Only one word can describe me as a child: rotten. I was the brat of the family for the longest time. I grew up mainly around my paternal family. Many of us went to the same church or schools and lived close to each other. My rottenness wasn’t to everyone. Oh I could be so sweet and innocent to my grandma, aunts and uncles. It was my cousins who had to deal with all my misdeeds.
Not too long ago I had an in-depth conversation with Ma Dukes about my rotten years. She knew I was pretty terrible as her child, but didn’t know of just how bad my cousins got it from me too. I was the family tattle tale if any of my cousins said or did something I didn’t like. One year at Christmas the big cousins wouldn’t let me play The Game of Life. I whined to our grandma who promptly fussed at them for keeping me out of the game.
There were also two older cousins I always had to bother. I called one stupid all the time and hit another (for no reason other than pure evilness). Only because I was little girl saved me from a few well-deserved beat downs. But I wasn’t mean to all my cousins. A few others just probably thought I was annoying for always following them underfoot.
Ma Dukes said it’s a wonder any of my cousins still talk to me today because of my behavior. It was hard being one of the youngest cousins in a big family. No one takes you seriously (until you kick them). I was just an “innocent” bystander in the cousin hierarchy. Little cousins are supposed to be bad.
Now I’m a big cousin, but most of my little cousins aren’t interested in me. I was away in college while most were born, and they all seem to adore my younger brother. However, they did take revenge for their parents at my graduation party by all jumping on my back. Guess I deserved it. But no one is beating up on me or calling me names. Unlike my older cousins I will fight a rotten little child.
Friday, March 25, 2011
A temperamental tale
The ancient Greek physician Hippocrates was on to something when he came up with the ancient medical concept of humorism. Essentially he believed a person’s personality was caused by body fluids or humors: blood, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm. From there sprung up the four temperaments of psychology. The humors were correlated to temperaments: sanguine for blood, melancholic for yellow bile, choleric for black bile and phlegmatic for phlegm.
It was during a leadership conference I first learned of the four temperaments. The presenter in one session had us take a temperament test to see where we fell in the scale. Some were half and half, others were a mix of all four. I was solidly sanguine and couldn’t have been happier. Sanguines are known as extroverts, talkers and optimists. Who wouldn’t want to be that temperament? Plus it sounds a whole lot better than the rest of the lot.
Everyone was grouped into their temperament categories, and the speaker started reading off the strengths and weaknesses. Cholerics are leaders but have type A personalities. Melancholics are deeply thoughtful yet can be perfectionists. Phelegmatics are easy going but can seem unmotivated. Then she got to Sanguines: the people person.
Sanguines are talkative (check), have energy and enthusiasm (double check) and are great storytellers (BINGO). What could possibly be weaknesses of this temperament? Unfortunately a Sanguine is a Compulsive talker (so I talk a lot), has restless energy (is it a crime to want to move around?) and exaggerates and elaborates (OK I might tell a tall tale here or there). When you get right down to it a Sanguine’s strength is also its weakness. I’m my own worst enemy. Oh the horror!
If others point out one of my tragic character flaws – such as forgetting names – I say it’s because of my temperament. But I can’t just chalk up shortcomings to my temperament, despite how much I want to. Knowing your temperament is only good if you not only learn your strengths but work to improve weaknesses. It is up to me to break out of the negative areas of my temperament. I wouldn’t be a sanguine otherwise. We’re known for changeable dispositions anyway.
It was during a leadership conference I first learned of the four temperaments. The presenter in one session had us take a temperament test to see where we fell in the scale. Some were half and half, others were a mix of all four. I was solidly sanguine and couldn’t have been happier. Sanguines are known as extroverts, talkers and optimists. Who wouldn’t want to be that temperament? Plus it sounds a whole lot better than the rest of the lot.
Everyone was grouped into their temperament categories, and the speaker started reading off the strengths and weaknesses. Cholerics are leaders but have type A personalities. Melancholics are deeply thoughtful yet can be perfectionists. Phelegmatics are easy going but can seem unmotivated. Then she got to Sanguines: the people person.
Sanguines are talkative (check), have energy and enthusiasm (double check) and are great storytellers (BINGO). What could possibly be weaknesses of this temperament? Unfortunately a Sanguine is a Compulsive talker (so I talk a lot), has restless energy (is it a crime to want to move around?) and exaggerates and elaborates (OK I might tell a tall tale here or there). When you get right down to it a Sanguine’s strength is also its weakness. I’m my own worst enemy. Oh the horror!
