was. I went through the Toni period for that very reason. These days I love my name and try my best to correct its misuse.
5. Let the records show my name was Sunday way before Nicole Kidman’s daughter. I love my nickname Sunday. My granddaddy christened me that because I was born on a Sunday. He said Antonia was too hard to pronounce and remember, and started calling me that from day one. Most of my family calls me Sunday (some might say Tone-Tone). And everyone who grew up with me knows my name as Sunday. One day I plan on legally adding it to my real name.
6. Being a writer has been my dream since fourth grade. The reporting thing only came along in sixth grade and it’s changed over the years. There was the year of the genetic engineer, lawyer and sometimes PIO/communications director for a school system. Ultimately, I aspire to do nothing but write columns and books while lying on the beach and sipping margaritas, actually an Arnold Palmer will do me just fine.
7. Arnold Palmer's are my favorite drink. Don’t know what it is? It’s half sweet tea, half lemonade. Georgia seems to have something against lemonade so I tend to drink more tea here. I get an AP every chance I can.
8. Reading is fundamental, especially when you don’t have cable. I say I turned it off because I’m poor. That’s halfway true. Honestly, I wasn’t watching TV much when I did have cable. I work odd hours, and never really had a set group of shows to watch. I found myself reading with the TV turned on silent (with captions of course). So I cut it off. That’s $20 I save each month.
9. I like to have captions on my movies for some odd reason. I blame it on a love for the written word in all forms. Actually, it’s just one of my many quirks.
10. I have to know how a movie unfolds before watching it. I can’t remember the last movie I saw that was a surprise. I think it’s because I desire uncertainty in an uncertain world. At least I’ll know how a movie ends if nothing else. I am trying really hard to not read Wikipedia’s plot summary of “My Bloody Valentine 3-D” before I see it.
11. I love Wikipedia. Sure it may be grossly wrong at times, but it does break down a lot of information. I read movie summaries, book summaries (yes, I semi-know how most of them end too), TV shows I don’t watch summaries and other random pieces of information.
12. Butterflies make me nervous. I went to the butterfly rainforest at the natural history museum in Gainesville only once. I’ll never go again. The butterflies are so gangsta. They will land right on you and not move regardless of what you do. I can’t be bothered!
13. Sleep is my friend. I spend a lot of my spare time, when I’m not reading, taking naps. I’ve been like this for ages. Sometimes my family calls me a vampire. My granny thought I was antisocial because I loved to sleep so much. If I get less than eight hours of sleep I’m very grouchy, or I get sick.
14. I can’t skate, ride a bike, swim or double Dutch. Hula-hooping didn’t come until my sophomore year of college (I’m pretty good now). I spent my childhood indoors reading instead of outside.
15. Most of my “Chronicles” start off as journal entries. What you see is pure unadulterated me. I don’t really write with an audience in mind. But I do appreciate all my note readers. It makes me happy to see others laughing about, getting inspired from or contemplating the words of little old me. Shout out to Fan Club President Dave V.
16. Obituaries can tell you a lot about a person. I read them on a weekly basis. It’s kind of morbid, but I started doing it as a child. It was further validated as a good habit to keep up in journalism school. I’ve even written a few obituaries. I’m going to combine my obituary writing business with my professional mourner service (I cry for you if no one else will, for a fee, and jumping in the casket is extra).
17. Have you heard how I talk? My voice is hideous! Honestly, I could never be in radio or TV because of this noise I emit from my mouth. There probably is a great disparity between how I actually sound and people hear me and what I hear. Oh well, the written word is the only way the world will ever hear me.
18. Brrr it’s cold in here! I’m also anemic, so anything less than 75 degrees is cold to me. I had a heater on at work (until it was kidnapped) and wear a jacket year round. Looks like someone needs to take iron supplements.
19. Sometimes when I write in my journal (and chronicles) I forgo many rules of grammar, punctuation, spelling, etc. Some might say its laziness. I call it writer’s license (is that a copy written term). Seriously, if e.e. cummings can use all lowercase letters, I can slice a few modifiers and use sentence fragments when convenient. Plus I feel like my journal is a conversation with myself (no I don’t talk to myself). But I do need to at least proofread before I post. Anyone want to proofread for me?
20. I’ve been keeping a journal since elementary school. One time my mother read it and I stopped for a season. I’ve actively kept one since February 2000. My BFF Dawn gave me one for a b-day gift. I’ve lost count of how many journals I have. I never really liked the term diary. It makes me think of diarrhea.
21. Sometimes I drift in and out of reality. For instance, I keep saying I’m going to have a sexy Capricorn Bash with Tyrese, Lebron James and Tiger Woods on our shared birthday one year. I gave this whole elaborate outline to my home girl about the party one day. It was complete with a guest list, music, food and what the itinerary was for the three party rooms (the chill room with yours truly as hostess, the sports room with LJ and TW at the helm, and the music lovers’ lounge for Tyrese and co). There was to be a weekend extravaganza and everything to raise money for our respective charities. My friend snapped me back to the present and say “Do you even know any of these people?” Not yet, but when we do meet the party will already be planned.
22. I am my own worse enemy. My potential greatness frightens me. This quote sums me up, “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?’” I’m working on that each day. Maybe that’s what keeps me humble.
23. I have no sense of fashion. And honestly I don’t care. What’s in today is out tomorrow. Who has time to keep up with all that? I barely can keep up with the news and my socks.
24. Sometimes I need a good cry. Nothing in particular and absolutely everything will stress me out. So I go in my room, listen to sad love songs and cry for a good hour. Then I’m OK and ready to face the world. I think crying releases toxins from the body.
Tag me all you want now in other versions of this chain. I have written my random piece for the cause.
I’ve been tagged several times in these notes about posting 16, 25 or 100 random things, facts, habits, or goals about myself. Who am I to break the chain?
Here goes my 24 (one for every year out the womb).
1. My turbinates are the size of Cleveland, according to one ENT specialist. I have inferior turbinate hypertrophy. Therefore, I always sound congested or seem sick. Plus I have chronic sinus issues, which makes things even worse. A surgery could perhaps fix this issue. Doctors would cut about 20 percent of my turbinates. There is a 50-50 chance of it working and improving my breathing. Those odds suck to me. Plus I’m afraid it might mess up my nose.
2. Speaking of noses… I think they are the central point of beauty. That is what first attracts me to a person or what I will notice immediately. Think about it. Noses are on the center of your face. That reason alone makes Usher Raymond, Lloyd and Mario unappealing to me. The nose knows.
3. I dreamt the rapture happened once when I was younger. My parents left me home alone and I fell asleep thinking they were still there. I woke up, didn’t see anyone in the house or outside. I started crying and called my granddaddy. Luckily he answered and said obviously he wouldn’t be here too if it indeed had occurred. My parents still tease me about that to this day. I need to get right before I get left.
4. I didn’t like my first name when I was little because everyone kept messing it up and calling me Antonio or some derivative other than what it really was. I went through the Toni period for that very reason. These days I love my name and try my best to correct its misuse.
5. Let the records show my name was Sunday way before Nicole Kidman’s daughter. I love my nickname Sunday. My granddaddy christened me that because I was born on a Sunday. He said Antonia was too hard to pronounce and remember, and started calling me that from day one. Most of my family calls me Sunday (some might say Tone-Tone). And everyone who grew up with me knows my name as Sunday. One day I plan on legally adding it to my real name.
6. Being a writer has been my dream since fourth grade. The reporting thing only came along in sixth grade and it’s changed over the years. There was the year of the genetic engineer, lawyer and sometimes PIO/communications director for a school system. Ultimately, I aspire to do nothing but write columns and books while lying on the beach and sipping margaritas, actually an Arnold Palmer will do me just fine.
7. Arnold Palmer's are my favorite drink. Don’t know what it is? It’s half sweet tea, half lemonade. Georgia seems to have something against lemonade so I tend to drink more tea here. I get an AP every chance I can.
8. Reading is fundamental, especially when you don’t have cable. I say I turned it off because I’m poor. That’s halfway true. Honestly, I wasn’t watching TV much when I did have cable. I work odd hours, and never really had a set group of shows to watch. I found myself reading with the TV turned on silent (with captions of course). So I cut it off. That’s $20 I save each month.
9. I like to have captions on my movies for some odd reason. I blame it on a love for the written word in all forms. Actually, it’s just one of my many quirks.
10. I have to know how a movie unfolds before watching it. I can’t remember the last movie I saw that was a surprise. I think it’s because I desire uncertainty in an uncertain world. At least I’ll know how a movie ends if nothing else. I am trying really hard to not read Wikipedia’s plot summary of “My Bloody Valentine 3-D” before I see it.
11. I love Wikipedia. Sure it may be grossly wrong at times, but it does break down a lot of information. I read movie summaries, book summaries (yes, I semi-know how most of them end too), TV shows I don’t watch summaries and other random pieces of information.
12. Butterflies make me nervous. I went to the butterfly rainforest at the natural history museum in Gainesville only once. I’ll never go again. The butterflies are so gangsta. They will land right on you and not move regardless of what you do. I can’t be bothered!
13. Sleep is my friend. I spend a lot of my spare time, when I’m not reading, taking naps. I’ve been like this for ages. Sometimes my family calls me a vampire. My granny thought I was antisocial because I loved to sleep so much. If I get less than eight hours of sleep I’m very grouchy, or I get sick.
14. I can’t skate, ride a bike, swim or double Dutch. Hula-hooping didn’t come until my sophomore year of college (I’m pretty good now). I spent my childhood indoors reading instead of outside.
15. Most of my “Chronicles” start off as journal entries. What you see is pure unadulterated me. I don’t really write with an audience in mind. But I do appreciate all my note readers. It makes me happy to see others laughing about, getting inspired from or contemplating the words of little old me. Shout out to Fan Club President Dave V.
16. Obituaries can tell you a lot about a person. I read them on a weekly basis. It’s kind of morbid, but I started doing it as a child. It was further validated as a good habit to keep up in journalism school. I’ve even written a few obituaries. I’m going to combine my obituary writing business with my professional mourner service (I cry for you if no one else will, for a fee, and jumping in the casket is extra).
17. Have you heard how I talk? My voice is hideous! Honestly, I could never be in radio or TV because of this noise I emit from my mouth. There probably is a great disparity between how I actually sound and people hear me and what I hear. Oh well, the written word is the only way the world will ever hear me.
18. Brrr it’s cold in here! I’m also anemic, so anything less than 75 degrees is cold to me. I had a heater on at work (until it was kidnapped) and wear a jacket year round. Looks like someone needs to take iron supplements.
19. Sometimes when I write in my journal (and chronicles) I forgo many rules of grammar, punctuation, spelling, etc. Some might say its laziness. I call it writer’s license (is that a copy written term). Seriously, if e.e. cummings can use all lowercase letters, I can slice a few modifiers and use sentence fragments when convenient. Plus I feel like my journal is a conversation with myself (no I don’t talk to myself). But I do need to at least proofread before I post. Anyone want to proofread for me?
20. I’ve been keeping a journal since elementary school. One time my mother read it and I stopped for a season. I’ve actively kept one since February 2000. My BFF Dawn gave me one for a b-day gift. I’ve lost count of how many journals I have. I never really liked the term diary. It makes me think of diarrhea.
21. Sometimes I drift in and out of reality. For instance, I keep saying I’m going to have a sexy Capricorn Bash with Tyrese, Lebron James and Tiger Woods on our shared birthday one year. I gave this whole elaborate outline to my home girl about the party one day. It was complete with a guest list, music, food and what the itinerary was for the three party rooms (the chill room with yours truly as hostess, the sports room with LJ and TW at the helm, and the music lovers’ lounge for Tyrese and co). There was to be a weekend extravaganza and everything to raise money for our respective charities. My friend snapped me back to the present and say “Do you even know any of these people?” Not yet, but when we do meet the party will already be planned.
22. I am my own worse enemy. My potential greatness frightens me. This quote sums me up, “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?’” I’m working on that each day. Maybe that’s what keeps me humble.
23. I have no sense of fashion. And honestly I don’t care. What’s in today is out tomorrow. Who has time to keep up with all that? I barely can keep up with the news and my socks.
24. Sometimes I need a good cry. Nothing in particular and absolutely everything will stress me out. So I go in my room, listen to sad love songs and cry for a good hour. Then I’m OK and ready to face the world. I think crying releases toxins from the body.
Tag me all you want now in other versions of this chain. I have written my random piece for the cause.
Friday, January 16, 2009
The Hartwell Chronicles ... little people are peculiar
Little children make me nervous, very nervous.
I’m not sure when this all began, because I used to love children.
I was a camp intern in high school, volunteered at an elementary school’s first grade in college and was even an America Reads tutor.
Sure those experiences had their ups and downs.
One little boy tried to put glue in my hair at the camp. He got shut down real quick.
Another called me fat while I was trying to help him with his illiteracy. I responded with “At least I can read.”
And first graders act worse than a pack of wild animals. I need therapy from dealing with them.
I was fairly able to deal with children during those brief encounters. Nothing too strange happened.
Now, I am starting to recognize children have many peculiar habits. And it frightens me!
It’s a lot worse than them just playing in their dirty noses and wanting to touch you. No, they do weird things like lick you.
I am not making this up!
This little girl came up to me and just licked my shirt one day. I was mortified!
She couldn’t have been more than five, but clearly thought it was acceptable.
Her mother said “Oh she likes to act like a dog sometimes. Just ignore her.”
Is this normal? Am I the only once concerned that little Susie thinks’ she’s a shar pei?
But wait it gets better.
I was talking to a woman in the office the other day when suddenly I felt something on my leg. Her daughter took a liking to my leg and started to rub it ever so softly (but hard enough where I felt it and got nervous).
