Chronicles of Life … Vinegar vignette

It’s amazing the things I go through for my hair. Currently I smell like vinegar – Apple Cider Vinegar to be exact. Cue gag reflex now. My weekly hair regimen includes an ACV rinse after shampooing and conditioning. It is supposed to promote hair growth and a healthy scalp. Right now it is also promoting the desire to vomit. I guess I will keep it up for the sake of my hair. I do so enjoy the way my hair feels after an ACV rinse.

I haven’t always been an ACV enthusiast. Vinegar has never been one of my favorite things. Who in their right mind likes vinegar? It smells like a slow death on a hot summer night. I tried to avoid vinegar at all cost regardless of how little or much was used. No dying Easter eggs, making red velvet cake or eating salt and vinegar chips for me. They all require the use of vinegar. Then it happened: dandruff.

Usually I mix baking soda with my shampoo or conditioner for a clarifying treatment. In October I ran out of baking soda and never remembered to get some more. Soon I started having an itchy head. When I scratched it looked like snow was falling. Not. Cool. At. All. If I didn’t get a handle on it people would probably start calling me Dandruff Girl. I could have used baking soda again, but there is something about it that doesn’t mesh as well as I like with my hair. So I researched different treatments on natural hair sites motowngirl.com and nappturality.com. Both mentioned ACV rinses and provided recipes which seemed simple enough to make.

Sometimes I’m a homemade hair care product junkie. I’ll try almost anything once on my hair. I’ve left a yogurt and honey mixture on my hair overnight (it felt soft as lamb’s wool the next day). Eggs have found their way on my head (it’s a great protein treatment). Even Kool-Aid was once used for a quick dye job (I was a red head for a week). I figured it was time to give ACV a try. Silly me thought since it was made from apples the normal vinegar odor would be missing.

My concoction included one part ACV, two parts water and a dollop of honey mixed together in a bowl. The mixture was poured over my head after shampooing and conditioning and I rubbed it into my scalp for about three minutes. Those were the longest three minutes ever. IT SMELLED HORRIBLE. I thought I was going to pass out. If you ever want to torture me, just cover me in vinegar, and I will sing like a canary.

But I could immediately feel the difference in my hair after rinsing the mixture out. Normally baking soda makes my hair feeling clean but very dry. The ACV rinse provided squeaky clean and moist hair results. I’m official a fan of ACV rinses now. Except for when it gets into my nose, which happened a few weeks ago. I thought the Death Angel was coming for me. The smell lingered way longer than normal. I went to bed and woke up the next morning still smelling vinegar. Yuck!

The bad thing about ACV rinses is no matter what I add to it – lemon juice, honey, water – it still smells. There is no escaping it. I have to hold my nose just to mix it together. And if you don’t pour it just right, it will get on everything but your hair. At least the smell disappears almost instantly after rinsing it out or drying. And a bottle only costs about $1. That’s a product price I can really enjoy.

For now ACV is my go to hair ingredient. People say beauty is pain. Smelling vinegar is a small price to pay for luxurious locks. I’ll happily suffer through the smell to miss out on dandruff.

Chronicles of life ... A friend indeed

'Tis a sad day in fishdom and the world. My dear Ralphie, beloved friend and fish, died around midnight Monday. He was my constant companion for two years, and needless to say I am heartbroken. It's never easy to have to flush your friend.

Little Ralphie was getting up in age and had been sick, but it still was an unwelcome surprise to see him gone. I had just told him to prepare for a water change the day before. Unfortunately there would be no water change this time. Ralphie had gone on to the great big rice paddy in the sky. 

I found Ralphie laying on his rocks. I thought he was playing possum. When Ralphie didn't run from the net like he normally does, I knew something was wrong. The water works instantly began. 

There are few people that would welcome hearing a fish death announcement after midnight, so I called my mother. I could barely tell of his passing from the snorting and sobbing. Ma Dukes was very sympathetic to my lost, considering she had never been much of a fan of Ralphie. There was this love-hate relationship between my family and Ralphie for some reason. They’ve always been jealous of our relationship. My grief isn't on the level of Mama Payne on Martin losing her bird Ruby or when Florida found out James died on Good Times, but it's not far off. All I could do was cry all night long. It was so hard to go to work.

This isn't the first time I’ve lost a fish. My first serious betta was Vendy. I had him during my junior and senior year of college. I was going through some issues with friendship and loneliness, but Vendy helped fill that void. Vendy heard the highs and lows of my day. He died about a month after I graduated from college, and I cried to no end. I thought I would never love again – until I saw Ralphie.

I randomly walked into a South Carolina PetSmart just for information and walked out with a betta fish. Ralphie stood out among the rest. He was the only red fish in a sea of blue. I had to have him. I named him Ralphie in honor of my favorite holiday movie, "A Christmas Story." Thus began a strong attachment to a new fish.

Some may think it quite odd to be attached to a fish. You can't touch or play with them. Does that make a fish any less significant in a person's life? My Ralphie was as dear to me as any dog, cat, rabbit or whatnot. Dogs are too demanding, cats are too fickle and rabbits confuse me. And the best pet for my busy life is a fish. 

But Ralphie was more than a pet, he was a friend. He was always there to provide what I sometimes needed most: a listening ear. I could talk to Ralphie, and he would listen without judging. Watching him swim in his bowl was always a soothing. I don’t mind living alone, but it was always nice to have someone to come home too, even if it was just my fish. One friend said Ralphie knew he could leave me now because I wasn't alone anymore. I have roommates and a support system now. Also losing a fish seems to signal a new phase in my life. I just wish Ralphie could have been a part of it. 

It's at least a two-year grieving period for me between the lost of a fish. I won't say I'm done with fish, but right now my heart is too broken to love another. And I don't know if I want any other type of pet. You can't just replace a friend over night. Another friend said “You really loved that fish. I don’t know why, but you did.” The words of Michael Jackson best described my love for Ralphie. "They don't see you as I do. I wish they would try to. I'm sure they'd think again if they had a friend like Ben." Everyone needs a friend like Ralphie. RIP little buddy.

Chronicles of Life … Game Over

I don’t like “The Game.” There I said it. Everybody, and their momma, was tuned into the Season 4 premier Tuesday – except for me. Even if I semi-liked BET, the Buffoonery Exists Today station, I still would not have watched “The Game.” They just have the most drama ever. THE. ABSOLUTE. MOST.

I tried to watch it. I really did. I got my first and only taste of “The Game” with my cousin during the marathon showing at the beginning of January. I tend to be a Johnny Come Lately for most shows. Blame it on a combination of a busy schedule and voracious reading appetite. I’m always busy at work and rarely just sit in front of the TV. I even cancelled my cable subscription while in Hartwell. Most of my free time is spent reading anyway. But I digress.

I caught the show in the middle of the second season. Now sometimes I am a cheerleader for foolishness, so two episodes in, I was hooked. The first one was about Malik’s female of the hour finding out he lived at home with his mother and Jason trying to host a Bible study to impress the new coach. Then Jason got Kelly’s brother kicked out of the house because she thought he was on drugs – when it was really Jason’s steroids.

But the next two episodes had me getting mad at the characters and their shenanigans. Derwin and Melanie were trying to patch up their relationship, but she attempted to sleep with his friend after thinking he was back to his cheating ways. NOT. COOL. AT. ALL. Two wrongs don’t make a right. Through her deception she got the friend caught up in their ensuing drama.

“I can’t watch this anymore,” I told my cousin. “She is making me mad, my pressure is going up and I will not be bothered.”

I was done. In just four episodes of the game I went from liking it to loving it and finally hating it. I saw snippets of two more episodes but just refused to get into it.

Here’s the thing: I am not a fan of drama be it fictional, unsolicited or imaginary. I might be a Drama Queen and deal in exaggeration here and now, but there is no ongoing drama in my life. “The Game” has that hardcore, he cheated on me, she’s my baby mama and we break up to make up drama. I don’t want that in my real life. Why would I want to watch that even in fake life? Pretty soon that stuff will start seeping into your subconscious. Before you know it your life is turning into an episode of “The Game.” “The Game” isn’t the first popular drama-filled show I shunned. I hate “Sex in the City” too. That whole nonsense with Big just made me want to punch a lobster.

In the past I did like several reality shows with too much drama. “Fantasia for Real,” “Flavor of Love” and “Charm School” were all dramatastic (is that a word?). I ate it up every week. But somewhere down the line I realized I just can’t be bothered. Drama makes my head hurt. I have enough headaches in my life without causing more unnecessarily. So I stopped watching all the drama (except for Glee which would work my nerves if it wasn’t for the songs).

When I watch TV, I want to laugh, be entertained or maybe even made to think. I do not want to start yelling, “ARE YOU FOO FOO THE FOOL?” at every single action of the main character. There are enough “Melanies” in the real world without having to deal with them in the fictional. Others may love “The Game” for its storyline and such. More power to you. Just don’t get all caught up in drama like that in your personal life. I’ll stick to “Martin” and “Living Single” reruns. No thank you BET. It’s Game Over for me.

Chronicles of Life ... bee's knees

Sometimes it seems I have to learn things the hard way. Life would be a little easier if I just listened to the warnings of others. My granny used to adamantly tell me to not touch the straightening comb when I was little. She might as well have yelled, “Touch it.” I did it anyway, but all it took was that one time. I still get nervous around straightening combs to this day.




During my brief time in derby one of the things I’ve heard reiterated over and over again is, “Fall on your knees.” Knee pads are worn for a reason. Falling anywhere else is pointless and potentially dangerous. But did I listen?



For all of November and part of December I had the black plague – actually it was bronchitis, but I tend to exaggerate. Sickness and work ultimately led to a two-month hiatus from derby practice. Not good at all. I had been away too long. I wondered if I could even still skate. All that was to change. My partner in crime – Beatdown – and I made the pilgrimage to a skating session in Gainesville Wednesday night



I laced up my new skates for the first time and took my wobbly knees to the floor. I made it around one time without falling and a second. By the third time, I was feeling like I had never taken a break. I still had some close calls but didn’t fall for about the first 30 minutes. Then it came – my first big fall of the night. I willed my body to fall to its knees, and did just that. In my mind an applause track began playing. Yay me! I fell perfectly. This had to be a good sign. Back on my feet I went, and I returned to skating. A second fall followed the next half hour, and I landed in the correct position. I was the master of my body. I would fall correctly forever more. Or so I thought. Let’s just say third time wasn’t a charm.