If others point out one of my tragic character flaws – such as forgetting names – I say it’s because of my temperament. But I can’t just chalk up shortcomings to my temperament, despite how much I want to. Knowing your temperament is only good if you not only learn your strengths but work to improve weaknesses. It is up to me to break out of the negative areas of my temperament. I wouldn’t be a sanguine otherwise. We’re known for changeable dispositions anyway.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Blocking the writing flow
It’s Writing Wednesday. Do you know where your post is? Neither do I. I was hit by the dreaded – dun, dun, dun – writer’s block. It happens. I am only a mere mortal. Sometimes writing for the man takes away my writing creativity and energy. That great idea I had in my head turns out to be not so great once typed up. The last paragraph in a potential post won’t come to me. Or I lack motivation to even write about a particular topic. And writing everyday for National Blog Posting Month has taken all the good ideas.
I used to stare at a blank screen wishing for inspiration to flow from the heavens above into my hands below to cure writer’s block. Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that. Staring gets you nowhere. Instead you have to take more drastic measures. Several different “cures” help with my writer’s block as I’ve discovered over the years.
Reading. Sometimes I’ll read a newspaper, visit a blog or look at old posts of mine. Reading gets your mind off of what you need to write and clears the way for creative inspiration. And remember a good writer is a good reader.
Word Jumble. There is something about having to organize random letters to figure out a word that relaxes my writing muscles. If I’m stressed at work, or lacking inspiration I head to the daily jumble. Plus the accompanying joke is always good for a laugh.
Coloring. There’s a reason I ask Ma Dukes for a coloring book in my Easter baskets. I have an assumed alias named Hambone Fisher (age 5) that colors pictures for people. I’m usually ready to write after Hambone finishes a masterpiece.
Clawdeen Wolf. My Clawdeen Wolf doll sits on my desk waiting for her hair to be styled at a moment’s notice. It’s amazing how inspiring a French braid can be.
Writing. When all else fails, I just write whatever whenever to ease the block. Sometimes it doesn’t make sense, but it gets thoughts out. I make heads and tails of the words once the writer’s block is gone. Much like I did with this post. Perhaps there is method to my madness.
I used to stare at a blank screen wishing for inspiration to flow from the heavens above into my hands below to cure writer’s block. Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that. Staring gets you nowhere. Instead you have to take more drastic measures. Several different “cures” help with my writer’s block as I’ve discovered over the years.
Reading. Sometimes I’ll read a newspaper, visit a blog or look at old posts of mine. Reading gets your mind off of what you need to write and clears the way for creative inspiration. And remember a good writer is a good reader.
Word Jumble. There is something about having to organize random letters to figure out a word that relaxes my writing muscles. If I’m stressed at work, or lacking inspiration I head to the daily jumble. Plus the accompanying joke is always good for a laugh.
Coloring. There’s a reason I ask Ma Dukes for a coloring book in my Easter baskets. I have an assumed alias named Hambone Fisher (age 5) that colors pictures for people. I’m usually ready to write after Hambone finishes a masterpiece.
Clawdeen Wolf. My Clawdeen Wolf doll sits on my desk waiting for her hair to be styled at a moment’s notice. It’s amazing how inspiring a French braid can be.
Writing. When all else fails, I just write whatever whenever to ease the block. Sometimes it doesn’t make sense, but it gets thoughts out. I make heads and tails of the words once the writer’s block is gone. Much like I did with this post. Perhaps there is method to my madness.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
The reader
Reading has been my favorite hobby since I was a child. It comes in handy for my line of work anyway. I have it on very good authority that most of the best writers are also readers. One of my best friends thinks I’m lame because I spend the majority of my time reading instead of watching TV. I think Grouch Marx said it best, “I find television to be very educating. Every time somebody turns on the set, I go in the other room and read a book.” Mysteries are my preferred genre of choice, but I have been known to throw science fiction, romance or something else in the mix. Here are a few of my favorite authors.
Walter Mosley
I’ve read every book in the Easy Rawlings series, and my favorite is “Black Betty.” One of my goals in life is to have Walter Mosley read a chapter of it aloud to me. Also I have a school girl crush on Easy Rawlings . If only he were real.
Lillian Jackson Braun
She’s probably close to 100 these days and is the author of “The Cat Who” series which features a former reporter, turned millionaire and amateur sleuth. He gets help in solving mysteries from his exceptionally talented Siamese cat. For a while I wanted a Siamese cat because of this series.