I stopped mid-sentence and gave her a frantic “What are you doing?” look. Maybe I should have said that aloud.
I started moving around and eventually she stopped. Her mother said nary a word.
I know little children are curious, but there are some boundaries.
I mean really, who touches a stranger’s leg? I was molested by a munchkin.
All my interactions with children aren’t “peculiar.”
Most times they provide comic relief, although they do test my patience at points.
I took a picture of one little girl more than a year ago. She asks to see that picture on my camera every single time she sees me
“I don’t have it anymore,” I try to explain.
“But why?” she asks.
“Because I downloaded it.”
“Why?”
You can see where this is heading.
I can deal with older children slightly better. Note the word slightly.
Middle Schoolers make me nervous too. They’re these little balls of adult hormones wrapped in the bodies of babies.
And I always feel like I must validate my coolness to high school students. They have these judgmental eyes that cut you to pieces.
Nonetheless, the “Peculiar People” Award goes to little children.
Here’s hoping they grow out of it. Then again, I kept most of my childhood quirks...
Perhaps we’re all just a bit peculiar.
I’m not sure when this all began, because I used to love children.
I was a camp intern in high school, volunteered at an elementary school’s first grade in college and was even an America Reads tutor.
Sure those experiences had their ups and downs.
One little boy tried to put glue in my hair at the camp. He got shut down real quick.
Another called me fat while I was trying to help him with his illiteracy. I responded with “At least I can read.”
And first graders act worse than a pack of wild animals. I need therapy from dealing with them.
I was fairly able to deal with children during those brief encounters. Nothing too strange happened.
Now, I am starting to recognize children have many peculiar habits. And it frightens me!
It’s a lot worse than them just playing in their dirty noses and wanting to touch you. No, they do weird things like lick you.
I am not making this up!
This little girl came up to me and just licked my shirt one day. I was mortified!
She couldn’t have been more than five, but clearly thought it was acceptable.
Her mother said “Oh she likes to act like a dog sometimes. Just ignore her.”
Is this normal? Am I the only once concerned that little Susie thinks’ she’s a shar pei?
But wait it gets better.
I was talking to a woman in the office the other day when suddenly I felt something on my leg. Her daughter took a liking to my leg and started to rub it ever so softly (but hard enough where I felt it and got nervous).
I stopped mid-sentence and gave her a frantic “What are you doing?” look. Maybe I should have said that aloud.
I started moving around and eventually she stopped. Her mother said nary a word.
I know little children are curious, but there are some boundaries.
I mean really, who touches a stranger’s leg? I was molested by a munchkin.
All my interactions with children aren’t “peculiar.”
Most times they provide comic relief, although they do test my patience at points.
I took a picture of one little girl more than a year ago. She asks to see that picture on my camera every single time she sees me
“I don’t have it anymore,” I try to explain.
“But why?” she asks.
“Because I downloaded it.”
“Why?”
You can see where this is heading.
I can deal with older children slightly better. Note the word slightly.
Middle Schoolers make me nervous too. They’re these little balls of adult hormones wrapped in the bodies of babies.
And I always feel like I must validate my coolness to high school students. They have these judgmental eyes that cut you to pieces.
Nonetheless, the “Peculiar People” Award goes to little children.
Here’s hoping they grow out of it. Then again, I kept most of my childhood quirks...
Perhaps we’re all just a bit peculiar.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Chronicles of Life... I speak fish
Fish play an important role in our society.
They’re entertainment, decoration, pets and food.
However, who among us really understands fish?
This is where my services come into play. I am a fish whisperer.
Don’t laugh! It’s a real profession (at least in my mind).
I have decided to abandon my dreams of solely writing for this higher calling.
Seriously, there are books and even a movie on horse whisperers and a television show about a dog one.
It is now time for fish to stand up, I mean swim up, and be accounted for. I am the voice of the fish!
Ralphie is my inspiration for taking on this daunting task.
One day, I was laying in my bed all jumpy and anxious about life.
I started watching him swim back and forth from left to right, up and down. Occasionally, he would stop to roll around in his rocks, but his routine didn’t change too much.
I eventually calmed down from just watching the little guy.
Oh how simplistic a fish’s life must be. Never a care or want in the world.
Or so we think.
Ralphie indeed has needs, wants and dreams.
He needs food and his water regularly changed. He wants bigger rocks over those small ones Pet Smart tried him with. And he dreams of being a shark.
How do I know? I’m a fish whisperer, duh!
I have extensively studied fish the last few years (meaning I have owned two betta fish and actually kept them alive longer than a day). I’m practically an authority figure.
Therefore, I am going to march myself up to the Georgia Aquarium (after I drive there first) and present the officials with my fish whisperer card. That’s how much faith I have in my talents.
The aquarium officials will not bust out laughing, unlike those of you who are reading this. Instead, they will immediately request my services to deal with some troubled beluga whales.
I’ll make the front page of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution for single-handedly soothing a sad manta ray.
Then I’ll start writing the “Chronicles of a Fish Whisperer” based on my numerous experiences.
Soon Animal Planet will come knocking, and my very own show, “Chronicles of a Fish Whisperer,” will air every week.
Finally, Hollywood will be ready for the movie, also called “Chronicles of a Fish Whisperer.”
The possibilities are endless...
But just in case all that doesn’t pan out, I’ll keep my day job and fish whisper to good ole Ralphie.
At least I know he listens.
They’re entertainment, decoration, pets and food.
However, who among us really understands fish?
This is where my services come into play. I am a fish whisperer.
Don’t laugh! It’s a real profession (at least in my mind).
I have decided to abandon my dreams of solely writing for this higher calling.
Seriously, there are books and even a movie on horse whisperers and a television show about a dog one.
It is now time for fish to stand up, I mean swim up, and be accounted for. I am the voice of the fish!
Ralphie is my inspiration for taking on this daunting task.
One day, I was laying in my bed all jumpy and anxious about life.
I started watching him swim back and forth from left to right, up and down. Occasionally, he would stop to roll around in his rocks, but his routine didn’t change too much.
I eventually calmed down from just watching the little guy.
Oh how simplistic a fish’s life must be. Never a care or want in the world.
Or so we think.
Ralphie indeed has needs, wants and dreams.
He needs food and his water regularly changed. He wants bigger rocks over those small ones Pet Smart tried him with. And he dreams of being a shark.
How do I know? I’m a fish whisperer, duh!
I have extensively studied fish the last few years (meaning I have owned two betta fish and actually kept them alive longer than a day). I’m practically an authority figure.
Therefore, I am going to march myself up to the Georgia Aquarium (after I drive there first) and present the officials with my fish whisperer card. That’s how much faith I have in my talents.
The aquarium officials will not bust out laughing, unlike those of you who are reading this. Instead, they will immediately request my services to deal with some troubled beluga whales.
I’ll make the front page of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution for single-handedly soothing a sad manta ray.
Then I’ll start writing the “Chronicles of a Fish Whisperer” based on my numerous experiences.
Soon Animal Planet will come knocking, and my very own show, “Chronicles of a Fish Whisperer,” will air every week.
Finally, Hollywood will be ready for the movie, also called “Chronicles of a Fish Whisperer.”
The possibilities are endless...
But just in case all that doesn’t pan out, I’ll keep my day job and fish whisper to good ole Ralphie.
At least I know he listens.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
The Inaugural Do Better Awards
“Do better” has become one of my favorite quotes.
Hang around me long enough and you will hear it no less than 10 times.
I have lost count of how much I’ve said it this year. However, there are some incidents that stick out in my mind.
Some I wrote a chronicle about. Others I probably should have.
Therefore, I present to you the Inaugural Do Better Awards. People have just got to do better.
The categories and nominees are:
1.People that annoy me
My landlords. They are still holding my October rent check. It’s Dec. 31. Can we cash it already? And don’t even get me started on December rent.
An upset mother. The woman complained about me not publishing all the photos I took at an event. Sorry, but no one wants to see the 49 bad pictures I took when they can just see one really good photo.
An older woman. She chastises me (or will even hit me) every time I say yes ma’am. Chick is pushing at least 55. She even asked me if I say yes ma’am to other people. No duh!
And the Do Better Award for people that annoy me goes to: An older woman. My parents taught me respect. It’s not my fault you don’t want to own up to your age. Let me say my ma’ams in peace.
2.Things that limit my mortality
Parades. Get hit by enough pieces of hard candy and you will sustain a concussion.
Deer. They’re everywhere, especially on these back roads.
My driving. Why did the Florida DMV give me a license? I could seriously hurt someone, namely me.
And the Do Better Award for things that limit my mortality goes to deer.
Bambi and crew do not look both ways before running into the street. My slow reaction to bad driving situations could bring about a huge collision with Bambi.
3.Ignorant Obama comments
Ex-Longhorn player. A University of Texas football player places these words on his Facebook status after Obama won the election “all the hunters gather up, we have a #$%&er in the Whitehouse.” He has been dismissed from the team.
Toby Keith. Keith said on the Glen Beck show July 30 “I think the black people would say he [Obama] don’t talk, act or carry himself as a black person.”
“What does that even mean?” Beck said.
“Well, I don’t know what that means,” Keith said, “but I think that that’s what they would say. ...”
Jesse Jackson. Before an interview on “Fox & Friends,” Jackson whispered to someone that Obama was “talking down to black people” and he wanted to “cut his nuts off.”
And the Do Better Award for ignorant Obama comments go to Toby Keith. If you’re going to make an ignorant statement at least know what you mean. “I don’t know” does not cut it.
4.People I’ve added as Facebook friends
My mother. Why is Ma Dukes on Facebook? My brother stopped getting on for that very reason.
High schoolers. I haven’t been in high school for more than six years. Yet I have at least a good 20 as friends.
Random people. I know 90 percent of my more than 1,000 friends on Facebook. There is that 10 percent that equals the unknown.
And the Do Better Award for people I’ve added as Facebook friends goes to all the random people. If we have no connection to each other –i.e. same schools, organization, career or even a blog reader/writer – why are we friends? Just because you want to increase your friends is not good enough.
5.Inappropriate family related behavior.
My nasty little cousin. She visited briefly this summer and had the nerve to take nude photos of herself on my phone in my bathroom and send them to people. I mean at 14 I was still playing with dolls.
The Ishmaels. They are my late grandmother’s family. We used to be close, but they turned their backs on my mom and me when my Granny was at her worse. My association with the Ishmaels died the same day as my grandmother.
My uncle. Everyone seems to be scared of him. He’s gruff, tough and rough with the verbal assault. But I know how to set people straight and keep it moving.
And the Do Better Award for inappropriate family related behavior goes to my nasty little cousin. She disrespected my phone, my house, me, our family name and above all herself. Plus the girl had the nerve to tell my brother she wants to fight me. Now I ain’t prejudice, I’ll drop kick a minor.
6.Annoying things in the music industry
Autotune. It’s everywhere. First T-Pain, now Kanye. Who’s got next?
The phrase “It ain’t tricking if you got it.” I hear it no less than 20 times when I turn on the radio.
T-Pain or R. Kelly being on every remix. Actually T-Pain makes it on every original too. Can we get some new voices on the radio?
And the Do Better Award for annoying things in the music industry goes to T-Pain/R. Kelly. T-Pain was cool at first, but now I’m ready to shoot myself every time I hear him. And really R. Kelly, did you have to be on the “If I were a boy remix”?
7.Improper meeting behavior.
Phones going off. A state representative was in the middle of speaking when a cell phone playing “I can’t believe it” went off. Who knew an older white male would be a T-Pain fan enough to get his ringtone.
Disrespectful public attitude. Coming to complain about a project and being completely rude does not get your point across effectively.
Not following specific rules of order. Robert’s Rules of Order do not exist at manyl meetings. The rules exist for a purpose.
And the Do Better Award for improper meeting behavior goes to disrespectful public attitude. When given the opportunity to comment, one wants respect. Make sure you give it too.
8. People that need to be set straight.
Children’s Place employee. The employee told my friend she was a weak black woman because her hair wasn’t natural. Neither was her own.
Another woman. She asked me if I rolled my neck. Why would I?
Lost man. My brother and a friend thought they were about to be victims of a drive by. Turns out the man just wanted directions. But he had the nerve to call them some little @*&#!. He promptly got the wrong directions.
And the do better award for people that need to be set straight goes to another woman. Knowledge is power. All black people don’t roll their necks, pop their gum and do the two snaps and a twists.
9. Unacceptable behavior
My neighbor’s “transition.” Dude left notes on my car trying to talk to me. Did I mention his girlfriend, or transition as he put it, lived next door. Can we say triflin’?
Two last people. Why is one trying to play match maker for the other? Both are two old for the elementary foolishness.
Wal-Mart Man. The man was no less than 50-years-old. I just can’t be bothered!
And the Do Better Award for unacceptable behavior goes to the transition. The two badly written notes are priceless.
10.Club behavior
Handicap man. A man rolled into the middle of the dance floor in a wheelchair. Next thing I know, he’s folded it up in the side and is getting grinded on by some chick. Fraud!
Old men. When you get to be a certain age you should not want to party with 20-year-olds. Apparently, these men never learned that.
Hair flinging chick. This one girl just kept flinging her hair on my friend during a concert. How can you not know that’s happening?
And the Do Better Award for club behavior goes to the old men. No I do not want to dance with my granddaddy. It’s even worse when he’s right behind me staring at my assets.
11.Perpetuating the color complex
Yung Berg. During an interview he said “I’m kinda racist…I don’t like dark butts…You know how some women prefer light skin men or dark skin men. “It’s rare that I do dark butts – that’s what I call dark skinned women…I [don’t date women] darker than me.”