It happened while working on a drill from the last time I was at practice. I was supposed to lift up one leg from the ground while skating and balancing with the other. I suck at this. At best I can average three play-play seconds which is really one and a half. Yet I hustled on for maybe a minute until … THE FALL.



This fall was different from all the others. It was shrouded in “THE FEAR.” My body latched onto this fear and ignored the one thing I knew: FALL ON YOUR KNEES. Instead of falling forward the leg that was off the ground went flying directly under my butt to save it from busting open. I heard a resounding CRACK! Once I felt the initial pain, all I could do was lay on the floor and think, “Why didn’t I just fall on my knees?” I haven’t even played in a game yet and I’m already injured. Who does that?



I blame “THE FEAR.” In my mind there is that deep, subconscious fear of falling. A fall equals death to me (I’m a tad dramatic). I think as we age our fearless factor disappears in certain areas. Little children don’t have “THE FEAR.” They glide on their skates without a care and pop back up when they fall. I shuffle on skates with a prayer and lay like I’m dying when I fall. But the fear doesn’t protect me from anything. It does more harm than good. Now I’m stuck with a slightly broken right ankle and a splint for the next few weeks. The only thing I can do now is work as a non-skating official.



While I’m recuperating I will channel my inner child to help remove the fear. I’m not a fan of breaks that could have been avoided by simply falling on my knees. If only I had listened. Now I know, and knowing is half the battle (G.I. Joe). Falling anywhere else is just not the bee’s knees.

Chronicles of Life … The least of these

“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’” Matt. 25:40 NIV
‘Tis the season of giving, but how quickly do we often forget to help our fellow (wo)man? Christmas was barely out the door before I started becoming Ebenezer Scrooge, but I had a change of heart on Sunday.
My 9-year-old cousin and I were in Walmart when I heard someone psst at me. It was a random woman, we’ll now call Jessie. She was missing teeth, and the few she still had were rotten. Jessie looked homeless and without a friend in the world. I guess she thought I could be a friend. She beckoned me closer and asked if I had $3 to spare for her rent.
Over the years I have become very cynical. I thought to myself. “She probably wants to just buy some drugs.” Give money to some random stranger inside of Walmart: I think not. Do I have Foo Foo the Fool written across my forehead? Her basket had a few essential items. She could just put something back if it was that serious. I simply told her I was paying with a card. Mind you, I had the $3. Jessie told me thank you anyway and “God bless you.”
I thought that would be the end of her, but she kept appearing. First she waved while passing by on a nearby aisle. Then she was right behind us in the checkout line. After paying for my items we headed to the exit, but I heard Jessie call out, “Thank you again, and God bless you.” Thank me for what? I didn’t give her anything.
On the way to the car my little cousin and I wondered about Jessie’s life situation and the validity of her needing the money. Was she homeless? On drugs? A prostitute (my cousin’s thought)? By the time we reached the car I felt really bad. I could have easily given her $3. What kind of example was I setting for my little cousin, especially during the holiday season? And my daddy had just preached that morning about being you’re brother’s keeper. I didn’t know her, but Jessie was still my sister.
“I should have given her that money,” I told my cousin. “That could have been the difference between her getting put out in the cold.”
“Or she could be getting drugs,” she said.
“I’m going to find her and give her this money,” I said.
Thus began my search for Jessie. Up and down each row of parking we looked and looked. But we didn’t see her. Phase two of the search took us back inside Walmart.
“We are not leaving this store until we find her,” I said. “Otherwise, I might cry.”
“You should have just given her the money in the first place,” my cousin said. “Then we wouldn’t have to walk all around in this cold.”
“What if that was God in disguise?” I said. “He said ‘I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat.’ ”
If this was a test from the Lord, I had failed miserable. I didn’t give her anything. I was determined, to find Jessie; my little cousin, not so much. We were just about to give up when I saw her by the exit.
“We’ve been looking for you,” I said. “Here’s the money you needed.”
“Thank you so much,” she said.
She was happy to receive it, but I was even happier to give it. All was right in life, until she asked that next question, “Are you going downtown by any chance?”

OK maybe that wasn’t the Lord. Maybe she was a druggie. And maybe you should just call me Lollypop because I am a sucker. But I did feel better giving her the money. I just hope my few little dollars are a blessing to her in some way – whether it’s by actually paying rent, getting high or fixing her teeth (my cousin said that one).

Chronicles of Life … Unexpected visitors

I hate moving. Absolutely. Hate. It. Yet in a year’s time I have moved thrice. When opportunity strikes you just have to take it. But my parents are starting to hate moving me too. Fortunately I had awesome friends help me move this last time, and my parents missed out.Ma and Pa Dukes haven’t seen the new digs yet. Actually I can count on one hand how many people know where I live right now. So I was completely thrown off guard when my roomie, Katie, said I had visitors Saturday morning.




I was in a deep sleep dreaming of seeing Tangled with my little cousin when she knocked on my door.



“Antonia you have company,” she said.



“Visitors for me?” I said. “People know where I live?”At first I thought it was my little cousin, my parents or some other relative. It took a moment for reality to register. NOBODY KNOWS WHERE I LIVE!In a daze I rushed to make myself look semi-decent. The hair rag had to come off. A bra had to come on. And I had to eat two of my Marvel Superheroes gummy vitamins (don’t judge me). Then I went to greet my visitors.Sitting on the couch was my derby wifey/friend-worker Leanne. To the side were two random young women. I thought they were friends of Katie. They had Bibles, so I pegged them as church members there for a small group meeting. Obviously, Leanne was my visitor, or so I thought. No, it was the two women. I HAVE STALKERS!One of them came by the house last week to witness to me about Jehovah. I was on my way to work, so she left a Watchtower and said she would be back. I didn’t know chick was the Terminator and literally meant it. Back she came with a witnessing buddy.I made the mistake of telling her my name on that first visit. She used that as a ploy to get into the house. Home girl came in and made herself comfortable. She had my roomie thinking we actually knew each other.



At one point I mouthed to Leanne, “I have no idea who these people are.” I also told Katie, who was in the kitchen, and she started laughing. Leanne made polite conversation and asked them how they knew me. All one could say was she didn’t. The other said she came by before. Did I mention I still don’t know either of their names?



Then there was awkward silence. Normal people can take hints when you don’t want to be bothered. Not these two. They were going to tell me about Jehovah even if I was half awake and still in pajamas.



It took one of my coughing fits to make them leave. I made sure to mention I have bronchitis, and out they went, but not before the Terminator said they would be back… again. Are you kidding me? There is no coming back. We are not even cool like that.



I can’t knock the hustle of a Jehovah Witness. They have this witnessing thing on lock, unlike a lot of Christians. Most of us won’t even witness to a friend. But what I will knock is this appearing at my house out the matrix and acting like we’re BFFs. Not. Cool. At. All.



If the Terminator and her sidekick return I’ll be ready. Next time I’m asking for their address. Then I’m going to roll up at their house while they’re sleeping, get comfortable and witness to them. Let’s see how they like unexpected guests.

Derby Chronicles ...The Skate-less Sensation

It is official: I need my own skates like yesterday! The rentals available at the skating rink are just not cutting it anymore. They are subpar and limiting my roller derby success. I can't be bothered! Interesting how all of this is coming from a person who couldn't skate about a month ago.




Once upon a time, well actually just last week, I thought rentals were sufficient. I knew I needed to get my own skates. My theory was I needed to learn how to actually skate first before dropping a stack on the official gear. Sure several Alachua County Rollers mentioned how craptastic the rentals are, but I didn't really understand. Then I tried on the real deal.



My new play cousin, Gabby ­– deemed so because this Roll Bouncesque skater man thought we were related – and I went skating Wednesday night. The night started off with me slowly easing into my grandma skating. I always have to warm up, for at least five hours, before I feel semi-comfortable on skates. Mainly it's because there is an epic battle between the rentals and my body. Right now I think the rentals are winning. Fellow Hunny Nikki Tikki Tavi was already out skating and looking like poetry in motion. She saw my struggles and came over with several pointers. It helped, but one can only do so much with faulty equipment. So she let me to try on her skates. According to the ACR website she wears Riedell 265 boots.



I was scared to death to put them on. What if I broke them? What if they broke me? Why am I broke? At first a new epic struggle began with getting my foot into the skates. I have big, fat feet because I am the Queen of Stompingham. My father used to say if I kept walking around barefoot I would get big feet. Maybe I should have listened. We finally squeeze my feet into the skates without cutting them off. Nikki had me take a lap around the rink in them. It was like a whole new world opened up. My skating skills are still fairly non-existent, but for once I didn't have to struggle with the floor. And I was going fast; faster than ever. I didn't even fall. It was as if the skates had a mind of their own and were leading me around the rink. The skates were so smooth that I began to floating on wheels. I became a skating angel (one without wings or a halo, but I'm working on it).



When I took the Riedell's off and switched to the rentals, it was back to reality. Oh what a harsh world it is with rentals. I proceeded to try to go slightly as fast as before. It was not happening. Before long, I was taking several nasty falls. The rink staff came to check on me not once, but twice, after two particular falls. Then Roll Bounce dude came to help me up after one tumble. Finally my play cousin became concerned following another fall. I was fine after each fall. The only thing I hurt the entire night was my pride.



I am too through with rentals, well at least until I get paid next month. Or I could speed the process up if people wanted to donate to the Toni Needs Skates Foundation. We are a for-profit organization that exists for one purpose, to get me skates. Sure it's not tax deductible, but you will have helped save a life, namely mine.



P.S. check out the Alachua County Rollers at http://www.alachuacountyrollers.com/index.htm.