Valerie Wilson Wesley
She is my third favorite mystery novelist. Her Tamara Hayle mysteries feature a relatable character who reminds me of my mom, close friends and self. I don’t read her books. I devour them. One does not last a day with me.
Carl Hiassen
He writes “environmental thrillers” which make the reader root for nature. The first book I read by him was “Tourist Season” for my History of Journalism class. It was a page turner, much like all his books. I loved it and have a copy for my library.
Tananarive Due
I never heard of speculative fiction (a branch of sci-fi) until I started reading her books. It’s a hard call, but “The Between” is probably my favorite book by her. She meshes elements of the supernatural with just good old-fashion solid storytelling.
Walter Mosley
I’ve read every book in the Easy Rawlings series, and my favorite is “Black Betty.” One of my goals in life is to have Walter Mosley read a chapter of it aloud to me. Also I have a school girl crush on Easy Rawlings . If only he were real.
Lillian Jackson Braun
She’s probably close to 100 these days and is the author of “The Cat Who” series which features a former reporter, turned millionaire and amateur sleuth. He gets help in solving mysteries from his exceptionally talented Siamese cat. For a while I wanted a Siamese cat because of this series.
Valerie Wilson Wesley
She is my third favorite mystery novelist. Her Tamara Hayle mysteries feature a relatable character who reminds me of my mom, close friends and self. I don’t read her books. I devour them. One does not last a day with me.
Carl Hiassen
He writes “environmental thrillers” which make the reader root for nature. The first book I read by him was “Tourist Season” for my History of Journalism class. It was a page turner, much like all his books. I loved it and have a copy for my library.
Tananarive Due
I never heard of speculative fiction (a branch of sci-fi) until I started reading her books. It’s a hard call, but “The Between” is probably my favorite book by her. She meshes elements of the supernatural with just good old-fashion solid storytelling.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Career Days
Teacher: What do you want to be when you grow up?
Student: I want to be a ... doctor, ballerina, ninja.
Most children don’t really know what they want to be as adults. Visit an elementary school on career day and students will emphatically pick a certain career this year and something totally different the next. Young Logan probably wanted to be a rich logging tycoon before becoming the beloved X-Men Wolverine. I proclaimed my career choice in fourth grade. To this day I’ve actually stuck with it.
One day my fourth grade teacher, Ms. Brown, made the class write an essay entitled “If I ran away to the circus I would be...” I said the ring master because I loved talking and being the center of attention. I also said I would be a clown to make others laugh (even though I strongly dislike clowns). The essay was forgotten until several weeks later the principal announced in music class it won four tickets to the Ringling Bros. Circus. Apparently our class assignment was part of a citywide radio station contest. Winning that contest sparked something in me: I could write. I declared myself a writer from that moment on and was blessed to have the support of family, friends and school officials.
Folks had me writing for any and every thing after that day. No one was really sure what area of writing I would go into, especially me. Would I write poetry (I’m not that deep), plays (I have writing ADD) or short stories (fiction is hard to make up)? In middle school I decided to be a reporter. Getting a round of applause for my first article in the school paper was a major ego boost. It reinforced my childhood theory, “you get things for writing.”
Here I am 16 years later living my childhood dream as a newspaper writer (an award winning one too). I’m just glad I outgrew my pre-school career choice of a pay-for- lady (a cashier). Children might be fickle in their aspirations now, but encourage them in their quest for finding their dream career. One day they might really just grow up to be that childhood dream.
Student: I want to be a ... doctor, ballerina, ninja.
Most children don’t really know what they want to be as adults. Visit an elementary school on career day and students will emphatically pick a certain career this year and something totally different the next. Young Logan probably wanted to be a rich logging tycoon before becoming the beloved X-Men Wolverine. I proclaimed my career choice in fourth grade. To this day I’ve actually stuck with it.
One day my fourth grade teacher, Ms. Brown, made the class write an essay entitled “If I ran away to the circus I would be...” I said the ring master because I loved talking and being the center of attention. I also said I would be a clown to make others laugh (even though I strongly dislike clowns). The essay was forgotten until several weeks later the principal announced in music class it won four tickets to the Ringling Bros. Circus. Apparently our class assignment was part of a citywide radio station contest. Winning that contest sparked something in me: I could write. I declared myself a writer from that moment on and was blessed to have the support of family, friends and school officials.
Folks had me writing for any and every thing after that day. No one was really sure what area of writing I would go into, especially me. Would I write poetry (I’m not that deep), plays (I have writing ADD) or short stories (fiction is hard to make up)? In middle school I decided to be a reporter. Getting a round of applause for my first article in the school paper was a major ego boost. It reinforced my childhood theory, “you get things for writing.”