Ne-yo. On a radio show he joked with a white interviewer about the two of them dating and procreating by saying “All the prettiest kids is light skinned anyway, normally.” Has Ne-yo noticed he’s not that light himself?
Palow Da Don. In an interview with AllHipHop.com stated, “black women need to get their s**t together, period, point black. And if you’re in denial of that, you are part of the problem.” Actually everyone could do better, not just black women.
And the Do Better Award for perpetuating the color complex goes to Yung Berg. Do I even need to give an explanation for this one? I can understand you having a preference but don’t try to belittle those that don’t fit it. Especially when it applies to your own mother.
12. Person of the Year.
There were many contenders for this category, but only one could be chosen. The honoree is the epitome of “Do better” Yes, the Do Better Award for person of the year goes to Antonia J. Robinson.
I would be remiss if I did not give the award to myself. I call out so many others, but I also know when I need to point the “do better” finger at myself. Otherwise it would be the pot calling the kettle black.
Now time for the acceptance speech.
“Wow, I am so shocked and honored to get this award. It is a real wake up call about the type of person I am and need to be.
“Sometimes the main person that needs to do better is yourself. That’s my goal for 2009.
“So thank you, God bless and do better!”
*People’s Choice Award*
Sometimes there are only two words that can apply to a situation. Who will your Do better award go to?
Hang around me long enough and you will hear it no less than 10 times.
I have lost count of how much I’ve said it this year. However, there are some incidents that stick out in my mind.
Some I wrote a chronicle about. Others I probably should have.
Therefore, I present to you the Inaugural Do Better Awards. People have just got to do better.
The categories and nominees are:
1.People that annoy me
My landlords. They are still holding my October rent check. It’s Dec. 31. Can we cash it already? And don’t even get me started on December rent.
An upset mother. The woman complained about me not publishing all the photos I took at an event. Sorry, but no one wants to see the 49 bad pictures I took when they can just see one really good photo.
An older woman. She chastises me (or will even hit me) every time I say yes ma’am. Chick is pushing at least 55. She even asked me if I say yes ma’am to other people. No duh!
And the Do Better Award for people that annoy me goes to: An older woman. My parents taught me respect. It’s not my fault you don’t want to own up to your age. Let me say my ma’ams in peace.
2.Things that limit my mortality
Parades. Get hit by enough pieces of hard candy and you will sustain a concussion.
Deer. They’re everywhere, especially on these back roads.
My driving. Why did the Florida DMV give me a license? I could seriously hurt someone, namely me.
And the Do Better Award for things that limit my mortality goes to deer.
Bambi and crew do not look both ways before running into the street. My slow reaction to bad driving situations could bring about a huge collision with Bambi.
3.Ignorant Obama comments
Ex-Longhorn player. A University of Texas football player places these words on his Facebook status after Obama won the election “all the hunters gather up, we have a #$%&er in the Whitehouse.” He has been dismissed from the team.
Toby Keith. Keith said on the Glen Beck show July 30 “I think the black people would say he [Obama] don’t talk, act or carry himself as a black person.”
“What does that even mean?” Beck said.
“Well, I don’t know what that means,” Keith said, “but I think that that’s what they would say. ...”
Jesse Jackson. Before an interview on “Fox & Friends,” Jackson whispered to someone that Obama was “talking down to black people” and he wanted to “cut his nuts off.”
And the Do Better Award for ignorant Obama comments go to Toby Keith. If you’re going to make an ignorant statement at least know what you mean. “I don’t know” does not cut it.
4.People I’ve added as Facebook friends
My mother. Why is Ma Dukes on Facebook? My brother stopped getting on for that very reason.
High schoolers. I haven’t been in high school for more than six years. Yet I have at least a good 20 as friends.
Random people. I know 90 percent of my more than 1,000 friends on Facebook. There is that 10 percent that equals the unknown.
And the Do Better Award for people I’ve added as Facebook friends goes to all the random people. If we have no connection to each other –i.e. same schools, organization, career or even a blog reader/writer – why are we friends? Just because you want to increase your friends is not good enough.
5.Inappropriate family related behavior.
My nasty little cousin. She visited briefly this summer and had the nerve to take nude photos of herself on my phone in my bathroom and send them to people. I mean at 14 I was still playing with dolls.
The Ishmaels. They are my late grandmother’s family. We used to be close, but they turned their backs on my mom and me when my Granny was at her worse. My association with the Ishmaels died the same day as my grandmother.
My uncle. Everyone seems to be scared of him. He’s gruff, tough and rough with the verbal assault. But I know how to set people straight and keep it moving.
And the Do Better Award for inappropriate family related behavior goes to my nasty little cousin. She disrespected my phone, my house, me, our family name and above all herself. Plus the girl had the nerve to tell my brother she wants to fight me. Now I ain’t prejudice, I’ll drop kick a minor.
6.Annoying things in the music industry
Autotune. It’s everywhere. First T-Pain, now Kanye. Who’s got next?
The phrase “It ain’t tricking if you got it.” I hear it no less than 20 times when I turn on the radio.
T-Pain or R. Kelly being on every remix. Actually T-Pain makes it on every original too. Can we get some new voices on the radio?
And the Do Better Award for annoying things in the music industry goes to T-Pain/R. Kelly. T-Pain was cool at first, but now I’m ready to shoot myself every time I hear him. And really R. Kelly, did you have to be on the “If I were a boy remix”?
7.Improper meeting behavior.
Phones going off. A state representative was in the middle of speaking when a cell phone playing “I can’t believe it” went off. Who knew an older white male would be a T-Pain fan enough to get his ringtone.
Disrespectful public attitude. Coming to complain about a project and being completely rude does not get your point across effectively.
Not following specific rules of order. Robert’s Rules of Order do not exist at manyl meetings. The rules exist for a purpose.
And the Do Better Award for improper meeting behavior goes to disrespectful public attitude. When given the opportunity to comment, one wants respect. Make sure you give it too.
8. People that need to be set straight.
Children’s Place employee. The employee told my friend she was a weak black woman because her hair wasn’t natural. Neither was her own.
Another woman. She asked me if I rolled my neck. Why would I?
Lost man. My brother and a friend thought they were about to be victims of a drive by. Turns out the man just wanted directions. But he had the nerve to call them some little @*&#!. He promptly got the wrong directions.
And the do better award for people that need to be set straight goes to another woman. Knowledge is power. All black people don’t roll their necks, pop their gum and do the two snaps and a twists.
9. Unacceptable behavior
My neighbor’s “transition.” Dude left notes on my car trying to talk to me. Did I mention his girlfriend, or transition as he put it, lived next door. Can we say triflin’?
Two last people. Why is one trying to play match maker for the other? Both are two old for the elementary foolishness.
Wal-Mart Man. The man was no less than 50-years-old. I just can’t be bothered!
And the Do Better Award for unacceptable behavior goes to the transition. The two badly written notes are priceless.
10.Club behavior
Handicap man. A man rolled into the middle of the dance floor in a wheelchair. Next thing I know, he’s folded it up in the side and is getting grinded on by some chick. Fraud!
Old men. When you get to be a certain age you should not want to party with 20-year-olds. Apparently, these men never learned that.
Hair flinging chick. This one girl just kept flinging her hair on my friend during a concert. How can you not know that’s happening?
And the Do Better Award for club behavior goes to the old men. No I do not want to dance with my granddaddy. It’s even worse when he’s right behind me staring at my assets.
11.Perpetuating the color complex
Yung Berg. During an interview he said “I’m kinda racist…I don’t like dark butts…You know how some women prefer light skin men or dark skin men. “It’s rare that I do dark butts – that’s what I call dark skinned women…I [don’t date women] darker than me.”
Ne-yo. On a radio show he joked with a white interviewer about the two of them dating and procreating by saying “All the prettiest kids is light skinned anyway, normally.” Has Ne-yo noticed he’s not that light himself?
Palow Da Don. In an interview with AllHipHop.com stated, “black women need to get their s**t together, period, point black. And if you’re in denial of that, you are part of the problem.” Actually everyone could do better, not just black women.
And the Do Better Award for perpetuating the color complex goes to Yung Berg. Do I even need to give an explanation for this one? I can understand you having a preference but don’t try to belittle those that don’t fit it. Especially when it applies to your own mother.
12. Person of the Year.
There were many contenders for this category, but only one could be chosen. The honoree is the epitome of “Do better” Yes, the Do Better Award for person of the year goes to Antonia J. Robinson.
I would be remiss if I did not give the award to myself. I call out so many others, but I also know when I need to point the “do better” finger at myself. Otherwise it would be the pot calling the kettle black.
Now time for the acceptance speech.
“Wow, I am so shocked and honored to get this award. It is a real wake up call about the type of person I am and need to be.
“Sometimes the main person that needs to do better is yourself. That’s my goal for 2009.
“So thank you, God bless and do better!”
*People’s Choice Award*
Sometimes there are only two words that can apply to a situation. Who will your Do better award go to?
Sunday, December 14, 2008
The Hartwell Chronicles …backtrack blues
For your consideration, I present a tale of a young reporter.
The reporter is question has to cover a Hispanic parade of sorts (no candy in this one) that walks from one end of town to the other.
Now the reporter has walked this path plenty of times during her lunch break and knows it is not a short distance.
Does she remember that? No!
She parks at the parade’s starting point and walks slowly along with the parade processional taking pictures.
“This will be quick,” she stupidly thinks to herself.
She walks, and walks and continues walking some more.
“Are we there yet,” she thinks about 30 minutes into the walk (times have been exaggerated).
Finally she realizes just how long a walk it is. Soon she will have to make that long trek back, in the cold, alone.
Yes, I am the reporter in question.
I was covering the Virgin of Guadalupe parade the Hispanic community in Hartwell hosted Dec. 14. This is a big celebration in Mexico every year from Dec. 9-12.
People sang and danced in honor of the Virgin Mary. Children and some adults were dressed as the indigenous people of old.
It was cold, very cold mind you, but one doesn’t notice that when you’re having fun.
OK I’m lying. I did notice it very much, but I still enjoyed the parade.
Then it was over, and I was left out in the cold, literally.
I seriously did not plan my arrival and departure. I should have just went to the mass and rode back with someone.
Sure I don’t speak Spanish. God wouldn’t have cared. I could have just prayed and praised in English.
I was holding on to the thought I would be done in time enough to get to my own church service (not Bedside Baptist for once).
I thought I could catch a ride back with the police escorts. They were long gone by the time I finished getting quotes (the police are never around when I need them).
So I proceeded to walk back on this cold and dreary day.
Honestly the walk isn’t that bad, it was just the cold that got to me.
I started singing Christmas carols to keep me going. Several people even honked and waved at me on the walk back.
“Don’t honk,” I mumbled. “Stop and give me a ride.”
But no one did … until I was less than two minutes from my car.
This one man asked if I needed a ride, but I politely declined.
One, he was going in the opposite direction I was walking. Was he really going to turn around for a stranger?
Two, I didn’t know him from the man on the moon. He could have tried to turn me into a house coat.
A few seconds later a man from the parade asked if I needed a ride.
“I tried to catch you before you left,” he said.
I declined his offer also.
They say God watches out for fools and babies. Next parade, I’m going to do some pre-planning.
The reporter is question has to cover a Hispanic parade of sorts (no candy in this one) that walks from one end of town to the other.
Now the reporter has walked this path plenty of times during her lunch break and knows it is not a short distance.
Does she remember that? No!
She parks at the parade’s starting point and walks slowly along with the parade processional taking pictures.
“This will be quick,” she stupidly thinks to herself.
She walks, and walks and continues walking some more.
“Are we there yet,” she thinks about 30 minutes into the walk (times have been exaggerated).
Finally she realizes just how long a walk it is. Soon she will have to make that long trek back, in the cold, alone.
Yes, I am the reporter in question.
I was covering the Virgin of Guadalupe parade the Hispanic community in Hartwell hosted Dec. 14. This is a big celebration in Mexico every year from Dec. 9-12.
People sang and danced in honor of the Virgin Mary. Children and some adults were dressed as the indigenous people of old.
It was cold, very cold mind you, but one doesn’t notice that when you’re having fun.
OK I’m lying. I did notice it very much, but I still enjoyed the parade.
Then it was over, and I was left out in the cold, literally.
I seriously did not plan my arrival and departure. I should have just went to the mass and rode back with someone.
Sure I don’t speak Spanish. God wouldn’t have cared. I could have just prayed and praised in English.
I was holding on to the thought I would be done in time enough to get to my own church service (not Bedside Baptist for once).
I thought I could catch a ride back with the police escorts. They were long gone by the time I finished getting quotes (the police are never around when I need them).
So I proceeded to walk back on this cold and dreary day.
Honestly the walk isn’t that bad, it was just the cold that got to me.
I started singing Christmas carols to keep me going. Several people even honked and waved at me on the walk back.
“Don’t honk,” I mumbled. “Stop and give me a ride.”
But no one did … until I was less than two minutes from my car.
This one man asked if I needed a ride, but I politely declined.
One, he was going in the opposite direction I was walking. Was he really going to turn around for a stranger?
Two, I didn’t know him from the man on the moon. He could have tried to turn me into a house coat.
A few seconds later a man from the parade asked if I needed a ride.
“I tried to catch you before you left,” he said.
I declined his offer also.
They say God watches out for fools and babies. Next parade, I’m going to do some pre-planning.
Chronicles of Life … weigh up there
Oprah confessed in the January 2009 O Magazine that she now weighs 200 pounds after making such great strides in losing it. Being the kind soul that I am, I wrote her a support letter. No, I’m not really mailing this, but it does serve as motivation for my quest to lose weight and feel great.