Chronicles of Life … The grudge

Sometimes the easiest thing to do is the hardest. For me, it's letting go of the past. I tend to hold grudges for years. My anger doesn't disappear easily. I have let most of my grudges go, but some linger on. There is one that has stayed in the forefront of my mind for more than 10 years. It stems back to a person who took pleasure in terrorizing me during sixth grade. To protect the (not so) innocent, she will only be referred to as "Ella Mentry."

I hated my life at Highlands Middle School because of her. Apparently having coke bottle glasses, wearing penny loafers and being smart made me a prime target for bullying. Ella Mentry frequently led her crew in called me "Nerd Girl" and taunting everything about me. She often snatched my homework, copied it and threw it away. Once in gym class she demanded a spare t-shirt from me. Being a kind, naïve soul, I let her borrow one. Do you think she gave it back? When I asked about my shirt, Ella Mentry acted a fool and said she didn't have it. I left in tears because once again I had been bullied (and lost my official gym class shirt). I later found it thrown in the trash. Ella Mentry was that kind of person: rude, crude and with an attitude. Most of the students, and probably some teachers, were scared of her. The first time I tried to stand up to her, she came at me with a warning to back down and pushed my head.
Eventually, I gained courage. Ella Mentry skipped me in line in art class one day. I politely tried to get my spot back, but she pushed me. I snapped and pushed her back. It was on like Donkey Kong, and we started fighting. Surprisingly it wasn't that bad. Highland's Unholy Terror did not beat up Nerd Girl, and we both received in-school suspension. Ella Mentry tried to be nice to me after the fight, but it was too late. The grudge was born.
I transferred schools the next year, but often wondered what happened to Ella Mentry. I saw glimpses of her twice over the years. It was my hope that she would end up on crack, in prison or worse. It didn't happen. Instead, who should I see singing in my grandma's church choir when they came to my daddy's church last month? Yes, Ella Mentry is a new member at my old church home. I was so upset, which is kind of sad considering I'm holding on to a childhood grudge.
The problem is this ruined a longstanding dream of mine. I wanted to one day appear on the Oprah Show for a segment on childhood bullying. I – a successful, award-winning writer – would share my own tale of horror. Then Oprah would bring out Ella Mentry and her minions. Their lives would be in shambles, of course. Ella Mentry would lead them in apologizing to me. I wouldn't gloat in their lives' failures and would simply respond, "You tried to break me, but you didn't. Despite your evil ways, I forgive you."
All my grudges boil down to one thing: an apology. If everyone I held a grudge against would just say "I'm sorry," I could let it go. All I want is a nationally televised apology from Ella Mentry, and then all will be forgiven. That's not too much to ask for right? But in the words of The Rolling Stones, "You can't always get what you want." And my mother says I can't expect God to forgive me if I can't do the same.
I have to accept the fact I probably will never get a grandiose apology, or any type for that matter, from Ella Mentry. I'm still a little – maybe a lot – bitter about being bullied. But after 13 years, it's past time to move on. So Ella Mentry, I forgive you. Besides releasing a grudge from middle school should be elementary, my dear readers.

Chronicles of Life … Dream on

“The best thing about dreams is that fleeting moment, when you are between asleep and awake, when you don't know the difference between reality and fantasy, when for just that one moment you feel with your entire soul that the dream is reality, and it really happened.” Author unknown


Sometimes I have really vivid dreams that make absolutely no sense and obviously were not real. At the very least they are entertaining. Like the one where I was able to blast a bunch of bad guys just by rolling an apple core in my palm. The dream involved orbs of light, a little romance and at one point my mother. The part I remembered would make a pretty good basis for a Sci-Fi book/movie/TV series. I like these dreams.

Then I have dreams that make me think the events really did happen. Like my parents having a baby, me losing my teeth and more. Usually those are the not so good dreams. Such is the case with my latest one. It all stems from my new foray into the world of roller derby. Yours truly starts training for a local roller derby league Monday.

Roller derby is a contact sport which involves skating on an oval track. Two teams with five players face off on the track. One player from each team is designated the “jammer.” The other four are blockers. A jammer scores points by lapping around all the blockers, who will do everything possible to stop her. Players usually have tough, fierce nicknames and come from a variety of backgrounds and ages.

I used to watch roller derby on TV when I was younger, but didn’t think too much about it until someone jokingly mentioned I had the persona of a player. That sparked my interest. I had the opportunity to talk to a co-captain of one league. After she answered my 20 million questions, I was intrigued even more. Then some friends and I went to an informational session. I was hooked.

Here I am two weeks later about to start training. There’s just this one little catch: I can’t skate. It’s number three on the list of childhood activities I never learned how to do, right behind riding a bike and swimming. I am happy to announce I learned how to hula hoop in college. And I’ve been able to jump rope since elementary school, albeit not double Dutch.

The good thing is no matter the experience level, the league will teach the fundamentals of skating during training. I won’t get out on the track until I can skate and skate well. I have nothing to worry about. Or at least I didn’t until I started dreaming.

Earlier this week I dreamt I was at practice and the coach was yelling at me nonstop because I was a horrible skater. This wasn’t the first week of training either but my 20th. For some reason I just couldn’t get the whole skating thing down. After weeks of practice, it was still a hassle for me to get onto the track without falling head first. I woke up from that dream scared to death and almost ready to call it quits.

I think deep down I’m afraid I’ll be the worst skater in the history of skate kind. Most people learn how to skate as a child. Can you really teach an old dog new tricks? There’s only one way to find out. You didn’t think I would let some dream keep me from training? And If I should ultimately realize that I’m a hopeless case skating, I’ll move on to my next endeavor: writing my book/movie/TV series based on that other dream. At least a girl can dream.

Chronicles of Life… tea time memories

Complaining is a semi-professional hobby of mine because I do it quite a bit. Sometimes it’s necessary, like when I visit my parents and complain about them never having any food. Maybe they’ll actually listen one day and stock the fridge and pantry with stuff I can pilfer.


Knowing when to complain is an important skill, but so is knowing when to give a compliment. Therefore let the records show I think Celestial Seasoning’s tea is wonderful. Recently, I bought a package of peppermint tea to aid me during one of my many sick days. I’ve realized there’s nothing better than an herbal tea during the “ick.” Also tea holds a special sentimental value for me.

My granny and I used to always have a weekly tea time when I was growing up. Tea time involved several elements. The tea had to be sweetened in a particular manner. Granny didn’t use regular sugar but sugar cubes. I thought those were the coolest things in the world, especially when she asked, “one lump or two?” Next came the snacks, Pepperidge Farm cookies: Chessmen for her, Pirouette for me and Milano for the both of us. Then we would sip tea, eat cookies and watch TV shows such as “Murder She Wrote,” “Matlock” or “Perry Mason.”

Tea time varied. Sometimes it was early evening on a school day before my mom picked me up. Or it was at night during one of the many sleepovers at my grandparents’ house. No matter the time it was always fun. I enjoyed the tea, but spending time with my granny was even better.

Granny had a strong affinity for any of Celestial Seasonings herbal teas. We drank everything from lemon zinger to Mandarin orange spice and raspberry zinger. None can quite compare to peppermint. Granny enjoyed the teas so much she once wrote the company a letter of praise. They responded with a thank you letter and coupons for more tea. Score one for Granny.

Those memories all came back during my latest tea time, and I began to feel all warm and fuzzy inside. So I followed Granny’s example and sent Celestial Seasonings a message via their Web site (thank you modern technology). They received a gushing compliment on how great their tea was umpteen years ago, how it still tastes just as good today and how drinking it brought back fond memories of tea time with my granny. Celestial Seasonings sent me an automated e-mail response with a “thank you for your comment” message the next day, but I didn’t think too much about it. Then a few days later I got a package in the mail from the company. Along with a response letter were packets of peppermint tea and coupons. Score one for me.

These days, I’m making tea for one. Granny is gone, and as much as I would like to complain about it, I won’t. Instead I’ll just sit back, have a spot of tea and remember those fun times. I have our memories, some free tea and coupons. That’s worth a compliment or two. Celestial Seasonings is the tea of my memories.

Chronicles of Life ... Look, don’t touch

I love my hair, especially touching it. I rock the natural look and the compliments flow in. Hearing them is always greatly appreciated; however, people who touch my hair without permission are not. Few things irritate me more than random strangers touching my hair. It makes me feel violated in at least 10 different ways. Unfortunately, it’s happened more times than I care to count. Now I must take action. The next nimrod that touches my hair unsolicited is going to get slapped. My pimp hand is ready.


It's been a few months since someone had the audacity to touch my hair. Then it happened again Saturday. I was talking to two men, and to my horror one placed his hands all over my head. I froze. It wasn’t even a quick touch a go, but an all out hair groping. I should have saw it coming when he said, “I love your hair.” I had to inch away so he would stop touching me. It lasted for maybe about 10 seconds but the damage is done. I am a hair assault victim. Someone please call 9-1-1.

Just when I thought the worst had passed, another violator appeared. “Your hair is so cool,” she said. Up went her hands, and the first man joined he assault on my hair. I froze again. You just don’t expect to be violated twice in one day. Then they both said my hair reminded them of Tracy Chapman. I wasn’t sure if I should take that as an insult or compliment (Side Note: After looking up pictures of her on Google, I am thoroughly insulted. Macy Gray would have been a compliment). I think a little part of me died inside. It was all I could do to walk away from the situation, with some dignity. Immediately, I called a friend and my parents to share my tale of woe. “I have just been violated,” I said. Everyone says I should have slapped their hands away or called security. I was just too shocked to do anything.

To me, hair is a part of the body, akin to breast. Imagine having random strangers touching your breast all the time. You would feel violated. People can compliment my hair all they want, but touching it is humiliating. I feel like in their eyes I am no longer a person, but a puppy to pet or some side show freak, a la Saartjie "Sarah" Baartman. I shouldn’t have to feel like that. It is blatant disregard of my personal space and shows I am not respected as another human being.

I was always taught hair is the woman’s glory. Hair touching is an intimate act that should only be shared with close family and friends. There is an elite group of people who can touch my hair without asking. Half the reason I went natural was because I didn’t like having any and every beautician in it. If I won’t let professionals touch my hair, then strangers can forget it. I don’t know you or where your hands have been.