Here I am 16 years later living my childhood dream as a newspaper writer (an award winning one too). I’m just glad I outgrew my pre-school career choice of a pay-for- lady (a cashier). Children might be fickle in their aspirations now, but encourage them in their quest for finding their dream career. One day they might really just grow up to be that childhood dream.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Deep in Thought
Draped in all black and wearing a turban, the spoken word artist grabs the microphone with a fury. It is now her turn in the poetry slam. She begins a spoken word piece which parallels the genocide in Darfur to the inner turmoil facing black Americans in the debate of natural versus relaxed hair. The audience is drawn in to every word, nodding to the rhythm that flows so easily from her lips. At the end, fingers come together to snap admiration and approval, and everyone rises to their feet – except for one person. The lone figure in the front that whispered to a friend, “She didn’t even rhyme in this poem.”
Unfortunately I wasn’t blessed with much in the department of street smarts or common sense. Why else would I touch that straightening comb as a child after my grandmother warned me not to? But what I lack in those areas I make up for intellectually, right? After all I went to one of the top middle and high schools for academics. I studied at one of the best state colleges. By all accounts I should be a highly profound intellectual that can pontificate on any subject in the news. Yeah right. Not too long ago it hit me: I am not that deep. Did I even use pontificate correctly? Sometimes I wonder if I’m closer to an idiot than an intellectual. My preferred genre of choice for movies and TV shows is comedy. Instead of playing Sudoku or a cross word puzzle, I stimulate my brain with a word jumble or word search. Is my mind filled with just thoughts of bubblegum and popcorn?
Part of me feels like I wasn’t always this dense. I used to be deep or at least more of an intellectual. The peak time was probably in college. I was surrounded by other learned individuals. Then I graduated and the denseness set in. Or was it always there to begin with? Apparently I need to go pick up a “Deepness for Dummies” book. Then again I could be stressing over nothing. Maybe we aren’t all meant to be philosophers. Perhaps knowing your intellectual limitations is deep in itself.
Unfortunately I wasn’t blessed with much in the department of street smarts or common sense. Why else would I touch that straightening comb as a child after my grandmother warned me not to? But what I lack in those areas I make up for intellectually, right? After all I went to one of the top middle and high schools for academics. I studied at one of the best state colleges. By all accounts I should be a highly profound intellectual that can pontificate on any subject in the news. Yeah right. Not too long ago it hit me: I am not that deep. Did I even use pontificate correctly? Sometimes I wonder if I’m closer to an idiot than an intellectual. My preferred genre of choice for movies and TV shows is comedy. Instead of playing Sudoku or a cross word puzzle, I stimulate my brain with a word jumble or word search. Is my mind filled with just thoughts of bubblegum and popcorn?
Part of me feels like I wasn’t always this dense. I used to be deep or at least more of an intellectual. The peak time was probably in college. I was surrounded by other learned individuals. Then I graduated and the denseness set in. Or was it always there to begin with? Apparently I need to go pick up a “Deepness for Dummies” book. Then again I could be stressing over nothing. Maybe we aren’t all meant to be philosophers. Perhaps knowing your intellectual limitations is deep in itself.
case not closed
In a perfect world there would always be closure for a situation. That ex would explain exactly why he dumped you. Your favorite TV series would have an official ending. The bully from middle school would apologize. Unfortunately we live in a world of perfect imperfections. Those fairy tale examples of getting that closure we desire often never occur. Sometimes you have to let go of that pipe dream of perfectly closing the case of emotions spurred by a particular experience. We don’t always get the closure we want.
One of my tragic character flows is holding grudges. I’ve let go most of them, but every now and then I get riled up about an old one that dates back to middle school. I wrote about “The Grudge” in August and will spare rehashing the details. I’m still very bitter about everything that went down between me and she who shall not be named. It’s pretty sad considering that was more than 10 years ago (don’t judge me).
I just want closure. I would like to look back on that time and not feel any ill will toward her (or my crappy ex-boyfriend). One should not continue going through life hoping the people that have done you wrong stub their toe. I know that and you know that. Will someone please tell my head that too?
Perhaps if I really do want closure I have to get it myself. I see home girl every time I hit up my granny’s church. Part of me wants to go up to her and say something. Forget the apology on Oprah I use to want. I just want to hear out of her own mouth why she felt the need to pick on me. Sure I have an idea why (I was a nerd), but getting her to acknowledge it would do my heart a world of good for some reason. The problem is there is a good chance she doesn’t even remember me. That would probably make me even bitter. Ultimately I should just leave well enough alone and keep working to let it go. One day this case will be closed.