Dear Oprah,
You are not the only one with weight problems. I always seem to have had issues with mine.
Genetically speaking, I come from a pretty big family. No scratch that, we’re just fat.
The fat back in the greens, Kool Aid that tasted like pure sugar and sweets galore were a main stay at every family event. Diabetes runs rampant on both sides of the family.
Yet, they love to point out when you gain a few pounds. Sounds like a case of the pot calling the kettle black to me.
How are you, oh large one, going to say someone else is getting big, especially if you weigh no less than five tons yourself? Lose some weight then come talk to me about mine.
But I digress.
My weight did get substantially better in college. No car meant foot patrol.
All that walking will do wonders for a body.
I even went to the gym semi-regularly on campus and later in my apartment complex. I wasn’t super skinny or anything like that, but I was within range of my height and weight requirements.
The belly was flat, there wasn’t that much flab and I wasn’t one French fry away from being morbidly obese. I was super thick!
Then I moved to a place where food is king. I mean really, do Chamber of Commerce board meetings need refreshments?
Now I, gasp, have a belly! And my parents won’t get me lipo for Christmas.
On a side note Oprah, have you heard about the lap band? Maybe you should give that a whirl with your fear of working out.
Nonetheless, I can’t simply blame it on a new location. There is some personal responsibility there too.
No one ever puts a gun to my head and tells me to eat. I gladly do that on my own.
I tend to be an emotional eater, which is a major problem. My emotions are always on code red.
I don’t reach for carrots when I’m ready to burst in tears but a cookie or three.
It’s all about choices. I guess neither one of us have been making good ones in a while.
However, Oprah, I am seriously working on my weight now. Yes, it’s the dawn of a new era for my health and fitness.
The biggest step was cutting out all sodas and most drinks. Now I drink no less than two liters of water a day (which has me peeing every five seconds).
I used to need the Crystal Light packets, because water had no taste and appeal for me. Now I can down a bottle with no problem.
I am working on cutting out fast foods completely. That means I have to actually start cooking more than once a month.
I only eat chicken and turkey (fish are friends, not food). More salads and whole grains are decorating my plate also.
The best thing helping right now is my very own exercise bike. I do 30 minutes a day faithfully.
I think you and I know a body can gain weight ever so easy. Eat enough McDonalds and the pounds just pack right on.
It seems to take forever to come off.
Oh well, I’m seriously on Kanye’s work out plan. I’m trying to get right for the summer.
Give me a few months and I will have won the battle of the bulge.
What about you Oprah?
Sincerely,
AJR
Dear Oprah,
You are not the only one with weight problems. I always seem to have had issues with mine.
Genetically speaking, I come from a pretty big family. No scratch that, we’re just fat.
The fat back in the greens, Kool Aid that tasted like pure sugar and sweets galore were a main stay at every family event. Diabetes runs rampant on both sides of the family.
Yet, they love to point out when you gain a few pounds. Sounds like a case of the pot calling the kettle black to me.
How are you, oh large one, going to say someone else is getting big, especially if you weigh no less than five tons yourself? Lose some weight then come talk to me about mine.
But I digress.
My weight did get substantially better in college. No car meant foot patrol.
All that walking will do wonders for a body.
I even went to the gym semi-regularly on campus and later in my apartment complex. I wasn’t super skinny or anything like that, but I was within range of my height and weight requirements.
The belly was flat, there wasn’t that much flab and I wasn’t one French fry away from being morbidly obese. I was super thick!
Then I moved to a place where food is king. I mean really, do Chamber of Commerce board meetings need refreshments?
Now I, gasp, have a belly! And my parents won’t get me lipo for Christmas.
On a side note Oprah, have you heard about the lap band? Maybe you should give that a whirl with your fear of working out.
Nonetheless, I can’t simply blame it on a new location. There is some personal responsibility there too.
No one ever puts a gun to my head and tells me to eat. I gladly do that on my own.
I tend to be an emotional eater, which is a major problem. My emotions are always on code red.
I don’t reach for carrots when I’m ready to burst in tears but a cookie or three.
It’s all about choices. I guess neither one of us have been making good ones in a while.
However, Oprah, I am seriously working on my weight now. Yes, it’s the dawn of a new era for my health and fitness.
The biggest step was cutting out all sodas and most drinks. Now I drink no less than two liters of water a day (which has me peeing every five seconds).
I used to need the Crystal Light packets, because water had no taste and appeal for me. Now I can down a bottle with no problem.
I am working on cutting out fast foods completely. That means I have to actually start cooking more than once a month.
I only eat chicken and turkey (fish are friends, not food). More salads and whole grains are decorating my plate also.
The best thing helping right now is my very own exercise bike. I do 30 minutes a day faithfully.
I think you and I know a body can gain weight ever so easy. Eat enough McDonalds and the pounds just pack right on.
It seems to take forever to come off.
Oh well, I’m seriously on Kanye’s work out plan. I’m trying to get right for the summer.
Give me a few months and I will have won the battle of the bulge.
What about you Oprah?
Sincerely,
AJR
The Hartwell Chronicles... opportunity lost
Well it’s finally happened.
I was wondering how long this would last. You know, not being asked about some ignorant stereotype associated with black people.
Alas and alack, all good things must come to an end.
I was minding my own business when I heard snippets of some people taking about African Americans. I didn’t think too much about it and kept about my mission.
Later, I heard more of the conversation.
One lady was talking about neck rolling and how “black people act.”
“My daughter likes to do that,” she said.
I wasn’t trying to jump into the conversation, but then it happened.
“Do you do that?” she asked me.
I am happy to say I didn’t throw a fit.
Sure, I could have had a Sheneneh Jenkins moment and said “Oh no you didn’t.”
But what would that have accomplished? That would have perpetuated the stereotype even worse.
So I merely did what I do best, unintentionally of course. That’s right; she got a taste of the Antonia J. Robinson condescending attitude.
“No,” I said with all the disdain, distaste and disgust I could muster up.
I can be very condescending at times, according to some people. I know it’s a bad habit, but this was one occasion it was called for.
In my simple “no” she was told just how beneath me such an action was.
She tried to play it off and said “don’t worry, my daughter does it enough for the both of you.”
Well if looks could kill, she would have been dust.
To myself I said, “She doesn’t have to do anything for me. I wouldn’t be caught dead expressing such behavior.”
I should have used that as an opportunity to school her on black people. I should have said “Have you even ever seen me do that? So why ask now.”
I should have pointed out why such a statement was ignorant in the first place.
Shoulda, woulda, coulda but I didn’t.
There is a great disparity between what I actually do and what I want to do when I hear ignorant comments.
Like when the lady called me a colored girl.
OK in all fairness she didn’t say that to my face. So there was no need to even mention it.
Besides she was 100 and could have called me a lot worse.
But there was that time at an anti-abortion rally the organizer only quoted statistics about African Americans.
I should have asked him was he only mentioning African American numbers for my benefit. Clearly it does not just affect one race.
Instead, I ignored him.
And how can I forget the infamous black women marriage ratio one man brought up? He made it seem as if pimping my ride would solve the dilemma.
I should have called him out about his statements. I simply ended the conversation and left.
Yes, I am a non-confrontational person.
I say it’s because I don’t want to burn bridges by admonishing people for ignorant comments.
Then again, I’ve always been that way. I’m not that good at speaking my thoughts aloud; however, that’s no excuse.
All those missed opportunities, and nothing to show for it.
Will they ever learn?
Not unless someone teaches them. That someone might as well be me.
I was wondering how long this would last. You know, not being asked about some ignorant stereotype associated with black people.
Alas and alack, all good things must come to an end.
I was minding my own business when I heard snippets of some people taking about African Americans. I didn’t think too much about it and kept about my mission.
Later, I heard more of the conversation.
One lady was talking about neck rolling and how “black people act.”
“My daughter likes to do that,” she said.
I wasn’t trying to jump into the conversation, but then it happened.
“Do you do that?” she asked me.
I am happy to say I didn’t throw a fit.
Sure, I could have had a Sheneneh Jenkins moment and said “Oh no you didn’t.”
But what would that have accomplished? That would have perpetuated the stereotype even worse.
So I merely did what I do best, unintentionally of course. That’s right; she got a taste of the Antonia J. Robinson condescending attitude.
“No,” I said with all the disdain, distaste and disgust I could muster up.
I can be very condescending at times, according to some people. I know it’s a bad habit, but this was one occasion it was called for.
In my simple “no” she was told just how beneath me such an action was.
She tried to play it off and said “don’t worry, my daughter does it enough for the both of you.”
Well if looks could kill, she would have been dust.
To myself I said, “She doesn’t have to do anything for me. I wouldn’t be caught dead expressing such behavior.”
I should have used that as an opportunity to school her on black people. I should have said “Have you even ever seen me do that? So why ask now.”
I should have pointed out why such a statement was ignorant in the first place.
Shoulda, woulda, coulda but I didn’t.
There is a great disparity between what I actually do and what I want to do when I hear ignorant comments.
Like when the lady called me a colored girl.
OK in all fairness she didn’t say that to my face. So there was no need to even mention it.
Besides she was 100 and could have called me a lot worse.
But there was that time at an anti-abortion rally the organizer only quoted statistics about African Americans.
I should have asked him was he only mentioning African American numbers for my benefit. Clearly it does not just affect one race.
Instead, I ignored him.
And how can I forget the infamous black women marriage ratio one man brought up? He made it seem as if pimping my ride would solve the dilemma.
I should have called him out about his statements. I simply ended the conversation and left.
Yes, I am a non-confrontational person.
I say it’s because I don’t want to burn bridges by admonishing people for ignorant comments.
Then again, I’ve always been that way. I’m not that good at speaking my thoughts aloud; however, that’s no excuse.
All those missed opportunities, and nothing to show for it.
Will they ever learn?
Not unless someone teaches them. That someone might as well be me.
Chronicles of Life...Two of a Kind
There’s no escaping it. I am my mother’s child.
Not only do we look alike, but our personalities are similar... too similar.
People have always pointed out how we seem like carbon copies of each other. But we both used to brush it off.
“We are nothing alike,” I would say.
“She’s just copying me,” would be her response.
Now we’ve both realized the truth of the matter. We’re twins in more ways that one.
My cousin sent us both the “getting to know you Christmas edition” survey.
It had the usual questions such as wrapping paper or gift bags (gift bags), favorite Christmas movie (A Christmas Story) and song (This Christmas by Donny Hathaway) and most annoying thing of the year (bad children).
I filled out my answers and sent it to others, including my mom. I saw her answers later that day.
“You heffa!” I e-mailed her. “You copied my answers.”
(Yes, we affectionately call each other heffa and other variations.)
“No, you copied mine,” she sent back.
Actually, we both sent our answers independently of each other.
I know they say great minds think alike, but our responses were just too close for words. That’s when it truly hit me we are cut from the same cloth.
The signs have always been there. We both like to write, enjoy photography and are crazy in a funny way.
Sometimes, I feel like I’m looking at a mirror when I see my mother. And of course her issues usually are the same ones I have.
I seek guidance from my mother for a lot of things. Who better to know your than someone exactly like you?
Of course there are differences.
I’m more of an extrovert and she’s the introvert. I’m happy to be nappy and she religiously goes to get that fresh relaxer.
Growing up, I used to think we were like oil and water: we don’t mix. The truth is we were too much alike.
Two Alpha Females cannot live together. But once I went to college we were just fine.
We still have our oil and water moments, but not as much. I think we’ve come to an understanding about one another.
She does things her way. I do things mine, and often we do them just alike.
Maya Angelou best sums us up in her poem “Human Family.”
“In minor ways we differ, in major we’re the same. ... but we are more alike, my friends, than we are unlike.”
Besides I kind of enjoy being like my mommy.
Not only do we look alike, but our personalities are similar... too similar.
People have always pointed out how we seem like carbon copies of each other. But we both used to brush it off.
“We are nothing alike,” I would say.
“She’s just copying me,” would be her response.
Now we’ve both realized the truth of the matter. We’re twins in more ways that one.
My cousin sent us both the “getting to know you Christmas edition” survey.
It had the usual questions such as wrapping paper or gift bags (gift bags), favorite Christmas movie (A Christmas Story) and song (This Christmas by Donny Hathaway) and most annoying thing of the year (bad children).
I filled out my answers and sent it to others, including my mom. I saw her answers later that day.
“You heffa!” I e-mailed her. “You copied my answers.”
(Yes, we affectionately call each other heffa and other variations.)
“No, you copied mine,” she sent back.
Actually, we both sent our answers independently of each other.
I know they say great minds think alike, but our responses were just too close for words. That’s when it truly hit me we are cut from the same cloth.
The signs have always been there. We both like to write, enjoy photography and are crazy in a funny way.
Sometimes, I feel like I’m looking at a mirror when I see my mother. And of course her issues usually are the same ones I have.
I seek guidance from my mother for a lot of things. Who better to know your than someone exactly like you?
Of course there are differences.
I’m more of an extrovert and she’s the introvert. I’m happy to be nappy and she religiously goes to get that fresh relaxer.
Growing up, I used to think we were like oil and water: we don’t mix. The truth is we were too much alike.
Two Alpha Females cannot live together. But once I went to college we were just fine.
We still have our oil and water moments, but not as much. I think we’ve come to an understanding about one another.
She does things her way. I do things mine, and often we do them just alike.
Maya Angelou best sums us up in her poem “Human Family.”
“In minor ways we differ, in major we’re the same. ... but we are more alike, my friends, than we are unlike.”
Besides I kind of enjoy being like my mommy.
The Hartwell Chronicles...Death By Parade
Parades are dangerous, particularly Christmas ones.