There is also a racial issue often perceived from these types of situations. I can’t speak for all of us, but the black women I know ¬– relaxed or natural – hate when strangers touch their hair. I won’t get into the whole historical context, but I always wonder, “Would they have been so intrigued if I wasn’t black, especially with natural hair?” There are hundreds of blog posts all over the internet dedicated to the issue of touching a black woman’s hair. Renee, of womanist-musings.com, wrote it best, "My blackness and your curiosity does not give you the right to touch me."

This whole experience has been traumatic. I probably need therapy. Washing and styling my hair always soothes me. I just washed it Thursday, but that unwanted hand residue makes my hair feel dirty. I’m thinking about writing Oprah. Maybe I can share my tale of woe on her show. I know I’m not the only victim of hair assault (black or otherwise).

One day I will get through this, and when I do, all the hair violators better beware. My hair may be the eighth wonder of the world. My natural coils might look so soft and inviting. You might get seasick by my waves. But I’m giving you fair warning, you can look, but don’t touch. Lest ye want to feel the wrath of my backhand.

Chronicles of Life… The sweet search

It’s starting to heat up outside and that can only mean one thing: it’s time for a honey dripper. I am now on a quest to find one (or more). One of my cousins mentioned honey drippers a few days ago, and that sparked my sudden craving. Sadly, I haven’t had that delicious goodness in about two years. I think it’s high time that changed.


A honey dripper is the quintessential warm weather treat. The key ingredients are Kool Aid (in different flavors) or Hawaiian Punch and pineapple juice with mixed fruit sometimes added as a bonus. You combine the ingredients together in a paper/plastic cup and freeze it solid. The finished honey dripper equals a taste sensation like no other.

My daddy was the first one to introduce me to the joys of a honey dripper. I was in pre-k at the time. Someone in my grandma’s neighborhood made them. He bought us both one and the first taste blew my little mind. It had fruit in it, tasted sweeter than honey and dripped all over as I slurped it down (thus the name honey dripper).

I had more honey drippers through the years, but my last experience was in college. My community service organization, SISTUHS, Inc., often volunteered with a local Girl Scout troop. These were no normal Girl Scouts, mind you. They were Girl Scouts in the hood. Those little girls always kept things interesting, especially when it was cookie selling time, but that’s another story. One Saturday I saw a scout slurping down a honey dripper. My mouth watered, my heart leaped and I only had one question, “Where can I get one, too?” A woman in the neighborhood was selling them. Immediately a group of us flocked to her door. Soon there were Girl Scouts and college students walking around with several flavors of honey drippers.

Honey drippers are not a popsicle or an ice cream treat which you can merely get at a grocery store or from an ice cream truck. They are a rarity sold only in a neighborhood home. Usually somebody’s mama, grandma, aunt, or whoever has a side hustle of a snack shop. She probably sells hot sausages, pickles, chips, pickled eggs, boiled peanuts and candy. The shop, however, is not complete without honey drippers: 25 cents without fruit and 50 cents with.

Thinking about this is starting to feel like torture. I need a honey dripper ASAP! Or should I say frozen cup, sherbet or lily dilly to keep confusion down? I found out through my Palatka family and college friends that while the product is universal, the name is not. Honey drippers are called many things throughout Florida, and probably in other states too. At least the ingredients are always the same. Push cup, sweet treat, frozen sweet, whatever. Honey dripper is clearly the best name. Then again I am biased. So call it what you want. I simply call it good. Now I just need somebody to tell me where I can find a honey dripper.

Chronicles of Life ... The Water Snobs

Here in Casa de la Robinson Dos, we are connoisseurs of good quality water. Sadly Florida just doesn’t make the grade. Ralphie, my red betta fish, is a water snob. He doesn’t like the water in Florida. Then again, I can’t stand it either. We both wonder if the water here is safe for fish and human consumption.


This never was a problem in Georgia. We loved the water there. I regularly drunk faucet water via a filter. Ralphie’s bowl water came straight from the sink too. If I changed his bowl on Sunday, the water looked pristine and clear for the entire week.

Such is not the case in my home state. The first time I tried the water here, it didn’t taste right, even at water fountains. The taste can only be described as yucky with a hint of eww! Poor Ralphie’s water starts to look murky after three days. Imagine having to live in this water? The little guy can only tolerate it for so long.

I should have known there was something wrong with the water from growing up here. My parents and grandma have always kept case after case of bottled water in their homes. You would think they have stock in Zephyrhills. My dad says the faucet water here is only safe for bathing. I’m not too sure about that either.

Initially, I resorted to buying bottled water for my household of two. That soon became a problem. I drink too much water a day. A pack of 32 bottles may seem like a lot of water, but I drink at least four bottles a day. One pack only lasts me about a week. That doesn’t even factor Ralphie’s bowl water into the equation.

Sure, I could buy cheaper water than Zephyrhills. But why bother? Most of the time its purified water. I hate purified water. It doesn’t taste right. And I don't even like other brands of water. Aquafina, Nestle, and Dasani: all are pitiful excuses of water, if you ask me. Once I even tried “smart water.” I didn’t feel smart afterwards. It probably dropped my IQ that day.

Only in extreme cases will I tolerate other water brands. My first choice is always Zephyrhills (or Deer Park in Georgia). If it’s not spring water, why even drink it? But who has money to spend on packs of water every week? Not me.

So Ralphie and I are lowering our standards a bit. We both just have to tolerate the faucet water. Now his bowl water gets changed every five days. I fill a jug with water and a dash of lemon juice and keep it in the fridge overnight to enhance the taste. It’s not Zephyrhills, but we make it work.

For now, our water snobbery has ended. But occasionally I’ll get us a case of Zephyrhills. Just so we can remember what the finer things in life taste like. One day we shall snob again.

Chronicles of Life … No. 2 dilemma

Pencils are a danger to mankind and should be described as weapons, not writing utensils. Therefore, I am personally boycotting the use of pencils. Oh sure, pencils look all safe and appealing. You sharpen it to a tee and prepare to write away. Don’t fall for it. Pencils will injure you. I have learned one too many times about the dangers of pencils.

My pencil injuries started off with randomly poking myself occasionally. I always seem to write on myself. It’s not so bad with a pen. All I end up with is ink. Write on yourself with a pencil and you get scratches. Really painful scratches that sometimes draw blood and not lines.

Just this week I somehow managed to scrape off a bit of skin on my hand. Don’t ask me how. Of course it bled profusely. I had to treat it with a whole bottle of peroxide and a tube of Neosporin. OK maybe just a capful of each. But the bad thing is the cut is so awkward I can’t get a Band-Aid to stick there. So now I’m walking around with an open wound. Even worse I could cut myself in the same spot again.

However, none of these incidents compare to my worse pencil experience ever. One day I was walking with a pad in one hand, pencil in the other and a camera around my neck. I made a sudden movement to take a quick picture. Before I could push click, I felt a sharp pain shoot up my hand. I thought I was dying. I looked down and realized in my haste the pencil had collided with my hand. In the process, an inch of pencil lead broke off in my thumb. I almost fainted from the sight of it. And I couldn’t get it out.

I thought about calling 911, and then I went into panic mode. I just knew doctors would need to amputate my thumb. I called my parents in tears, but they thought I was over dramatizing the whole situation. Excuse me, but there’s a pencil lead in my thumb. HOW WOULD YOU REACT? Pain soon started spreading to my whole arm. Something had to be done immediately. So I stopped crying long enough to pull the lead out with tweezers. Left behind was a big bleeding hole in my thumb. I probably used half a bottle of peroxide and globs of Neosporin to clean it up.

Currently only two pencil battle scars are visible on my body: my new open wound, and a little gray circle under the skin of my thumb. This will forever serve as a reminder of why I must boycott pencils. Of course I’ll probably be back to using a pencil again in a few days. Scars fade and the gray circle’s not that noticeable. One silver lining is I won’t get lead poisoning. Pencil lead is made from graphite. However, pencils still aren’t safe for human use. At least not for me.

Chronicles of Life … Dueling Memories

Not so long ago, I was one of the best duelers in the West. At least I was in my mind. Granted, I’ve never actually been there. For me, the West was at my grandparents’ house. There I fought many a battle. My granddaddy often played the villain in our imaginary town, and I was the sheriff. We would fight for the title of “Quickest Draw in the West.”


“This town ain’t big enough for the both of us,” someone would say. “I challenge you to a duel!”

Granddaddy would count out “One, two, three,” and yell, “Now draw!” We both would respond with a loud, “Bang!” as we pointed our weapons (fingers, random objects and of course toy guns).

“Oh you got me!” one of us would yell.

Sometimes Granddaddy would draw first and get me. More often than not, I got him, because I was the quickest draw. Or at least he let me think I was. Dramatics would ensue with his death drop. And oh what a drop Granddaddy could do. He always managed to fall into his favorite chair. Some days he played possum, and would jump up saying I missed him. The duel would have to start anew. After checking to see if he was really gone, I would gallop off into the sunset (actually the kitchen) on my faithful steed Widow Maker.

Now Widow Maker was no ordinary horse. For one thing, she had the head of a horse and the body of a broom. You know those old school stick horses. Nonetheless, I loved Widow Maker to death. Granddaddy would share tales of all the riders Widow Maker took down. She turned many a wife into a widow. Only I was able to calm Widow Maker enough to ride her.

It’s funny how I should think of Widow Maker and those duels after all these years. That was well before my brother was born. I probably was 5 or 6 at the most. Just today, my mom sent me a text message asking if I remembered Widow Maker. Indeed I did. Those fun times with Granddaddy and Widow Maker first came back to my mind on Sunday. While leaving the library, I noticed someone had this giant rocking horse on the back of a truck. Immediately I thought of Widow Maker, Granddaddy and those duels.

These days, I don’t find myself in many duels. My best dueling opponent ever has gone to Heaven. And Widow Maker has long since gone out to pasture. Actually, I think my granny took her to the glue factory. She didn’t like Widow Maker for some reason. Once while cleaning up the house, Granny told Widow Maker to get her behind out the way (in not such nice terms).