One of my tragic character flows is holding grudges. I’ve let go most of them, but every now and then I get riled up about an old one that dates back to middle school. I wrote about “The Grudge” in August and will spare rehashing the details. I’m still very bitter about everything that went down between me and she who shall not be named. It’s pretty sad considering that was more than 10 years ago (don’t judge me).
I just want closure. I would like to look back on that time and not feel any ill will toward her (or my crappy ex-boyfriend). One should not continue going through life hoping the people that have done you wrong stub their toe. I know that and you know that. Will someone please tell my head that too?
Perhaps if I really do want closure I have to get it myself. I see home girl every time I hit up my granny’s church. Part of me wants to go up to her and say something. Forget the apology on Oprah I use to want. I just want to hear out of her own mouth why she felt the need to pick on me. Sure I have an idea why (I was a nerd), but getting her to acknowledge it would do my heart a world of good for some reason. The problem is there is a good chance she doesn’t even remember me. That would probably make me even bitter. Ultimately I should just leave well enough alone and keep working to let it go. One day this case will be closed.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Now introducing ... television
There was a time when I didn’t watch television. It started during my college years because I was too busy to watch TV. I missed out on hit shows such as “Lost” or “Grey’s Anatomy.” Then Cee introduced me to Hulu and all that changed. I finally didn’t have to worry about watching the exact air date. Instead I could watch my shows online.
I started watching several of my shows mid-series. They didn’t require knowing too much back history to understand the dynamics of the show.
“The Simpsons”
My first experience with this show was watching the movie in 2007. It makes me smile.
“Family Guy”
I absolutely love Stewie and Brian. Their back and forth relationship keeps me grinning.
“The Office”
Michael Scott – the man you love and hate at the same time. I watch this show because of him.
“Psych”
Shawn and Gus have one of the best bromances of all times. Not to mention they’re both adorable.
Last year I decided to expand my horizons and ride the wave with several new shows. Some of my favorites were canceled (R.I.P. “Eastwick” and “Dollhouse”) but the rest have survived the chopping block.
“Community”
The bromance between Abed and Troy is perhaps the second best of all times. Watch out “Psych.”
“Parks and Recreation”
There is something about Leslie Knopes’ character that reminds me of myself. She’s socially inept but loveable.
“Glee”
For the love of music, they sing in this show. Cee bought me several of the albums from the show and I absolutely love it.
“The Event”
This is for the Sci-Fi lover in me. The first episode had me so caught up I couldn’t stop watching.
“The Cleveland Show”
Sometimes this show has me laugh even harder than “Family Guy.”
“Modern Family”
Dysfunctional families telling their tales to the camera. What’s not to love?
The main link between the majority of the shows I watch is comedy. I like to laugh. Only one really makes me think, “The Event.” My time of TV watching is a chance to escape life with a laugh here and there. Thanks to the wonders of Hulu I can keep the laughs coming forever more.
I started watching several of my shows mid-series. They didn’t require knowing too much back history to understand the dynamics of the show.
“The Simpsons”
My first experience with this show was watching the movie in 2007. It makes me smile.
“Family Guy”
I absolutely love Stewie and Brian. Their back and forth relationship keeps me grinning.
“The Office”
Michael Scott – the man you love and hate at the same time. I watch this show because of him.
“Psych”
Shawn and Gus have one of the best bromances of all times. Not to mention they’re both adorable.
Last year I decided to expand my horizons and ride the wave with several new shows. Some of my favorites were canceled (R.I.P. “Eastwick” and “Dollhouse”) but the rest have survived the chopping block.
“Community”
The bromance between Abed and Troy is perhaps the second best of all times. Watch out “Psych.”
“Parks and Recreation”
There is something about Leslie Knopes’ character that reminds me of myself. She’s socially inept but loveable.
“Glee”
For the love of music, they sing in this show. Cee bought me several of the albums from the show and I absolutely love it.
“The Event”
This is for the Sci-Fi lover in me. The first episode had me so caught up I couldn’t stop watching.
“The Cleveland Show”
Sometimes this show has me laugh even harder than “Family Guy.”
“Modern Family”
Dysfunctional families telling their tales to the camera. What’s not to love?
The main link between the majority of the shows I watch is comedy. I like to laugh. Only one really makes me think, “The Event.” My time of TV watching is a chance to escape life with a laugh here and there. Thanks to the wonders of Hulu I can keep the laughs coming forever more.