For that very reason, I am boycotting parades for the rest of my life. Or at least until I have to take pictures at the next one.
A friend and I went to the annual Hart County Christmas parade Dec. 5. The theme was Heavenly Hartwell.
Well, I almost saw Heaven that night.
Last year was my first foray in parade picture taking. I quickly learned the ins and outs of such an assignment.
So this should have been a piece of cake. I was not an amateur photographer.
There was no way you were going to catch me making the news for being in a parade fatality. I knew how to stand in the middle of the road and take pictures without getting hit by a float.
Floats were the least of my worries. It was the blasted candy!
The official parade rules specifically stated candy should be thrown on the ground.
Did anyone listen? Apparently not because it all kept hitting me.
The people standing around me stocked up on candy that night.
All they had to do was wait until a float passed by. Soon a hail storm of candy would head toward me.
A box of dots hit me on the head at one point. It was all I could do from going into the light.
My friend also got grazed by a Laffy Taffy and no less than 100 peppermints. Were they trying to make snide comments about her breath?
On a side note, adults will beat you down for some candy. My friend was about to regulate on one man who was grabbing for candy like his life depended on it.
Really sir, was it that serious? I think not.
Do better!
But I digress.
I should go file a police report for assault with a deadly weapon. Candy really hurts when you’re getting hit with it.
Thank God it didn’t break the camera. Yes, they threw directly at me while I was holding it.
I really want to go file workman’s comp for mental anguish. I am suffering from parade anxiety now.
Forever more I will approach all parades with a deep fear of getting hit by a blow pop or 10.
I blame children.
They seemed to think it was hilarious to hit me. And I know they did it on purpose.
“Ha, ha, ha sorry,” they would say.
That’s OK because next year they better watch out. They better not cry. They better not pout. I’m telling you why.
No Santa Claus is not coming to the Christmas parade.
I will be there front and center prepared to hit someone back. That’s right little kids, laugh all you want.
Prepare for my secret arsenal of rock candy. Yeah the hard stuff.
But on second thought, t’is the season to be jolly.
So I’ll just wear a helmet to protect my head, bring a bat to deflect the candy and a catcher’s mitt. After all, I do want to take some candy home too.
For that very reason, I am boycotting parades for the rest of my life. Or at least until I have to take pictures at the next one.
A friend and I went to the annual Hart County Christmas parade Dec. 5. The theme was Heavenly Hartwell.
Well, I almost saw Heaven that night.
Last year was my first foray in parade picture taking. I quickly learned the ins and outs of such an assignment.
So this should have been a piece of cake. I was not an amateur photographer.
There was no way you were going to catch me making the news for being in a parade fatality. I knew how to stand in the middle of the road and take pictures without getting hit by a float.
Floats were the least of my worries. It was the blasted candy!
The official parade rules specifically stated candy should be thrown on the ground.
Did anyone listen? Apparently not because it all kept hitting me.
The people standing around me stocked up on candy that night.
All they had to do was wait until a float passed by. Soon a hail storm of candy would head toward me.
A box of dots hit me on the head at one point. It was all I could do from going into the light.
My friend also got grazed by a Laffy Taffy and no less than 100 peppermints. Were they trying to make snide comments about her breath?
On a side note, adults will beat you down for some candy. My friend was about to regulate on one man who was grabbing for candy like his life depended on it.
Really sir, was it that serious? I think not.
Do better!
But I digress.
I should go file a police report for assault with a deadly weapon. Candy really hurts when you’re getting hit with it.
Thank God it didn’t break the camera. Yes, they threw directly at me while I was holding it.
I really want to go file workman’s comp for mental anguish. I am suffering from parade anxiety now.
Forever more I will approach all parades with a deep fear of getting hit by a blow pop or 10.
I blame children.
They seemed to think it was hilarious to hit me. And I know they did it on purpose.
“Ha, ha, ha sorry,” they would say.
That’s OK because next year they better watch out. They better not cry. They better not pout. I’m telling you why.
No Santa Claus is not coming to the Christmas parade.
I will be there front and center prepared to hit someone back. That’s right little kids, laugh all you want.
Prepare for my secret arsenal of rock candy. Yeah the hard stuff.
But on second thought, t’is the season to be jolly.
So I’ll just wear a helmet to protect my head, bring a bat to deflect the candy and a catcher’s mitt. After all, I do want to take some candy home too.
Chronicles of Life... The music in me
I wish my life was one big musical, or at least had a kicking sound track.
Think of how cool it would be to break out in song a dance mid-sentence and not have people look at you crazy.
Or how about having the mood of the moment expressed in surround sound with a song or two?
Unfortunately, that does not happen in real life. So I sing, much to the chagrin of my family and friends.
I would blame it on High School Musical, but my roots in singing extend back to early childhood.
There has always been a song in my heart.
My grandmother used to let me sing at church programs, when I was about five or so.
I use to be in the youth choir during elementary school too. I even had my own special solo.
It was never anything too serious. But oh how I rocked the crowds, or at least like to imagine I did.
It’s not too hard to imagine anyway.
Church folks (except for my parents) will egg on anyone, especially a child, if they’re singing for the Lord. And they won’t dare tell you your singing is bad.
“Sing baby,” they cry out one bad note after the other.
However, I was smart enough to realize I can’t really sing.
But I do have the annoying habit of bursting into song while conversing with others.
I can’t help it. OK maybe I can, but there is music in me.
If you say it, I may sing it.
It’s all I can do at work sometimes to not burst into song. That’s what I get for listening to the radio.
Sometimes I just want to jam out with Mary Mary on “Get up,” especially if I need that extra energy boost. Or I want to sing Bill Withers “Ain’t no sunshine,” just because its raining outside.
Better yet I want to just randomly blurt out a line or two from John Legend’s “Green Light.”
I doubt if I’ll ever get rid of the music in me. And why should I?
I fully believe in Mark Twain’s quote, “Dance like nobody’s watching; love like you’ve never been hurt. Sing like nobody’s listening; live like it’s heaven on earth.”
But I guess I do sing at times when everyone is listening.
Oh well, I have the heart of a singer. Just not the talent.
Here in no particular order is my life sound track for this moment:
1. Get Up, Mary Mary
2. Green Light, John Legend
3. Cinderella, Cheetah Girls
4. I have a dream, Common ft. Will.I.Am.
5. Live your life, T.I. ft Rhianna
6. Good Life, Kanye West ft. T-Pain
7. Bandy Bandy, Zap Mama ft. Erykah Badu
8. Love you like I do, Deitrick Haddon ft. Ruben Studdard and Mary Mary
9. The Declaration, Kirk Franklin
10. Rock Witchoo, Black Kids
Think of how cool it would be to break out in song a dance mid-sentence and not have people look at you crazy.
Or how about having the mood of the moment expressed in surround sound with a song or two?
Unfortunately, that does not happen in real life. So I sing, much to the chagrin of my family and friends.
I would blame it on High School Musical, but my roots in singing extend back to early childhood.
There has always been a song in my heart.
My grandmother used to let me sing at church programs, when I was about five or so.
I use to be in the youth choir during elementary school too. I even had my own special solo.
It was never anything too serious. But oh how I rocked the crowds, or at least like to imagine I did.
It’s not too hard to imagine anyway.
Church folks (except for my parents) will egg on anyone, especially a child, if they’re singing for the Lord. And they won’t dare tell you your singing is bad.
“Sing baby,” they cry out one bad note after the other.
However, I was smart enough to realize I can’t really sing.
But I do have the annoying habit of bursting into song while conversing with others.
I can’t help it. OK maybe I can, but there is music in me.
If you say it, I may sing it.
It’s all I can do at work sometimes to not burst into song. That’s what I get for listening to the radio.
Sometimes I just want to jam out with Mary Mary on “Get up,” especially if I need that extra energy boost. Or I want to sing Bill Withers “Ain’t no sunshine,” just because its raining outside.
Better yet I want to just randomly blurt out a line or two from John Legend’s “Green Light.”
I doubt if I’ll ever get rid of the music in me. And why should I?
I fully believe in Mark Twain’s quote, “Dance like nobody’s watching; love like you’ve never been hurt. Sing like nobody’s listening; live like it’s heaven on earth.”
But I guess I do sing at times when everyone is listening.
Oh well, I have the heart of a singer. Just not the talent.
Here in no particular order is my life sound track for this moment:
1. Get Up, Mary Mary
2. Green Light, John Legend
3. Cinderella, Cheetah Girls
4. I have a dream, Common ft. Will.I.Am.
5. Live your life, T.I. ft Rhianna
6. Good Life, Kanye West ft. T-Pain
7. Bandy Bandy, Zap Mama ft. Erykah Badu
8. Love you like I do, Deitrick Haddon ft. Ruben Studdard and Mary Mary
9. The Declaration, Kirk Franklin
10. Rock Witchoo, Black Kids
Welcome back
I took a brief hiatus from my blog, but not blogging.
Sometimes I forget to post on here after it runs on Facebook.
Starting Jan. 1 I will do better!
Sometimes I forget to post on here after it runs on Facebook.
Starting Jan. 1 I will do better!
Thursday, October 2, 2008
The Hartwell Chronicles ... Unacceptable Behavior
Ladies and Gentlemen,
I didn't know this was going to turn into a three part chronicle. I take forever to post things, so it all played out by the time I wrote the second one. Here is Unacceptable Behavior in its entirety.
The Hartwell Chronicles … Unacceptable Behavior pt. 1
The truth is I am a drama queen.
Most of the drama in my life is self imposed because I make mountains out of mole hills.
There is a certain degree of drama I needed for me to function on a daily basis. But I have been trying to cut back.
However, there has been way too much unsolicited drama trying to unfold in my life lately.
Case in point: The leak guard on my car started dragging on the ground a few weeks ago.
The man who lives with my neighbor (we’re going to assume she’s his girlfriend) heard the noise and came to check out the problem.
This was the first time we had ever spoken to each other, mind you.
Oh sure, we would politely acknowledge each other’s presence in our comings and goings with a quick wave or nod of hello. But there has never been an actual conversation between us.
He offered to take a look at my car, and he removed the leak guard so it wouldn’t drag anymore.
I was very grateful –I couldn’t figure out how to remove it myself – and thanked him profusely.
That night, I heard some heated exchanges between him and my neighbor.
This was nothing new. They have these “discussion” occasionally.
My only complaint is they are never loud enough for me to actually get the whole scoop.
Yes, I am too nosy for my own good. But people should not argue loudly outside their homes, or inside for that matter, especially if they live next door to a reporter.
The very next day on my car’s windshield was a little white note.
I thought it was a message from a neighboring city’s clerk of court at first. They’re after me!
I have an unpaid speeding ticket from June, and Georgia puts out a warrant on you if you miss your court date and don’t pay. I was a no-show for two hearings, so this fear is justifiable.
It wasn’t a note from the law but a handwritten message from the neighbor’s boyfriend instead.
“Hi, This is (his name),” it read. “I use to be your neighbor. My # (his number). I would like to hear from you. If not, I understand.”
What kind of bootleg operation is this?
Why on Earth did he think this was acceptable?
This note was wrong on so many levels.
First and foremost, who leaves a note on a car? And on ripped paper nonetheless?
Can I at least get something written on decent stationary? I mean really, are we in middle school?
And do I look like someone that accepts sloppy seconds? No!
Clearly, I’ve seen you living with you GF. Just because she kicked you out does not mean I now want you.
DO BETTER!
I responded to the whole situation the way any sane female would. I cracked up, told some friends and disregarded the note.
I thought that was end of story. Did I think wrong?
The Hartwell Chronicles … Unacceptable Behavior Pt. 2
Evil never dies and the drama never ends.
A day or two later, I hear the GF on the phone saying she’s locked out of her apartment because he gave her the wrong key. He still had the key to the house.
Then while she’s gone that afternoon, I see him coming out the house and walking away on foot.
Is he breaking and entering now? Do I call the police? This was one of those situations you observe from afar. And I did.
By day three in the drama that is my life I see him driving back up to the house.
We exchanged quick hellos, but I did not even mention the note.
Soon I see my neighbor pull up too, while he’s there.
I thought, “Something is about to go down,” but nothing happened to my disappointment.
Apparently they were back together.
End of story?
No
A few days later I see another note.
“Can I at least get a text 2 say am wrong for leaving numbor,” it read ever so illiterately. “If am out of line am sorry!!!”
He put his name and number down again just in case I didn’t know who it was from.
STOP THE MADNESS!
This has gotten out of hand and was not on the approved list of drama for the month.
One note was bad enough. Two is extremely unacceptable because:
• He needs to stop leaving me messages before I catch a case. We all know how women can get over their men. Instead of cussing out the one they should – him – they go to battle with the other woman, thus leading into too much unnecessary drama.
• Let’s say she’s a relative. Then he needs to stop sending me messages like some hormonal preteen and just come knock on my door. I’m a nice enough person. I’m not that mean, at first.
• The very essence of that note almost gave me a heart attack from illiteracy overload. I am a reporter, and he knows this. Bad spelling and grammar is completely out of line.
Obviously, I must address this situation now, because I can’t take much in life.
This unacceptable behavior must end.
The Hartwell Chronicles … Unacceptable Behavior Pt. 3
Welcome to another episode of the Daily Drama.
What I hope is a conclusion to the unacceptable behavior happened rather quickly today.
I was cleaning out my car and getting my sunflower seeds when the neighbor guy struck up a conversation. He was passing by in his car but switched to reverse.
Guess he wanted a response too.
We kicked the actual factual for a few minutes, and I toyed with the idea of bringing up the whole note issue. But I decided to let things just flow.
And flow they did.
“So you know those notes on your windshield,” he asked.