I’ll always have the precious memories of my dueling days. And the title of “Quickest Draw in the West.” Don’t believe me? In the words of yesterday, “I challenge you to a duel! One, two, three. Now draw. Bang!”

Chronicles of Life ... the cook war

An epic battle is upon me. It cannot be won with guns, cannons or violence. Instead it requires preparation, planning and food. Yes, food, glorious food. My mother and I are in a cook war. We are fighting for the title of top chef in the family. Normally my parents never cook, especially when I’m home on the weekend. Then one day that all changed.


A few weeks ago, Ma Dukes decided to cook shrimp etouffee over rice, along with sourdough bread and a Cesar salad. And on a Saturday nonetheless! WHAT? Mind you I was by my lonesome in Lake City and Brother was out of town. She never cooks when we’re around. My poor brother has to cook for himself at home. I’m lucky if I can find a potpie when I visit. It’s been some years since I had a mama cooked meal.

Apparently she can wine and dine her little husband but not her children. She even had the nerve to post pictures on Facebook. Everybody was asking for a plate. It was on like Donkey Kong after that.

I didn't need her little meal anyway. I could cook my own. Immediately I went to the kitchen and pulled out my arsenal of ingredients. The end result was pecan encrusted chicken, seasoned brown rice and a medley of mixed vegetables. I quickly let her know there’s a new chef in town. War was immediately declared.

She accepted the challenge and came back that next week with Tuscan roast pork loin, a wild herb rice pilaf and a vegetable medley of asparagus, squash, broccoli and water chestnuts. It was all good until she busted out with a surprise sneak attack: a rum cake! That blasted cake ruined everything! My meal of chicken jambalaya was good but no match for a cake. She knows I don’t normally bake. Curses! I was foiled this time. She may have won the battle, but the war is far from over.

Today I plan on knocking her socks off with my rosemary-onion roasted chicken. That's all I can share for now lest she steal my menu. Just know it will be a delicious meal.

This cook war is about more than just my mother not fixing a home cooked meal. It’s about respect. My family seems to think I can’t cook. I merely don’t like to cook. I never said I can’t. I did demonstrate my cooking skills on New Year’s Day with this shrimp and rice pilaf dish and oven fried chicken wings. Everyone was surprised I cooked it, but they enjoyed the food. That was just a taste of things to come.

The “Art of War” says you must know your opponent. I know mine very well. Sure, she's got years of cooking experience on me, but I have a secret weapon. It's so secret, even I haven't figured it out yet. But when I do, the cook war will be over.

Only one can be the victor of this war. It shall be me!

A new year theme again

Happy Belated 2010 to my faithful readers (if I may steal a line from Cee, “all four of you”).


I am supposed to “Do It BIG, Then” in all areas of my life this year. Clearly I’ve been slipping on the blog game. Well worry no more. I’m officially back.

Cee is not participating in Writing Wednesday anymore, so official posts will be moved to at least once a week. I’m aiming to keep it on Wednesday, but as the need arises, I will post on other days.

In my quest to “Do It BIG, Then,” I have set a goal of 52 posts this year. So expect several this week. Not all on the same day though. Fan Club Prez dislikes multiple posts as it is, but even more so when I give a three in one special.

Another goal is to write tight. No more 500+ words. This will aid me in my career because space is limited and I have to tell the story as concisely as possible. Don’t worry. It won’t be less than 150.

I hope everyone is enjoying their year so far. If not, take the necessary measures to make it better. I already am by posting back on my blog.

chronicles of life ... the new year theme

The passing of another birthday can only mean one thing: a new year! So my year begins Dec. 30. Pop the champagne, blow the noise makers and cut the cake.


It’s time for me to unveil my yearly theme. Every year needs one, or at least that’s my mindset. A theme helps define how you will live the year ahead.

My home slice, Cee, hipped me to the theme game. Right before 2009, she told me her theme was “Living off the Wall.” Her actions that year strongly adhered to the theme, some of which even rubbed off on me. We went on many a road trip in Florida and Georgia while “living off the wall.” Sometimes you’ve just got to step outside your comfort zone. Mind you, nothing we did was illegal or wild and crazy. But we did enjoy the year a lot more.

I was inspired by her quest and followed suit with a theme of my own, “The Year of the Do Better.” Instead of just merely telling others to “Do Better,” I wanted to reach that goal for myself. It wasn’t easy. I tried to do better last year in many aspects of my life. Some were hit or miss, but it’s all a growing process.

For 2010, I have decided to step my theme game up. Earlier this month, my theme came to me. The concept is very simple. If 2009 was “The Year of the Do Better,” then in 2010 I will “Do It BIG, Then!” I’ve done better, now I need to do it BIG!

What is IT, you may wonder? IT is any and everything. Whatever I do, I will not stop at simply doing better. I am going to do it BIG! Work has already begun to fulfill the expectations of my theme.

I will “Do It BIG, Then” when I move to a new apartment Saturday. Gone is this rinky dink, one bed and one bath, dark abyss I live in now. Instead my new apartment is two beds, two baths and in a gated community. Ralphie can have his own room again.

Reading is always something I enjoyed. No more one book every two weeks. I’m going to “Do It BIG, Then” and read 35 this year. All the great writers were great readers.

This year I wrote about 40 notes, maybe half of which I actually liked. There are 52 weeks in a year. The goal is to “Do It BIG, Then” and write at least one note per week.

I could go on and on about how I plan on following my theme. I won’t bore you with my list of 20 theme points (think resolutions but with a way cooler name). Just know in every situation I will “Do It BIG, Then.”

Essentially, I want to challenge and push myself to the limit. How often do we get complacent and settle for the subpar? At times I struggle with mediocrity and a lackadaisical attitude. No more of that. I’m going to “Do It BIG, Then” for 2010. And when the end of my year rolls around, I can proudly look back and say I “Did It BIG, Then.”

Chronicles of Life ... on TVs this holiday season

Holiday traditions are built around many things. For some it’s in their gift giving. Others incorporate it in their food. In my family, our traditions revolve around the movies and shows we watch. It’s just not the holidays unless we see our Christmas favorites. I present to you the Robinson Family Holiday Viewing List. Perhaps some of these are favorites for your family too.


1. A Charlie Brown Christmas. This is a classic. A tear comes to my eye every time Charlie Brown puts an ornament on his sad little Christmas tree. It reminds us to not let the holidays become too commercialized.

2. How the Grinch Stole Christmas. We watch the animated. It’s all about seeing the Grinch slither like a snake. And why does poor little Max always think he’s going for sleigh ride? Instead, he has to be the reindeer with that one sad antler.

3. A Christmas Story. My mother, brother and I will sit and watch the marathon over and over on Christmas Eve. I think we have to make sure Ralphie is going to get his BB gun and not put his eyes out. My daddy just looks at us and shakes his head. I named my betta fish, Ralphie, in honor of this movie.

4. A Garfield Christmas. Have you ever seen how the grandma laughs? It’s like her whole mouth is eating her head. I don’t know who laughs harder, her or my mom.

5. The Preacher’s Wife. Back before Whitney Houston was a recovering crack head, she had a voice. And she acted decently. The movie is heartwarming. I wish an angel looking like Denzel Washington would come visit my family.

6. Home Alone 1 & 2. I think my dad likes these movies more than everybody else. I feel like we are always watching them. I’m not going to lie, though; these are some of the best holiday movies around.

7. Friday After Next. My parents own this movie. We watch it during Christmas. After Christmas. Before Christmas. Everyone in the family can quote lines verbatim from the movie. Sad, I know. But it brings us oh so close together.

I have several of my own Christmas favorites in addition to the above:

1. Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer. Come on now. You know the Island of Misfit toys does it for you every year.

2. The Year Without a Santa Claus. I know the lyrics and the dance routine to the songs by the Heat Miser and Snow Miser.

3. Frosty the Snowman. I don’t know why I even watch this show every year. I think I just do it out of habit.

4. The Nutcracker. I have to see some variation of The Nutcracker. My grandmother used to take me to see the ballet every year when I was little. It is the very essence of Christmas.

5. A Christmas Carol. I’ve seen the Muppets’ Christmas Carol, A Diva’s Christmas Carol and Scrooged. I watch some variation of this story too. It’s yet another reminder about the true meaning of Christmas.

Whatever your holiday viewing may be, make sure you enjoy it the right way, with your family.

Chronicles of Life ... what do YOU want

Christmas is one of my favorite holidays. I love the music, the family togetherness, the food and most of all the gifts. Getting is wonderful, but I especially love giving. The problem is most of my gift recipients are making hard for me to shop for them.


It’s my own fault. I should know the things they like. They are my family. My friend, Cee, does an excellent job of gift giving by keeping track of things people mentioned during everyday conversation throughout the year. If I did that, and shopped year-round for gifts instead of waiting until Dec. 23, I would be amazing! Well I don’t!

Why can’t everyone just give me a list of what they want? I do it every year. My parents received my Christmas/birthday list Dec. 7. Neither they nor my brother extended that same courtesy.

Long ago I gave gifts without asking. Most were hit or miss. There was the era of the homemade gifts like key chains, pot holders and vases. Nothing says “I love you” like a nice homemade gift. Or at least that’s what I thought until my mother said the vases looked like they came from the Dead Sea.

Everyone received unique presents from the art museum gift shop I worked at during college. Then my parents laughed at the nose-shaped eyeglass holders they got one year. I don’t know why. They both wear glasses.

I put a lot of thought into the gifts I made/bought. But I got tired of the smart remarks. Apparently, no one appreciates my thoughtfulness. So I prefer to buy exactly what a person wants.

I’m getting better at buying mainstream gifts, I think. I bought my dad a GPS system for his birthday. It was just what he wanted. I should have saved that as his Christmas present. Now Christmas is nearly here and I still don’t know what to get him. When I first asked he said, “I don’t know.” WHAT KIND OF RESPONSE IS THAT? If you don’t know, then how am I supposed to know?

It would also be nice to receive gift lists featuring items from a variety of price ranges. Whenever I ask my family for gift suggestions, they always remind me that I’m poor. Well then, suggest something that you want and know I can afford. Throw me a bone here.

I give up. Everyone’s just going to get a gift card somewhere. OK probably not. I don’t like giving out gift cards, unless it’s specifically requested. Otherwise it seems so impersonal. Kind of like how bath and body products and shaving kits are the generic gifts.

Gift giving is starting to make my headache and bring down my holiday cheer. Next year I’ll just be the Grinch. Nobody is getting a present from me.

Who am I kidding? I’ll be at the gift giving again by Valentine’s Day. I just like to give gifts. All I want for Christmas is to know what other people really want.

Chronicles of Life ... Barbie girl

Is it bad that I’m almost 25 and still love dolls? Occasionally, I visit the toy section in Wal-Mart and spend a good hour looking at them. I’ve probably scrutinized every brand of doll available. Unfortunately, there are very few I like. Most dolls seemed to have gone downhill.


For instance, baby dolls suck. What child in their right mind wants a fake baby? They weren’t my cup of tea growing up. Most of them, especially Baby Alive, are a little too realistic, and the rest are ugly.

The LIV Dolls are too bland. They all look exactly the same and lack personality. They seem so, well, plastic and doll like.

The Moxie Girlz dolls are Bratz lite. Bratz were hideous! Not to mention slutty. I don’t understand why little girls were crazy over them. But I digress. I see a vision of little girls thinking moxie means you can act grown. Then, I’m going to have to smack the moxie out of someone.

Best Friends Club Ink dolls are actually OK. They make good role models. Wait; can a doll be a role model? Nonetheless, all the dolls have a biography detailing their favorite subjects, personality profile and blah, blah, blah. Honestly, they’re kind of boring.

There is only one hope for doll kind. It is the same doll I have loved all my life. The name you know and trust: Barbie. She is officially the queen of the doll world. Who else in 50 years has had more identities than 50 women?

I got my last Barbie Doll when I was 13 from my granny. It was Peruvian Barbie from the Dolls of the World Series (turns out it’s a collector’s item). I still have that Barbie along with all my others from over the years. Somewhere in my parent’s garage is a bag filled with Barbie, Ken, Skipper, Stacey, Kelley and their friends.

Barbie keeps reinventing the wheel and diversifying because she is timeless. There is a new line called So-In-Style. These dolls are made to accurately reflect African American features. I want one so bad! I even told my parents they could buy me one (they ignored my requests). Walking through Wal-Mart is torture when I get to the Barbie section.

There is only one way to solve my Barbie obsession. I am going to become a Barbie doll collector. I needed a new hobby anyway. There is a collector Web site, newsletter, bulletin board and more. My eye is already on the Barbie Basics line which comes out in 2010. Picture it, Barbies of all shades in little black dresses. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I want the Lt. Uhura Barbie, Alvin Ailey Barbie, Julia Barbie, Pop Life Barbie and so many more. I’ll even go find my old Barbie dolls and work to restore them to their original glory. I want to collect Barbies of every style.

Some dolls run as low as $20. The big leagues are more than $100. My collection won’t be complete overnight. Slowly I will re-emerge myself in the Barbie world. I am, after all, a Barbie girl.

Chronicles of Life ... the class cut up

There is just something about hair. The bond between it and a person should not be disturbed. I like to play in mine. Touching it has a soothing effect. I like feeling every little kink and curl. Who would think that’s a crime? Apparently it is if you’re in school.


A Wisconsin teacher cut one of the braids from a 7-year-old student’s hair because she wouldn’t stop twirling it. She made the little girl come up in front of the class, took the scissors and snipped about three inches. Then she told her more would get cut if she didn’t stop. The little girl went back to her seat in tears while all the other children laughed.

After school the little girl told her mother. The mother didn’t even believe the news at first. Who could imagine a teacher that cruel? Mom went to meet and discuss it with the teacher. Ms. Cuts and Such said she did it out of frustration. Is this really how you handle your frustrations? The little girl’s hair is naturally long, but the teacher thought it was fake and therefore OK to cut off.

Overall the teacher didn’t feel like she did anything wrong. The school moved the child to another classroom and is conducting a discipline hearing. The police department has issued a $175 citation for disorderly conduct. Personally, I think the teacher should be removed from teaching period. Obviously, she does not need to work with children.

Hair is a part of your body. If I cut somebody’s finger, that would be a major crime. The same should apply to cutting someone’s hair out of malice. Sure it might not hurt, but hair is a woman’s glory. Some of my friends have a hissy fit if hair dressers cut their hair unsolicited. I don’t even like people touching my hair without permission. They definitely can’t cut it.

This incident could greatly affect the child for the rest of her life. The littlest thing can leave an impression. I know firsthand. My kindergarten teacher made me drink a carton of milk in front of the entire class because I didn’t at lunch. I ended up crying and throwing it all up. To this day, I don’t like milk.

I understand teachers have a lot to deal with. Children these days are little monsters. Maybe the little girl’s hair was disruptive. She did have several beads on the end. The teacher had already kept her from recess because she didn’t stop playing. But shouldn’t the next step have been sending her to the principal’s office?

The mother said the little girl only plays in her hair when she’s nervous. How many times do we do something subconsciously? I bite my lip, play in my hair and even crack my knuckles without thinking all the time. I wouldn’t dare want to do act up in that teacher’s class. What does she do to a child talking too loud? Perhaps we’ll hear of her cutting a tongue next.

Chronicles of Life ... lack of WWIT

Sometimes it's good to reminisce over the past. It helps provide insight and perspective to your life that can be valuable for the future. Recently, I took a trip down memory lane over my college days. An associate and I looked at various Facebook profiles of acquaintances. It was an enjoyable experience until I realized one tiny detail: I had a crush on almost every single cute (and not so cute) guy.


Some lasted a day and others a few weeks. The longest crush was for three years. Second place came in at about one year. I knew quite a few of the crushes on an associate level, but many more were just guys I happened to see a lot.

No one over the age of 20 should have as many crushes as me, or at least that's what my BFF said. I personally can't be bothered to actually talk to everybody I think is cute. Sometimes having a crush helps weed out candidates. But my constant state of having a crush on someone is a topic for another day. I digress.

My mother says I'm simply boy crazy. I'll cosign to that theory. Since kindergarten I have always had a crush on somebody. This got me to thinking about all my past crushes/relationships/whatever. I now realize some of those crushes were on less than ideal people. I’ve had one too many "What Was I Thinking" moments about the guys I’ve liked.

There was that irritating boy in 10th grade, the holier than thou dude who lived in my dorm complex and the guy who believed he was coming back as a cat. The list could go on and on. Out of an estimated 15 major crushes/relationships/whatever, there were maybe five who didn’t get the WWIT label.

I am greatly troubled by this revelation. Is my taste in men that bad? Do I merely go by appearance when beginning a crush before getting to know the real person? Apparently so.

I blame it on a lack of dating experience. I was a late bloomer. Dating was never really a top priority for me in high school and that extended into college. I didn't go on my first date until I was about 19, and I only went on like two thereafter. Who has time to date when you're always hanging with your friends, trying to make the grade and just enjoying the college life? Several of my friends say I'm on the dating level of about a 16-year-old. Don't teenagers make a plethora of bad dating decisions? At least the majority of mine are bad crush decisions.

Although my choice is some crushes have been really bad in the past, I am glad to recognize it now. Perhaps there is hope for me yet. Could this be a sign that I am leaving the teen years of crushes and moving forward to the adult world of dating and relating? For 2010 I plan to have more WIT, intelligence, when choosing who to date (or even just have a crush on). I don't want to wonder WWIT anymore.

Chronicles of Life ... an ideal mate

Everyone should have some set of standards when dating. I’m single and not looking, but I’ve compiled a top 10 list. For the love of cupcakes, right at the top is a man that can bake. I figure if you can bake then you can cook.


I like to eat. I don’t like to cook. I’m also not a fan of going out to eat. By all means, fix pumpkin ravioli with glazed butternut squash on the side for dinner and then a batch of cupcakes for dessert. I have no problem with washing the dishes every night. Cooking is not my forte. And I have realized I get more joy from eating then cooking anyway.

Take for instance breakfast. I don’t eat breakfast mainly because I’m too lazy to get up and cook it. Cereal does not count. I call it a morning snack. I want grits, eggs, pancakes and sausage. I’d even settle for homemade oatmeal and bacon if someone else would make it. I want, no I need, someone that will fix a home cooked breakfast in the morning, lunch in the afternoon and a sensible dinner. OK maybe lunch is asking for too much.

I think I was spoiled from watching my daddy. He knows his way around the kitchen. His sweet potato pies and sausage cornbread dressing are always in high demand. Sometimes I think he cooks better than my mom. Of course she does make a mean lasagna and rum cake too. Together, my parents keep me well fed (when they actually, cook which is few and far between). Even my little brother is quite the chef. I seem to be the only one lacking in the kitchen.

Women are not the only ones that have to do the cooking. Everyone should know their way in the kitchen. Let the better person do the majority of the cooking. Just know it will not be me. I used to think I wanted to become Chef Girlardee. That got stressful real quick. I just don’t have the patience to cook. The key is to know your place in the kitchen hierarchy. For me, it’s washing dishes, taking food out the oven and taste testing.

In recognition of my love for eating, I have decided to pitch a new reality dating show called, “Cook to my heart.” At least 20 chefs (professional and otherwise) will vie for my affection through their meals. They will have to face numerous cooking challenges. Challenge winners receive quality time with me Think Flava of Love meets Top Chef. Players will wear chefs’ hats and remain on the show by being told “My compliments to the chef.” But you get the boot with “Check Please.”

I’m not asking for a top chef, just a good one, someone that can blow in the kitchen. It has been said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. What about the way to my heart? Well if you can cook, then I am hooked.

Chronicles of Life ... Pennies From Heaven

We all probably grew up hearing the saying, “See a penny, pick it up, and all the day you’ll have good luck. See a penny, let it lay, and bad luck you’ll have all rest of the day.” However, luck is not a concept I buy. My Granny used to tell me Christians have no need to believe in luck. There is no such thing as good or bad luck. Only blessings and favor from God.