“What about them?” I responded.
“Was I out of line?” he said.
That was the wrong thing to say to me.
I literally lit into this man for a good five minutes and lectured him on the concept of doing better.
I asked was the woman he lived with his girlfriend, and he tried to give me a yes and no response for a yes or no question.
Finally, I got him to admit she indeed was the GF.
“But I’m in a transition,” he said.
What in blue blazes is a transition?
What are we doing here, growing out a relaxer? Either you are in a relationship or you aren’t.
Besides, transitions don’t live with each other and drive each other’s car.
“Sir, clearly this is unacceptable,” I said. “You do not leave notes on a person’s car when you are in a relationship.”
“I’m sorry if I was disrespectful,” he said. “That’s why I asked.”
“Don’t be sorry, be right,” I said. “Do better.’
He wasn’t disrespecting me, per say. But he did disrespect big time his girlfriend and their relationship, transition or whatever.
I mean I still can’t get over this whole transition thing.
The man is 30-years-old (yes I did ask) and thought it was OK to leave me a note while “transitioning.”
Someone please tell me if I have Foo Foo the Fool written across my forehead.
“What grade are you in Sir?” I said. “I mean really, we are adults here. We do not need to write notes back in forth and hide them from the teacher.
“Furthermore, Sir, you are 30,” I said. “I’m 23-years-old, and even I know this was unacceptable. Clearly if you have to question the situation, then there is a problem. Do better.”
I let him know upfront I am not trying to catch a case, and he wanted to play all dumb.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Look Sir, I write the news, not end up on the news,” I said. “I plan to keep it like that.”
I didn’t have the heart to mention he was illiterate. That might have opened a whole new can of worms.
The whole ordeal took something out of me. After my tirade I had to just walk away.
“I can’t take much in life,” I said. “I must go because I can’t even believe I just dignified this whole situation with a response. Do not leave me anymore notes.”
I must admit home skillet took it all in strides. Then again what else could he do?
I wasn’t really mean. It’s actually kind of funny looking back.
I’m in the help a brother out program. Maybe I did help him.
“Well, you learn something new every day,” he said.
“That’s why I’m a reporter, to bring the truth,” I said.
And the truth is his behavior was unacceptable. Let’s hope he will do better regardless of if he transitions back with his GF or to someone else.
We all know who he won’t be transitioning with.
I didn't know this was going to turn into a three part chronicle. I take forever to post things, so it all played out by the time I wrote the second one. Here is Unacceptable Behavior in its entirety.
The Hartwell Chronicles … Unacceptable Behavior pt. 1
The truth is I am a drama queen.
Most of the drama in my life is self imposed because I make mountains out of mole hills.
There is a certain degree of drama I needed for me to function on a daily basis. But I have been trying to cut back.
However, there has been way too much unsolicited drama trying to unfold in my life lately.
Case in point: The leak guard on my car started dragging on the ground a few weeks ago.
The man who lives with my neighbor (we’re going to assume she’s his girlfriend) heard the noise and came to check out the problem.
This was the first time we had ever spoken to each other, mind you.
Oh sure, we would politely acknowledge each other’s presence in our comings and goings with a quick wave or nod of hello. But there has never been an actual conversation between us.
He offered to take a look at my car, and he removed the leak guard so it wouldn’t drag anymore.
I was very grateful –I couldn’t figure out how to remove it myself – and thanked him profusely.
That night, I heard some heated exchanges between him and my neighbor.
This was nothing new. They have these “discussion” occasionally.
My only complaint is they are never loud enough for me to actually get the whole scoop.
Yes, I am too nosy for my own good. But people should not argue loudly outside their homes, or inside for that matter, especially if they live next door to a reporter.
The very next day on my car’s windshield was a little white note.
I thought it was a message from a neighboring city’s clerk of court at first. They’re after me!
I have an unpaid speeding ticket from June, and Georgia puts out a warrant on you if you miss your court date and don’t pay. I was a no-show for two hearings, so this fear is justifiable.
It wasn’t a note from the law but a handwritten message from the neighbor’s boyfriend instead.
“Hi, This is (his name),” it read. “I use to be your neighbor. My # (his number). I would like to hear from you. If not, I understand.”
What kind of bootleg operation is this?
Why on Earth did he think this was acceptable?
This note was wrong on so many levels.
First and foremost, who leaves a note on a car? And on ripped paper nonetheless?
Can I at least get something written on decent stationary? I mean really, are we in middle school?
And do I look like someone that accepts sloppy seconds? No!
Clearly, I’ve seen you living with you GF. Just because she kicked you out does not mean I now want you.
DO BETTER!
I responded to the whole situation the way any sane female would. I cracked up, told some friends and disregarded the note.
I thought that was end of story. Did I think wrong?
The Hartwell Chronicles … Unacceptable Behavior Pt. 2
Evil never dies and the drama never ends.
A day or two later, I hear the GF on the phone saying she’s locked out of her apartment because he gave her the wrong key. He still had the key to the house.
Then while she’s gone that afternoon, I see him coming out the house and walking away on foot.
Is he breaking and entering now? Do I call the police? This was one of those situations you observe from afar. And I did.
By day three in the drama that is my life I see him driving back up to the house.
We exchanged quick hellos, but I did not even mention the note.
Soon I see my neighbor pull up too, while he’s there.
I thought, “Something is about to go down,” but nothing happened to my disappointment.
Apparently they were back together.
End of story?
No
A few days later I see another note.
“Can I at least get a text 2 say am wrong for leaving numbor,” it read ever so illiterately. “If am out of line am sorry!!!”
He put his name and number down again just in case I didn’t know who it was from.
STOP THE MADNESS!
This has gotten out of hand and was not on the approved list of drama for the month.
One note was bad enough. Two is extremely unacceptable because:
• He needs to stop leaving me messages before I catch a case. We all know how women can get over their men. Instead of cussing out the one they should – him – they go to battle with the other woman, thus leading into too much unnecessary drama.
• Let’s say she’s a relative. Then he needs to stop sending me messages like some hormonal preteen and just come knock on my door. I’m a nice enough person. I’m not that mean, at first.
• The very essence of that note almost gave me a heart attack from illiteracy overload. I am a reporter, and he knows this. Bad spelling and grammar is completely out of line.
Obviously, I must address this situation now, because I can’t take much in life.
This unacceptable behavior must end.
The Hartwell Chronicles … Unacceptable Behavior Pt. 3
Welcome to another episode of the Daily Drama.
What I hope is a conclusion to the unacceptable behavior happened rather quickly today.
I was cleaning out my car and getting my sunflower seeds when the neighbor guy struck up a conversation. He was passing by in his car but switched to reverse.
Guess he wanted a response too.
We kicked the actual factual for a few minutes, and I toyed with the idea of bringing up the whole note issue. But I decided to let things just flow.
And flow they did.
“So you know those notes on your windshield,” he asked.
“What about them?” I responded.
“Was I out of line?” he said.
That was the wrong thing to say to me.
I literally lit into this man for a good five minutes and lectured him on the concept of doing better.
I asked was the woman he lived with his girlfriend, and he tried to give me a yes and no response for a yes or no question.
Finally, I got him to admit she indeed was the GF.
“But I’m in a transition,” he said.
What in blue blazes is a transition?
What are we doing here, growing out a relaxer? Either you are in a relationship or you aren’t.
Besides, transitions don’t live with each other and drive each other’s car.
“Sir, clearly this is unacceptable,” I said. “You do not leave notes on a person’s car when you are in a relationship.”
“I’m sorry if I was disrespectful,” he said. “That’s why I asked.”
“Don’t be sorry, be right,” I said. “Do better.’
He wasn’t disrespecting me, per say. But he did disrespect big time his girlfriend and their relationship, transition or whatever.
I mean I still can’t get over this whole transition thing.
The man is 30-years-old (yes I did ask) and thought it was OK to leave me a note while “transitioning.”
Someone please tell me if I have Foo Foo the Fool written across my forehead.
“What grade are you in Sir?” I said. “I mean really, we are adults here. We do not need to write notes back in forth and hide them from the teacher.
“Furthermore, Sir, you are 30,” I said. “I’m 23-years-old, and even I know this was unacceptable. Clearly if you have to question the situation, then there is a problem. Do better.”
I let him know upfront I am not trying to catch a case, and he wanted to play all dumb.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Look Sir, I write the news, not end up on the news,” I said. “I plan to keep it like that.”
I didn’t have the heart to mention he was illiterate. That might have opened a whole new can of worms.
The whole ordeal took something out of me. After my tirade I had to just walk away.
“I can’t take much in life,” I said. “I must go because I can’t even believe I just dignified this whole situation with a response. Do not leave me anymore notes.”
I must admit home skillet took it all in strides. Then again what else could he do?
I wasn’t really mean. It’s actually kind of funny looking back.
I’m in the help a brother out program. Maybe I did help him.
“Well, you learn something new every day,” he said.
“That’s why I’m a reporter, to bring the truth,” I said.
And the truth is his behavior was unacceptable. Let’s hope he will do better regardless of if he transitions back with his GF or to someone else.
We all know who he won’t be transitioning with.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Chronicles of Life ... voyage to indie
Amid a sea of Black Kids’ fans at Athens’ 40 Watts Club Wednesday night were me and friend.
Usually, I’m an R&B type of girl, but every now and then I dig different sounds.
The group was named one of Rolling Stones’ 10 bands to watch (yes, I have a subscription). My interest was soon piqued in these fellow Jacksonville natives.
I went on Youtube to hear their catchy song “I’m not gonna teach your boyfriend how to dance,” to get a feel for the band.
It was love at first sound.
Research soon revealed they were going to perform in Athens, and I knew I had to go.
My friend, CB is also a Black Kids fan and wanted to experience them live too. Yay! I wouldn’t be alone in a sea of indie.
I agonized over my concert attire for weeks. Unfortunately, I got sidetracked at the last minute when I couldn’t get a certain pair of shoes (a sad tale for another day).
But it all worked out in the end.
My fellow concertgoer played the part of indie queen to perfection. She was cool, calm and collect in white tank, jeans and Chucks.
Yours truly tried to blend in too. I sported a screen tee that declared my love for rock, and some pumps, a particularly bad choice because they were off real soon into the night.
My shoes would have never come off if I’d gotten the original ones I wanted, but I won’t linger on it anymore.
We arrived at the concert on time, 9 p.m., but they set us up for the OK Doke. We probably didn’t go in until 9:30ish and the start was about 10:15.
People, it was a Wednesday night and we have school and work the next day! Do better!
As I people watched, I squealed like a school girl when I saw Alan Youngblood, lead singer for the Black Kids. Then I saw his sister Ali.
If only I could have made it backstage.
I also notice I, and a few others, were the only idiots in heels. My original shoe choice was a sneaker, but a certain store didn’t have them and left me prostrate with grief.
But I digress.
Eventually things got a move on.
The opening act, Magic Wand, was OK. I could have done without them. CB and I sat down for most of their set.
We headed toward the stage for the Virgins. I have no idea what the lead singer was saying in all of his songs, but the music was pretty good.
The singer kept doing this hilarious little shimmy. I should have videotaped it.
Now some of the chicks in the crowd were a little wild with their dancing. I thought CB was going to have to shut it down.
My pumps and a pencil were all ready for an attack. But we had victory over violence.
Finally, 10 hours later, the group we had been waiting for came out.
Lights glowing, the group came out to party.
I was momentarily shocked by a t-shirt Reggie Youngblood, the lead singer, wore. Just know it involved the male genitalia.
Overall, they rocked my socks off, even though I only knew five songs. Yeah I’m a newbie fan.
I sang out loud to the five I did know and danced around to the rest. My interest was thoroughly justified.
Will I be a regular fixture at indie/rock concerts? Probably not.
But I successfully survived my first voyage to indie. And another trip could be in the future.
Chronicles of Life ... Hair wars
I went to the mall with a friend on Labor Day, and we had an interesting exchange with a store clerk.
The clerk complimented my hair and asked me how long I had been natural (three and a half years and counting). She used to be natural herself and asked to touch my hair.
Soon the three of us struck up a conversation about hair.
My friend mentioned she was getting a relaxer the following week. And the clerk called my friend ever so softly, but loud enough where we could still hear, “a weak black woman.”
Did we hear correctly? Homegirl was trying to call my friend out on her personal hair decision.
Now if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black!
She was no longer natural. So what does that say about her?
The whole situation had me thinking of the battle between “good” and “bad” hair.
There seems to be a constant source of contention with some in the happy nappy and silky straight crews. Representatives from each group tend to demean one another’s hair preference.
It sort of reminds me of the song and dance routine from “School Daze” when the Jiggaboos and Wannabees poke at each other.
The song brought up several sentiments.
The Wannabes (i.e rexlaxed hair) want to be white and think they’re better, seem more attractive, have hard hair, have good and long hair and are evil.
Whereas, the Jiggaboos (i.e. natural hair) are not ashamed of their blackness, can’t get a man, have stronger hair, have bad and short hair and are jealous,
Spike Lee seemed to have hit it on the nail!
And the problem is too many people buy into these myths and perpetuate these feelings each day.
I say it’s time for a cease fire order.
All hair types are beautiful, whether it be relaxed and short, long and natural or somewhere in between.
Relaxed and natural sisters need to seat down and agree to disagree.
Not everyone with straight hair wants to be white. And all natural hair wearers are not revolutionaries.
Furthermore, there are plenty of women with cute short natural ‘dos, and even more with natural hair down their back.
We have enough to weary about without scrutinizing over someone else’s hair.
Relaxed hair isn’t right for me, but who am I to say it’s wrong for you?
Yours truly plans to live nappily ever after, but I won’t put down anyone else who chooses otherwise.