So no, I don’t say good luck. I say best wishes. I’m blessed, not lucky. Yes, I break mirrors without the slightest thought. I cross paths with a black cat quite frequently. I pay no mind to stepping on cracks. I’ll walk under a ladder in a heartbeat, if it’s the quickest route. And a severe rain storm calls for opening an umbrella inside before heading out to face the elements. The only thing I actually do is pick up pennies.

I saw a penny on the ground while walking into Wal-Mart Monday, and I picked it up. But luck has nothing to do with it. Instead it reminds me of a story I once read in a Dear Abby column. A reader sent in a letter saying when you see a penny on the ground it means someone you love in Heaven is thinking of you and wants you to know it. I remember reading this while still in elementary school. I put the story in the back of my mind, until it one day became of use to me.

Sometime later my granddaddy died, which tore me up. I was 12, and that was my first real experience with death. Not long after he died, I saw a perfectly clean penny on the ground. This reminded me of the letter. So I picked up the penny and thought about my granddaddy missing me as much as I missed him. For once I didn’t cry or feel sad. Now I was hooked on the penny legend.

Over the years, several loved ones have died. Each death is never easy, but finding the pennies help provide me with some comfort. When I find a penny, I simply look up and say, “I miss you too,” to whoever sent it. Each penny is attributed to the latest loved one that died.

I have determined this penny is from that same granny that taught me about luck. She died in February 2008. That was yet another hard death for me to take. There are good days when I don’t cry and bad ones that leaving me red in the face from sobbing. I miss her even more during the holidays. By finding that penny, I know she misses me too.

To some this is just a crazy old legend. And I’m crazy for even buying into it. But is it any crazier than believing in luck? For now, I’ll believe in pennies from Heaven. It’s nice to know you’re missed too. Now that’s something I can buy.

Chronicles of Life ... the ever changing hair journey

Chronicles of Life ... the ever changing hair journey


I miss my hair. Wait, let me clarify. I miss my LONG hair. I miss twisting it, touching it, washing it, combing it, playing it. You name it, I miss it.

Don't get me wrong, I do so enjoy the short 'fro. It's so much easier to maintain than one of those giant Angela Davis Afros. And I've always wanted to cut my hair. This summer I had motivation to really do it.

My little brother went bald because of chemotherapy, so I cut mine short in solidarity. His hair was gone by the end of July. Mine by August. Then the treatments ended early, and his hair was back by September. Now he's around here making the girls seasick with his waves (the new hair came back just as nice). Yours truly still has the short hair.

I just want my twists back. Is that too much to ask?

Honestly, I'm also bored with this whole short hair thing. There are only so many ways to wear a teeny weeny afro. I know of two. Combed out or wash and wear. I need more than two hair options. Granted, when I had longer hair I only wore three styles (twists, twist out, giant afro puff). But I had the opportunity for more versatility if I wanted to. I feel limited with the short fro. Or at least I just don't know of any other options

Therefore, I am currently growing out my hair. It's time for this to grow. I haven't been to the barber in about a month. However, I barely see any results (except with my eyebrows, which could stand a tweeze or two). Whoever said progress was a slow process was talking about hair growth for women. Men's hair seems to grow 10 inches overnight. I feel like it's going to take me 10 years just to get back to my old chin length hair (when straightened).

The need to play in my hair grows greater by the day. I've started subconsciously making itty bitty twists in my hair. I don't realize it until I look in the mirror and notice my 'fro is all messed up.

Just as soon as I have about one or two good inches of hair, I'm getting it twisted with extensions. Then I'll have hair to play with for days. I have no qualms about adding extensions to my head. I kept my hair braided and twisted up for about a year while growing out my relaxer four years ago. For the record, it was synthetic. No horse or human was hurt in the making of my hair products.

Better yet, I might just get some baby starter locs. Now there’s a new hair challenge for me. I'm always reinventing my hair. I did say I want locs and there is no time like the present. If nothing else, they'll be a little something to twirl around without messing up my hair style. And when I get tired of lock, I'll just cut my hair off again. The hair journey never ends.

Chronicles of Life … the movie critic

Sunday night I went to see 2012. Overall, it was pretty good with its ensemble cast. However, there were still a few flaws I noticed. Some might say I am being too nitpicky, but somebody has to speak the truth. Honestly though, none of my complaints really have to do with the quality of the movie … or do they?

Complaint 1: The movie was too long. Seriously, we all know this is an end of the world movie. How long does it take to depict the end of the world? Surely not 10 hours? Do not go see this movie and drink one of those giant cups of soda. You will have to pee. And don’t think sneaking to the bathroom will solve it. You can go, just like I did during one of those tender “I love you and the world is ending” moments. Just know two hours later the movie will still be going strong and you’ll have to pee again.

Complaint 2: They killed the cute guy. I know, I know, people are supposed to die in this movie. But did the cutest one of all have to go? Johann Urb, plays Sasha, a Russian pilot for some billionaire. Granted he wasn’t a major character. He might have had maybe 30 minutes out of four hours of screen time. BUT HE WAS BEAUTIFUL AND HAD AN ACCENT! Kill somebody else off.

Complaint 3: The kids are annoying. If I’m trying to out drive the Apocalypse, Junior better not get a smart mouth with me yelling, “What are you doing? Go faster.” I will pull the car over, amid tidal waves and earthquakes, and punch him in the throat. If you are not the one driving, then you need to shut up. Talk smack after we survive.

Complaint 4: Some crazy chic keeps worrying about her dog. I’m sorry, but Fluffy would just have to die. Fluffy survived, but did she? I’m not going to spoil it for you. Just know this, every creature for itself.

Complaint 5: I had no one to hear my side commentary. Yes, I talk during movies. My commentary is sometimes more interesting than the actual movie. Since I went alone, and the theater was half full, nobody heard me. OK maybe this isn’t really a complaint against the movie. I’m just saying, my commentary greatly enhanced the “2012” viewing experience.

Complaint 6: People keep dying unnecessarily. Several had a chance at getting away and chose to stay behind! What is wrong with people? This is not a joke. It is the end of world as we know it. SAVE YOURSELF! Somebody has to live to tell the story. By all means, it’s going to be me.

SPOILER ALERT

Complaint 7: Somebody forgot to read the Bible. Genesis 9:11 reads, “And I will establish my covenant with you, neither shall all flesh be cut off any more by the waters of a flood; neither shall there any more be a flood to destroy the earth.” If 2012 is indeed the end, water is not how it will be played out (they even had arks as the escape vessels). I think massive earthquakes and volcanic eruptions would have been a much better choice of destruction.

There you have it folks, my thoughts on “2012.” I really shouldn’t complain about the movie. After all, I only paid $5 to see it. Regal Entertainment Group is doing a promotion where all movie tickets are $5. Somebody call Ebert. I’m about to see every major blockbuster while I can. Expect more from this movie critic.

Chronicles of Life … the movie watcher

T’is the season of movies. Forget summer blockbusters. I get giddy around the holidays for all the great movies that come out. Especially the ones that open around Thanksgiving and Christmas. I have compiled quite an impressive list of movies I want to see. Some I will probably have to see alone. There is no shame in my game watching a nice matinee alone on a Saturday. Others, hopefully my friends might be interested in seeing too. Many movies spark dialogue and it sucks if no one you know has seen it yet.
My list of movies was compiled based on trailers I’ve seen. I visit Apple.com to watch movie trailers quite frequently. A girl’s got to stay in the know about what’s coming out. Usually, if I like the trailer and go see the movie, I am not disappointed. Of course, there are always a few exceptions to the rules where the trailer was 10 times better than the actual movie (Jumper I’m talking to you). I present to you my movie watching guide in no particular order:

Must see

1. Precious: The first time I saw a trailer, I was hooked. Now I’ve heard all the hype behind the movie and want to see it for myself. It needs to hurry up with this limited release and open up nationwide.

2. 2012: Mass destruction everywhere. What’s not to love?

3. Ninja Assassin: Sometimes I wish I was a ninja. Watching movies with ninjas always intrigue me.

4. The Princess and the Frog: Dear Santa, All I want for Christmas is a Princess Tiana doll. This movie has been the subject of so much controversy. Why is her name Tiana? Why isn’t the prince black? Can I not just enjoy the fact that Disney has a beautiful strong black female animated character? Boycott if you must. I’m going to see it opening night.

5. Avatar: There’s just something about CGI that draws me to a movie.

6. Sherlock Holmes: I never really thought of Holmes as a hardcore, action and adventure dude. But have you seen the trailer? He and Watson are forces to be reckoned with.

7. The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus: In honor of the late great Heath Ledger I shall see this movie. Plus the trailer was colorful enough to lure me in.

Maybe

1. Planet 51: I like cartoons. That is all. OK maybe not. While the trailer was appealing, I might be inclined to wait until it’s at Redbox.

2. Armored: Crime thrillers usually are interesting. I need to check out the trailer again though. This could be one that bores me (like 16 Blocks)

3. Transylmania: I remember watching this trailer and laughing. But is it something I really want to pay to see, or can I wait until it’s at Redbox? That is the question.

I’ve taken a sneak peak at movie trailers for 2010 and already I’m compiling a list. What will I watch next?

Chronicles of Life ... the barefoot walker

It’s been a while since I’ve walked. I don’t mean across the street and back, but like two and three miles.


In college, I participated in March of Dimes (once even with a broken foot) and the MLK Day march each year. While in Hartwell, I occasionally walked on Lake Hartwell’s dam and in Hart State Park when the weather was just right. Then I got lazy, real lazy. It’s probably been a good year since I walked.

Tomorrow that ends. I walk again to “Light The Night” for my little brother.

Light The Night Walk is a fundraising and awareness event hosted by The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. People walk in the evening to honor those that have battled blood cancers.

My mom always participated in Light The Night with her job just to do some community service.

It really hit home and became important after my brother was diagnosed with Burkett’s Lymphoma in May. This year she decided to branch off from her job and form a team too. Team Amp is made up of friends and family. My brother, Amp (aka Anthony, A.J., The Boy, Brother, Monday, AQ and Brethren) is the official team spokes model, mascot, figurehead, whatever. I know some people on the team, but many more are friends of my mom. Whether we know each other or not, we all have one reason in common for walking: my brother.

Initially there were some discrepancies between him and my mother about who was the team captain. He wanted the title. However, when she told him he could go to all the team meetings he settled for letting her be captain.

I’ve been excited about Light The Night since the team was formed. I was supposed to do some training for the walk, but never quite got around to it. Hopefully, I don’t pass out. Then again, how bad can two miles really be? I think I should be fine as long as I don’t run. A few team members have said they’re going to run. More power to them. I might die. Besides, it’s called the “Light The Night Walk” not "Light The Night Run." I will briskly walk from start to finish.

The team has been formed, the money’s been raised. All that’s left to do now is just walk. But first I need some sneakers. Yes, I have none. One pair, leftovers from college, fell apart. I lost another in New Orleans. Somehow I broke the third pair. Between now and Thursday night I need to buy sneakers.

And I need a walking outfit too. I have absolutely nothing to wear. I can’t just put on jeans and a T-shirt. I need to be comfortable.

Why did I wait until the last minute for all of this? I had several months to get it together. I need to get shoes quick, fast and in a hurry like. Otherwise Team Amp will have one barefoot member.

http://pages.lightthenight.org/nfl/Jacksonv09/sundayluv03

Chronicles of Life ... read before burning

You get directions for a reason. Unfortunately, I don't always seem to understand that concept. I usually throw directions aside without as much as a glance. However, I learned the hard way that’s not always a good idea.


Last Friday, I decided to donate blood. It was my first time ever donating. I don’t like needles or seeing my blood drawn, but I set aside my dislike for the greater good.

My little brother had several blood transfusions while going through chemotherapy. Somebody had to donate all that blood. What about the other children or adults out there that needed transfusions? Somebody has to step up and donate for them too. I decided that somebody should be me, so I offered my arm and strong veins for the cause. The bloodmobile wanted 13 donors for the day. Guess who was lucky number 13?

I was extremely nervous, but overall the experience wasn’t that bad. Sure I was poked three times (once to check my iron, then to get my blood type and finally for the donation), but I had the satisfaction of knowing that my amazing O blood helped save three lives.

Before leaving, I was given a sheet with directions on what to do after donating. I stuck it in my bag and went about my business. There it would remain until tragedy struck.

Dizziness suddenly hit me four hours later while I was at work. I stumbled to the bathroom and fell on the floor. I couldn’t even lift my head up. Then I started sweating. The AC was on, but my body was drenched in it. “Lord, please don’t let my mama find out I died in the bathroom,” I thought. Diabetes runs in my family, so I concluded I was going into a diabetic coma.

I lay on the floor for about 45 minutes before trying to head back to my desk. I didn’t make it and went back to the bathroom. I contemplated crawling out and asking someone to take me to the hospital, but I wasn’t sure if my condition was that serious. “I still have stories to write, and a hospital trip might make me miss deadline,” I thought. I am a diligent reporter even in the face of death.

When I made it back to my desk, a co-worker saw all the sweat and asked what was going on. I gave him my diabetic coma theory. He asked if I had looked at the donation directions. Nope.

Apparently, you are supposed to drink plenty of fluids and eat after giving blood. I was in the middle of eating when the dizziness hit, but I had only drunk maybe two juices since donating. Reading the directions would have probably saved me some grief.

Another wave of dizziness hit, and I went back to being one with the bathroom floor. One co-worker kept checking on me until I finally came out. Then the dizziness vanished just as quickly as it appeared. I still felt loopy, but another black out didn’t seem imminent.

The moral of this story is simple: Don’t donate blood! Just kidding. I’ll donate again in December, but this time I’m drinking a 24-pack of water, eating a hearty lunch and READING the directions before tossing them.

Chronicles of Life ... the cook is in

There is a repressed chef somewhere inside of me. I think it's high time I let her out.


Lately I've been having this urge to cook more than just the simple dishes I make for dinner each week. Sadly, I mainly cook variations of baked chicken, brown rice and a green vegetable. My taste buds may not be that great, but a body does get tired of the same old thing.

I want food that touches my soul and my stomach, but mostly my soul. I could probably go to some restaurant and buy that type of food, but I think I want to actually make it.

This newfound desire to cook is a shock to me. I find the entire cooking process to be very challenging. For one thing, cooking stresses me out. I feel like I always have to labor over a hot stove and oven. Then I hate touching food, particularly raw meat. It tends to make me want to vomit. Also, cooking takes me forever. Those recipes that say 20 minutes or less equate to an hour for me.

Perhaps my problems are because I don't cook that often. Partially it's due to laziness. Rarely am I motivated to cook. I have to force myself to cook. I'm only cooking for me. Any meal I cook lasts a few days.

Nevertheless, I am determined to find my inner Chef Girlardee. I just need some taste testers. I used to have a few at my beck and call in college. One got to sample my peach cobbler. Others had my cinnamon pork chops. Some even sampled my chicken pesto. College is all about experimentation. Experiment I did with my cooking. I would take a recipe and add my own flair to it.

College students are more than happy to taste test for a free meal. My testers would tell me what was good or what was bad. I took their constructive criticism and used it to improve a particular dish. Once I graduated, I stopped cooking as much. I was busy with work, and I didn't have any taste testers.

I think I've finally figured out how to balance work and cooking. Instead of cooking because I'm hungry, I prepare a meal in advance and refrigerate it. Planning meals for a specific day also makes me a little more excited. I am determined to try one new recipe a week. Now I just need some new taste testers.

Chronicles of Life ... trust issues

I think I’m a pretty trusting person. Perhaps too trusting. I’ve gotten in cars with strangers, walked through the drive thru at McDonald’s with strangers and I probably make myself way too accessible to, that’s right, strangers. So I was thrown for a loop when someone recently told me that I have trust issues. Surely not I?
The person came to this conclusion based on how I reacted to him directing my driving. I was blocked in a parking lot and needed to get out. A space diagonal to me opened up, and he was trying to help direct my maneuvering. Cars were on every side, so I had to align my car just right to make sure I didn’t hit one.
Simple enough right? Not for me, the world’s worst driver. I was semi-hyperventilating because I thought I was about to hit the car in front of me. I couldn’t really see how close I was, and he made me nervous with his directing.
I have hit many things since getting a license: parked cars, deer, the Easter bunny, trees and walls. You name it; I probably hit it at least twice. So pardon me if I get nervous when someone is trying to direct me.
It’s not that I didn’t trust his directing. I don’t trust my driving. Sometimes I hear things differently. I think I have verbal dyslexia. Telling me to turn my wheels left might change into a sharp right. It takes a few trips for me to fully be comfortable with someone directing me.
My old road partner, Cee, pointed out I probably would have been OK if she was the one directing. She knows just how bad of a driver I am, after riding with me countless times (and surviving). Cee knows just what to say while directing me to put my bad nerves at ease.
This was only the second time my new road partner had experience my driving. He knows that I’m far from the best driver, just not to the extent of how bad. Had he known, he would have never ridden with me in the first place (just kidding, sort of).
So I don’t have trust issues, right? Well just to make sure, I asked Fan Club President. He said I don’t. So there it’s official. I do not have trust issues. At least ones that I care to admit yet. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Although, I guess if I want to be perfectly honest with myself, I do have some trust issues. Then again, don’t we all. Tell a group of people that a door is locked, and I guarantee most of them will have to check it for themselves. Clearly that demonstrates a lack of trust.
I have many malfunctions that one may call my tragic character flaws: I hold grudges, get mad easily and sometimes just can’t be bothered. However, trust is one thing that is not a major problem. I trust you, unless of course you break that trust. But that’s a post for another day.

Chronicles of Life ... The Clean Machine

The Green Machine is back in business, and better than ever. There’s going to be some changes made to promote better treatment of my car.
It used to be my dad’s car, but he gave it to me after I graduated from college. The Green Machine (yes, that’s its name) was in impeccable condition when I first took control. It was in good working condition, clean and smelled nice. Somewhere along the line, it lost most of those qualities. I can’t blame anybody but myself for that.
Oil changes were when I remembered to do them. Car washes were whenever it rained. The nice smell was the only thing left from its lasting legacy (at least when I remembered to get an air freshener).
Soon my parents started calling the Green Machine “Mobile Filth.” It wasn’t that it was filthy per say. It just had a lot of junk in it, and sunflower seeds usually littered the floor and seats.
Why sunflower seeds? Driving makes me nervous, and I have a tendency of falling asleep on the road. Sunflower seeds help distress me and keep me awake. There is something soothing and waking in having to crack open and remove sunflower seeds from their shells. Unfortunately, because I’m a bad driver, a lot of times those very seeds would fall over the place. Vacuuming them up would be the easiest solution, but sometimes (actually most) I would forget to do it.
I once pointed out to a friend that my car was like Texas Roadhouse. Instead of peanuts being thrown all over the place, I had sunflower seeds.
Living so far from home also put a lot of wear and tear on the Green Machine, and I wasn’t getting it serviced regularly. I was clearly asking for trouble. Who could have known oil changes were so important?
I do love the Green Machine despite its messy and unserviced state. The Green Machine has carried me on many a road trip, and not once has it broken down. I just had a bad way of showing the love. It was time to change that. Furthermore, I was tired of my daddy always nagging about how I need to get my car serviced and cleaned. And that’s only when he was not complaining about how I let his car get into such a bad shape.
So Wednesday, I spent four hours at the car dealership. I still have like 50 million things that need to be done, but for now the Green Machine is feeling all better. On top of that, they cleaned the Green Machine on the inside and outside! I almost didn’t recognize my car.
The guy that cleaned it said I owed him lunch or something because he hooked me up. Honestly he did.The Green Machine is quite happy now and so am I.
This made me realize something. If you care about someone, or something, you shouldn’t just treat them any kind of way. So I made a pledge to the Green Machine. I am going to keep it serviced on a regular basis and keep it as clean as possible. I don’t want a dirty car to be a reflection on me, and waiting too long to get it serviced can cause a whole heap of problems. Those problems get expensive. And if nothing else, I don’t want the mobile Texas Roadhouse anymore. Sunflowers seeds can be irritating when you sit on them
Trust me, I know.