Any hair is good as long as you take care of it.
The clerk complimented my hair and asked me how long I had been natural (three and a half years and counting). She used to be natural herself and asked to touch my hair.
Soon the three of us struck up a conversation about hair.
My friend mentioned she was getting a relaxer the following week. And the clerk called my friend ever so softly, but loud enough where we could still hear, “a weak black woman.”
Did we hear correctly? Homegirl was trying to call my friend out on her personal hair decision.
Now if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black!
She was no longer natural. So what does that say about her?
The whole situation had me thinking of the battle between “good” and “bad” hair.
There seems to be a constant source of contention with some in the happy nappy and silky straight crews. Representatives from each group tend to demean one another’s hair preference.
It sort of reminds me of the song and dance routine from “School Daze” when the Jiggaboos and Wannabees poke at each other.
The song brought up several sentiments.
The Wannabes (i.e rexlaxed hair) want to be white and think they’re better, seem more attractive, have hard hair, have good and long hair and are evil.
Whereas, the Jiggaboos (i.e. natural hair) are not ashamed of their blackness, can’t get a man, have stronger hair, have bad and short hair and are jealous,
Spike Lee seemed to have hit it on the nail!
And the problem is too many people buy into these myths and perpetuate these feelings each day.
I say it’s time for a cease fire order.
All hair types are beautiful, whether it be relaxed and short, long and natural or somewhere in between.
Relaxed and natural sisters need to seat down and agree to disagree.
Not everyone with straight hair wants to be white. And all natural hair wearers are not revolutionaries.
Furthermore, there are plenty of women with cute short natural ‘dos, and even more with natural hair down their back.
We have enough to weary about without scrutinizing over someone else’s hair.
Relaxed hair isn’t right for me, but who am I to say it’s wrong for you?
Yours truly plans to live nappily ever after, but I won’t put down anyone else who chooses otherwise.
Any hair is good as long as you take care of it.
The Hartwell Chronicles ... Small town single
Reality bites, especially for small town dating and relating.
Every time I start thinking to myself, “Hmmm it would be nice to meet a charming gentleman or even go on a date while I’m here,” I snap back to reality.
Usually some male – in Hart or surrounding counties – irks me to the point of rather ending up a bag lady with 10 cats than entertaining them for another second.
Extreme, I know. But I have proof.
Case in point 1: Let’s call him Chester the Molester. I hung out with Chester only once because immediately he was on me like a hawk on a Junebug.
Apparently, he did not hear Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown sing “It’s hard to breathe with no air.” Home skillet was about to suffocate me with his preying hands.
Then he had the nerve to say I had some psychological problem, such as stranger anxiety.
No, I don’t like being touched by random strangers. He might not wash his hands.
I barely escaped Chester’s “friendly” hands. His number was deleted two seconds later.
Case in point 2: Bubba Buford Brown was cool, some days. On other days, not so much.
Sure we talked a lot, at first, and then it slowly started becoming more and more sporadic.
I can’t get mad and say it was entirely fault. It does take two to tango.
I just was not that interested in Bubba. There was no chemistry, and I couldn’t even force it.
I soon tired of his presence, so he was dismissed.
Case in point 3: Willie Wanna Start Some has a tendency to poke fun at my little quirks and idiosyncrasies. At first it was OK, never acceptable mind you, but I took it all in strides.
Now he’s just getting down right annoying.
I can only take getting put down, however jokingly, so many times before the attitude comes out.
He has been warned.
Is it too much to ask for an interesting, sane and accepting individual such as myself?
I guess so.
There are slim pickings in a small town, especially one that’s a step below a retirement village.
All the eligible men are dead, waiting to be born or married.
I have had my fair share of “inquiries” from very old men and too young boys. Can we say, “EWWW!”
Everyone else has been subpar at best.
I, for one, will not settle for anything less than someone on my level who meets all 150 prerequisites.
(Yeah, I might be alone forever.)
Maybe I’ll just get a pet to keep me company. There is nothing wrong with being a cat lady.
I’m sure the whole dating and relating scene will get better when I finally move one.
For now, I do believe small town singlehood is the best fit.
Every time I start thinking to myself, “Hmmm it would be nice to meet a charming gentleman or even go on a date while I’m here,” I snap back to reality.
Usually some male – in Hart or surrounding counties – irks me to the point of rather ending up a bag lady with 10 cats than entertaining them for another second.
Extreme, I know. But I have proof.
Case in point 1: Let’s call him Chester the Molester. I hung out with Chester only once because immediately he was on me like a hawk on a Junebug.
Apparently, he did not hear Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown sing “It’s hard to breathe with no air.” Home skillet was about to suffocate me with his preying hands.
Then he had the nerve to say I had some psychological problem, such as stranger anxiety.
No, I don’t like being touched by random strangers. He might not wash his hands.
I barely escaped Chester’s “friendly” hands. His number was deleted two seconds later.
Case in point 2: Bubba Buford Brown was cool, some days. On other days, not so much.
Sure we talked a lot, at first, and then it slowly started becoming more and more sporadic.
I can’t get mad and say it was entirely fault. It does take two to tango.
I just was not that interested in Bubba. There was no chemistry, and I couldn’t even force it.
I soon tired of his presence, so he was dismissed.
Case in point 3: Willie Wanna Start Some has a tendency to poke fun at my little quirks and idiosyncrasies. At first it was OK, never acceptable mind you, but I took it all in strides.
Now he’s just getting down right annoying.
I can only take getting put down, however jokingly, so many times before the attitude comes out.
He has been warned.
Is it too much to ask for an interesting, sane and accepting individual such as myself?
I guess so.
There are slim pickings in a small town, especially one that’s a step below a retirement village.
All the eligible men are dead, waiting to be born or married.
I have had my fair share of “inquiries” from very old men and too young boys. Can we say, “EWWW!”
Everyone else has been subpar at best.
I, for one, will not settle for anything less than someone on my level who meets all 150 prerequisites.
(Yeah, I might be alone forever.)
Maybe I’ll just get a pet to keep me company. There is nothing wrong with being a cat lady.
I’m sure the whole dating and relating scene will get better when I finally move one.
For now, I do believe small town singlehood is the best fit.
The Hartwell Chronicles … Take me to the water
“I held my breath when they dipped my head, then I came up shiny and new. …”
Actually, I came up sputtering and spitting out water.
No, I was not getting baptized in “the river.” I was getting dropped, repeatedly, into a dunking booth.
You know I love the kids. When I was asked to participate in the dunking booth at a community fun day, I thought, “Sure, it’s for a good cause.”
Mistake number one.
I volunteered to take the first shift. It was all worked out in my mind that the first few people wouldn’t be able to hit the target.
Mistake number two.
A crowd of young children, all at least under 10 years of age, came rushing with tickets in hand and balls prepared to throw.
“Surely, they can’t hit that good so young,” I thought.
Mistake number three.
Water was all I saw for a good solid hour. I was dunked no less than a 100 times.
Each participant got three balls for $1.
Sure some would miss on the first try and even the second. But just a sure as Jesus rose on the third day, I got dunked with the last ball.
Better yet, some children got me on all three tries. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh is all people saw.
To top it off, the water was so dark and murky. Our local fire department got it from one of the hydrants, but they didn’t let it flush out first and lose its dirty look.
Yes, I was dunked in a nice big pit of dark brown water. Is it too much to ask for clear?
I can’t swim, and seeing how to float back up was impossible. I hit my head on the seat a few times.
The children all gathered around and laugh diabolically as they dunked me each time. I failed to see the humor in it.
One boy spent at least $10 dunking me by himself. Soon the whole family was joining in.
Then a crowd of older men thought it would be fun to take a few turns.
I started to talk some smack about them – it’s no fun without a little egging on – but I stopped after that first dunk.
They all said it was so much fun at the dunking booth.
Fun for who? Not me!
“Dunk the newspaper lady,” they screamed.
All these dunkers or their parents better have a subscription to “The Hartwell Sun.”
I was cold, wet and tired by the time my shift was over. Water was dripping all over the place.
The only thing that looked decent was my hair (water does wonders for the natural).
At least they gave me a shout out during quarter bingo.
I am too through with the dunking booth. From now on I’m sticking to easy community service events like celebrity waiter/waitress night.
My infectious smile and sugary sweet personality will definitely get me the most tips of the night.
Maybe my dunkers will tip the newspaper lady with money instead of into water.
Actually, I came up sputtering and spitting out water.
No, I was not getting baptized in “the river.” I was getting dropped, repeatedly, into a dunking booth.
You know I love the kids. When I was asked to participate in the dunking booth at a community fun day, I thought, “Sure, it’s for a good cause.”
Mistake number one.
I volunteered to take the first shift. It was all worked out in my mind that the first few people wouldn’t be able to hit the target.
Mistake number two.
A crowd of young children, all at least under 10 years of age, came rushing with tickets in hand and balls prepared to throw.
“Surely, they can’t hit that good so young,” I thought.
Mistake number three.
Water was all I saw for a good solid hour. I was dunked no less than a 100 times.
Each participant got three balls for $1.
Sure some would miss on the first try and even the second. But just a sure as Jesus rose on the third day, I got dunked with the last ball.
Better yet, some children got me on all three tries. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh is all people saw.
To top it off, the water was so dark and murky. Our local fire department got it from one of the hydrants, but they didn’t let it flush out first and lose its dirty look.
Yes, I was dunked in a nice big pit of dark brown water. Is it too much to ask for clear?
I can’t swim, and seeing how to float back up was impossible. I hit my head on the seat a few times.
The children all gathered around and laugh diabolically as they dunked me each time. I failed to see the humor in it.
One boy spent at least $10 dunking me by himself. Soon the whole family was joining in.
Then a crowd of older men thought it would be fun to take a few turns.
I started to talk some smack about them – it’s no fun without a little egging on – but I stopped after that first dunk.
They all said it was so much fun at the dunking booth.
Fun for who? Not me!
“Dunk the newspaper lady,” they screamed.
All these dunkers or their parents better have a subscription to “The Hartwell Sun.”
I was cold, wet and tired by the time my shift was over. Water was dripping all over the place.
The only thing that looked decent was my hair (water does wonders for the natural).
At least they gave me a shout out during quarter bingo.
I am too through with the dunking booth. From now on I’m sticking to easy community service events like celebrity waiter/waitress night.
My infectious smile and sugary sweet personality will definitely get me the most tips of the night.
Maybe my dunkers will tip the newspaper lady with money instead of into water.
Chronicles of Life … being the educated me
There is a serious problem in our society when characteristics are pinpointed as belonging to a particular race.
Yesterday, the Michael Baisden Show mentioned the latest Obama remark from country singer Toby Keith. Keith said black people think Obama “don’t talk, act, or care (to) railway himself as a black person,” during a Glen Beck interview. Beck himself had to ask “What does that even mean?”
Keith responded “I don't know what that means; I'm saying that's what I think that they would say. Even though the black society would pull for him, I still think that they think in the back of their mind that the only reason that he is in is because he talks, acts and carries himself as a Caucasian, but I think he's got a, I think him and McCain are the two best choices, in my opinion, that we've had in years.” To view the full interview, visit: http://www.glennbeck.com/content/articles/article/196/13156/.
So, if you don’t know what you mean by a statement, why even say it? Can we say stupid?
Here’s a little news for you Toby Keith, Obama is not acting white. He’s just being himself: an educated man. He was raised to speak correct grammar, dress appropriately and behave in a professional manner.
Why does intelligence and education have to signify one is acting white? Does the opposite mean one is acting black?
I would be a very rich woman if I had a penny for every time I’ve been told I “act white.”
It started in elementary school. I went to an all black school near my grandparents.
I was an anomaly among my peers. My parents, and even my grand parents, were married to each other, not on drugs or in jail or unconcerned about their child.
To top it off, my grandmother and mother required nothing less than perfect behavior. That meant good grades, correct grammar and carrying myself with some pride.
“Why do you act like a white girl?” the other children would ask.
“I’m not acting white,” I would respond. “But why do you act like you have no sense?”
Yes, I speak, for the most part, the King’s English. I take pride in my appearance, and I act respectful. So shoot me!
When I got a little older, a friend of mine and later my mom’s co-worker said the black people at my high school talked and acted funny, sort of like we were better than everyone else.
Funny and better in what way? White of course.
I did go to Stanton Preparatory School. So because we made good grades, wanted to attend the best schools and chose to speak English over Ebonics, we thought we were white? I think not.
The “acting white” comments even followed me into adult hood.
An aunt and cousin told me just this past June I sound like a white girl. No, I sound like me.
Out of respect I laughed off my aunt’s comments, but my cousin was not so lucky.
“Unlike you, I don’t talk like I have a plate of hot grits in my mouth,” I told her. “It would behoove you to learn how to speak properly if you want to be a lawyer.”
Later, I made her read this article about why it shows ignorance when you claim someone is “acting white.” Maybe I need to share the same article with Toby Keith.
Must my “black card” get revoked because I choose to be educated?
I’m probably more in touch with my blackness than those who feel the need to call me out on “acting white.” Who’s rocking the natural hair, knows black history is more than just Malcolm and Martin and will proudly soak up the sun to get a shade darker?
Being educated is not limited to one race, culture or religion. It’s a universal concept.
Go to the University of Florida, or any school, and you will find several others like Obama, be they white, black, red, blue or green.
Like Obama, I am not “acting white,” I am just being me: an educated black woman. Keith and others who say someone is “acting white” are just being themselves too: ignorant.
Yesterday, the Michael Baisden Show mentioned the latest Obama remark from country singer Toby Keith. Keith said black people think Obama “don’t talk, act, or care (to) railway himself as a black person,” during a Glen Beck interview. Beck himself had to ask “What does that even mean?”
Keith responded “I don't know what that means; I'm saying that's what I think that they would say. Even though the black society would pull for him, I still think that they think in the back of their mind that the only reason that he is in is because he talks, acts and carries himself as a Caucasian, but I think he's got a, I think him and McCain are the two best choices, in my opinion, that we've had in years.” To view the full interview, visit: http://www.glennbeck.com/content/articles/article/196/13156/.
So, if you don’t know what you mean by a statement, why even say it? Can we say stupid?
Here’s a little news for you Toby Keith, Obama is not acting white. He’s just being himself: an educated man. He was raised to speak correct grammar, dress appropriately and behave in a professional manner.
Why does intelligence and education have to signify one is acting white? Does the opposite mean one is acting black?
I would be a very rich woman if I had a penny for every time I’ve been told I “act white.”
It started in elementary school. I went to an all black school near my grandparents.
I was an anomaly among my peers. My parents, and even my grand parents, were married to each other, not on drugs or in jail or unconcerned about their child.
To top it off, my grandmother and mother required nothing less than perfect behavior. That meant good grades, correct grammar and carrying myself with some pride.
“Why do you act like a white girl?” the other children would ask.
“I’m not acting white,” I would respond. “But why do you act like you have no sense?”
Yes, I speak, for the most part, the King’s English. I take pride in my appearance, and I act respectful. So shoot me!
When I got a little older, a friend of mine and later my mom’s co-worker said the black people at my high school talked and acted funny, sort of like we were better than everyone else.
Funny and better in what way? White of course.
I did go to Stanton Preparatory School. So because we made good grades, wanted to attend the best schools and chose to speak English over Ebonics, we thought we were white? I think not.
The “acting white” comments even followed me into adult hood.
An aunt and cousin told me just this past June I sound like a white girl. No, I sound like me.
Out of respect I laughed off my aunt’s comments, but my cousin was not so lucky.
“Unlike you, I don’t talk like I have a plate of hot grits in my mouth,” I told her. “It would behoove you to learn how to speak properly if you want to be a lawyer.”
Later, I made her read this article about why it shows ignorance when you claim someone is “acting white.” Maybe I need to share the same article with Toby Keith.
Must my “black card” get revoked because I choose to be educated?
I’m probably more in touch with my blackness than those who feel the need to call me out on “acting white.” Who’s rocking the natural hair, knows black history is more than just Malcolm and Martin and will proudly soak up the sun to get a shade darker?
Being educated is not limited to one race, culture or religion. It’s a universal concept.
Go to the University of Florida, or any school, and you will find several others like Obama, be they white, black, red, blue or green.
Like Obama, I am not “acting white,” I am just being me: an educated black woman. Keith and others who say someone is “acting white” are just being themselves too: ignorant.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Chronicles of Life ... a humbling experience
Alas and alack, I fear my number of MySpace friends will never equally or exceed the number I have on Facebook.
Yes, I too joined the ranks of MySpacers. There's a whole world out there and I want to know it.
Unfortunately, MySpace is nowhere near as cool and sophisticated as Facebook use to be.
But I digress.
When I first joined Facebook, I was all about hunting folks down and adding them to my friends list. Such is not the case on MySpace.
Very few people even know I have an account there. And I am not motivated to add all those same people as MySpace friends.
I have in some shape or form met every one of my 898 Facebook friends (if only I can break 1,000).
Only random rappers and the like send me friend requests on MySpace. I keep thinking there is a connection somewhere.
“Do I know you?” I write to them
“Yo Ma' I'm bout to drop my second album, add me so you can fly high with a real playa,” they respond.
Hey, I can't be mad for someone trying to hustle. After all, I'm on MySpace for readers.
So yes, I add them and send a link to my blog. There's no harm in a little shameless self promotion.
I have found some family and friends on MySpace and added them too. It pays to actually know someone.
I probably have about a good 20 friends on MySpace now. It should have been 22, and therein is the start of my fear.
For whatever reason, some people just don't want to be my MySpace friend anymore. So they deleted me.
Who in their right mind would delete me? Clearly whatever is wrong with them is no small matter.
In both cases we were once MySpace friends for several days. We also knew each other pretty well in real life.
But things happen, friendships end, family members are disowned and voila, the communication stops.
Does it have to extend to MySpace too? Is it too much to ask for a cool 1,000 friends?
Obviously, some people just don't want to be a team player.
And to think I was going to include them in the acknowledgments for my forthcoming novel. OK that is definitely a lie, so let me retract that statement.
To think, I was going to, oh never mind, I was probably going to delete them first.
Now the truth comes to light.
My ego is so big it amazes me sometimes. I merely play if off by saying, “I'm not conceited, I'm confident.”
No one can believe in you more than you. I am my own biggest fan.
Every now and then I need an ego boost.
It's kind of like the Echinacea pills I take when I feel sickly. They're my immune system booster.
Having as many MySpace friends as possible is definitely a boost, especially since it's dedicated to my blogging (Facebook is the social network).
Granted, I do a little spring cleaning to my phone and Facebook each year. Sometimes you have to evaluate who do you really know and talk to, and who is just of no use.
Well, they deleted me before I got to that point. Talk about a blow to the ego.
Maybe that's the real problem.
Pride is probably my biggest issue. It is my “tragic flaw”
Instead of being upset that a friendship (that was once beyond MySpace) was irrevocably ended, I am annoyed I was deleted first.
She/he who deletes first wins. I came out a loser this time.
Oh well, with an ego as big as mine, one needs to be humbled occasionally.
Besides MySpace friends come a dime a dozen. Real friends last a lifetime.
Yes, I too joined the ranks of MySpacers. There's a whole world out there and I want to know it.
Unfortunately, MySpace is nowhere near as cool and sophisticated as Facebook use to be.
But I digress.
When I first joined Facebook, I was all about hunting folks down and adding them to my friends list. Such is not the case on MySpace.
Very few people even know I have an account there. And I am not motivated to add all those same people as MySpace friends.
I have in some shape or form met every one of my 898 Facebook friends (if only I can break 1,000).
Only random rappers and the like send me friend requests on MySpace. I keep thinking there is a connection somewhere.
“Do I know you?” I write to them
“Yo Ma' I'm bout to drop my second album, add me so you can fly high with a real playa,” they respond.
Hey, I can't be mad for someone trying to hustle. After all, I'm on MySpace for readers.
So yes, I add them and send a link to my blog. There's no harm in a little shameless self promotion.
I have found some family and friends on MySpace and added them too. It pays to actually know someone.
I probably have about a good 20 friends on MySpace now. It should have been 22, and therein is the start of my fear.
For whatever reason, some people just don't want to be my MySpace friend anymore. So they deleted me.
Who in their right mind would delete me? Clearly whatever is wrong with them is no small matter.
In both cases we were once MySpace friends for several days. We also knew each other pretty well in real life.
But things happen, friendships end, family members are disowned and voila, the communication stops.
Does it have to extend to MySpace too? Is it too much to ask for a cool 1,000 friends?
Obviously, some people just don't want to be a team player.
And to think I was going to include them in the acknowledgments for my forthcoming novel. OK that is definitely a lie, so let me retract that statement.
To think, I was going to, oh never mind, I was probably going to delete them first.
Now the truth comes to light.
My ego is so big it amazes me sometimes. I merely play if off by saying, “I'm not conceited, I'm confident.”
No one can believe in you more than you. I am my own biggest fan.
Every now and then I need an ego boost.
It's kind of like the Echinacea pills I take when I feel sickly. They're my immune system booster.
Having as many MySpace friends as possible is definitely a boost, especially since it's dedicated to my blogging (Facebook is the social network).
Granted, I do a little spring cleaning to my phone and Facebook each year. Sometimes you have to evaluate who do you really know and talk to, and who is just of no use.
Well, they deleted me before I got to that point. Talk about a blow to the ego.
Maybe that's the real problem.
Pride is probably my biggest issue. It is my “tragic flaw”
Instead of being upset that a friendship (that was once beyond MySpace) was irrevocably ended, I am annoyed I was deleted first.
She/he who deletes first wins. I came out a loser this time.
Oh well, with an ego as big as mine, one needs to be humbled occasionally.
Besides MySpace friends come a dime a dozen. Real friends last a lifetime.
The Hartwell Chronicles … learning to balance
Instead of simply reporting, I’m also learning.
I started attending budget meetings for two of the governmental agencies I cover around the end of April.
All those big numbers can be confusing. I haven’t understood math since I stopped piano lessons.
Looking at all the money they bring in made me realize a harsh reality: I am po’ and penniless.
I don’t have a penny or pinto bean to my name. Here’s a little mathematical equation for you; journalism degree + entry level reporting job = po’.
Why I’m so po’ I can’t even afford the o and r. OK maybe I’m not really THAT poor, but it does feel like it at times.
I did not go into journalism for the money, a point my mother loves to bring up. I did it for the love of writing (and by reason of insanity). But I never thought I would be in such dire straits.
I had a nice little salary to live on when I first started working. I thought I was Ms. Baller Supreme. Trips to the mall, out to eat and across state lines were a common occurrence.
Then reality kicked in.
Yes, the check was “big” until health insurance started coming out. Suddenly things were looking mighty slim.
Not to mention, my lack of budgeting skills eventually started catching up with me. Maybe I should have taken note at the first budget meeting I attended last year.
I usually know how much money I have, but after about the third purchase I stop paying attention. That definitely leads into trouble.
My biggest budgeting problem has been rent. I pay on the first and they don’t cash it until the 21 at the earliest.
That drives me crazy. I mean it looks like I have money when I don’t.
And what do I do? Spend it.
Then I have to call home asking for a loan. Well actually I only did that twice, and once was for rent.
I never really had to develop a budget before. My momma paid all my bills. But now I pay the majority.
And after nearly a year of no budgeting, I’m realizing its importance.
It’s time for me to keep better financial records. Every purchase I make, even if it’s a pack of gum, is written down now. And I’ve evaluated what are necessities compared to luxuries.
Case in point is television. The only time I really watched TV was when the Boondocks were on.
The season’s over, and it’s available online. The same goes for Everybody Hates Chris and House of Payne.
So long TV. They disconnected my cable last week (but at least I still have Internet service).
I am also guilty of semi-reckless spending.
Now I don’t go out and by the latest pairs of Jimmy Choos, but I have my share of frivolous expenses: namely food.
Hey, a working girl’s got to eat, right? Fair enough, but those $10 lunches start adding up over time.
I’ve taken up cooking more to combat that problem. Leftovers are just fine with me.
I think frugality is going to be the name of the game for the next few months. If it ain’t free, it ain’t for me.
And considering my current locale, it shouldn’t be too hard. There isn’t that much to do in Hartwell that is too expensive.
A college degree is supposed to help bring in the green. But it also depends on your own financial responsibilities.
I wouldn’t be in my current po’ state if I had properly handled my finances. Poor, not po’, would have been my title.
But sometimes you have to learn the hard way. I think I’m done learning now.
I started attending budget meetings for two of the governmental agencies I cover around the end of April.
All those big numbers can be confusing. I haven’t understood math since I stopped piano lessons.
Looking at all the money they bring in made me realize a harsh reality: I am po’ and penniless.
I don’t have a penny or pinto bean to my name. Here’s a little mathematical equation for you; journalism degree + entry level reporting job = po’.
Why I’m so po’ I can’t even afford the o and r. OK maybe I’m not really THAT poor, but it does feel like it at times.
I did not go into journalism for the money, a point my mother loves to bring up. I did it for the love of writing (and by reason of insanity). But I never thought I would be in such dire straits.
I had a nice little salary to live on when I first started working. I thought I was Ms. Baller Supreme. Trips to the mall, out to eat and across state lines were a common occurrence.
Then reality kicked in.
Yes, the check was “big” until health insurance started coming out. Suddenly things were looking mighty slim.
Not to mention, my lack of budgeting skills eventually started catching up with me. Maybe I should have taken note at the first budget meeting I attended last year.
I usually know how much money I have, but after about the third purchase I stop paying attention. That definitely leads into trouble.
My biggest budgeting problem has been rent. I pay on the first and they don’t cash it until the 21 at the earliest.
That drives me crazy. I mean it looks like I have money when I don’t.
And what do I do? Spend it.
Then I have to call home asking for a loan. Well actually I only did that twice, and once was for rent.
I never really had to develop a budget before. My momma paid all my bills. But now I pay the majority.
And after nearly a year of no budgeting, I’m realizing its importance.
It’s time for me to keep better financial records. Every purchase I make, even if it’s a pack of gum, is written down now. And I’ve evaluated what are necessities compared to luxuries.
Case in point is television. The only time I really watched TV was when the Boondocks were on.
The season’s over, and it’s available online. The same goes for Everybody Hates Chris and House of Payne.
So long TV. They disconnected my cable last week (but at least I still have Internet service).
I am also guilty of semi-reckless spending.
Now I don’t go out and by the latest pairs of Jimmy Choos, but I have my share of frivolous expenses: namely food.
Hey, a working girl’s got to eat, right? Fair enough, but those $10 lunches start adding up over time.
I’ve taken up cooking more to combat that problem. Leftovers are just fine with me.
I think frugality is going to be the name of the game for the next few months. If it ain’t free, it ain’t for me.
And considering my current locale, it shouldn’t be too hard. There isn’t that much to do in Hartwell that is too expensive.
A college degree is supposed to help bring in the green. But it also depends on your own financial responsibilities.
I wouldn’t be in my current po’ state if I had properly handled my finances. Poor, not po’, would have been my title.
But sometimes you have to learn the hard way. I think I’m done learning now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)