Summertime crush
Crushes have been an important part of my life since I was a child. Someone has always been an object of my affection. Sometimes they’ve been a celebrity, such as Ray J. and Jason Weaver (don’t judge me). For the most part it’s someone I know and even interact with. Usually they don’t know I have a crush. At least that’s what I’d like to think. Subtlety is not one of my strong suits. Cee says it’s not even in my closet (she’s such a joker).
I can’t remember a time without me having a crush, until now. These days I’m going through a dry spell. My old crush got engaged so I had to end that one. He has yet to provide a crush replacement, and pickings are slim around here. There is no one that has captured my attention as of late. Celebrities. Real people. Not one person. I tried having a not-so-secret crush on one person I see on the regular. Nobody could take it seriously. He’s not my actual type, and in theory my crush should be someone I really would want to date and relate to. Good crushes just don’t seem to come easy anymore. This can’t be life. I have no one to fawn over or come up with a special crush song.
If only I could find someone to crush on these days. I don’t ask for much. I just need someone I find attractive with a good personality. Cee is trying to push off one of her friends on me for a crush. He’s cute as pie (as she would say) but I don’t feel that crush connection. That connection is key for a successful crush. Plus I never see him. I need to be in constant interaction with my crush. I need to see my crush on the regular in some form.
One of my friends thinks it’s abnormal for a mid-20 something to have adult crushes. Perhaps it is, but I am not motivated to date. I crush instead. I prefer to window shop than actually purchase something out the store. A crush is an easy breezy carefree type activity. Let it be known I’m accepting applications for a summertime crush.
I can’t remember a time without me having a crush, until now. These days I’m going through a dry spell. My old crush got engaged so I had to end that one. He has yet to provide a crush replacement, and pickings are slim around here. There is no one that has captured my attention as of late. Celebrities. Real people. Not one person. I tried having a not-so-secret crush on one person I see on the regular. Nobody could take it seriously. He’s not my actual type, and in theory my crush should be someone I really would want to date and relate to. Good crushes just don’t seem to come easy anymore. This can’t be life. I have no one to fawn over or come up with a special crush song.
If only I could find someone to crush on these days. I don’t ask for much. I just need someone I find attractive with a good personality. Cee is trying to push off one of her friends on me for a crush. He’s cute as pie (as she would say) but I don’t feel that crush connection. That connection is key for a successful crush. Plus I never see him. I need to be in constant interaction with my crush. I need to see my crush on the regular in some form.
One of my friends thinks it’s abnormal for a mid-20 something to have adult crushes. Perhaps it is, but I am not motivated to date. I crush instead. I prefer to window shop than actually purchase something out the store. A crush is an easy breezy carefree type activity. Let it be known I’m accepting applications for a summertime crush.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Name that identity
Maybe the question isn’t “What’s in a name?” as Shakespeare so eloquently put it but “who is the name?” Growing up I answered to quite a few names. Actually I still hear all of them. Antonia is what my parents named me, but my granddaddy said it was too hard to say or remember. He christened me Sunday instead. Then Tone-Tone was bestowed on me by a relative on my dad’s side of the family. I introduced myself as “Toni like the tiger except with an I” in college. Antonia. Sunday. Tone-Tone. Toni. It’s a wonder I don’t have split personalities for each name. Talking to a friend the other day made me think about how many of us go by nicknames with family and close friends. Are we different people with each name? Does a name make us change?
I’d like to think I’m the same person with every name, but in certain instances I can see some variations in personality. That’s not to say there are 27 different people living inside of me. But Tone-Tone is definitely not the same as Toni or Sunday. Tone-Tone is the child-like little cousin and full of restless energy. It’s a name I grew out of for the most part, like someone called Boo-Boo or Pumpkin. I do still hear it from time to time. Toni is the talkative but humorous friend. That nickname is used with casual acquaintances and close friends alike. Sunday is the charming and ambitious grandchild. Use of this name demonstrates a closeness only found with old, old friends and family. I’m likely to be even goofier around my friends as Toni. Of course Sunday will make you smile, but she’s a lot more practical at times. Tone-Tone comes out when a moment calls for a child-like innocence.
So who is Antonia? The sum and difference of all these names. The name that looks good on the surface. The professional name. There are slight differences in how I respond depending on what name is used. Ultimately each one equals me, Antonia. The only name without an identity is my middle name. J. is in hiding for now. One day she’ll come out to play.
I’d like to think I’m the same person with every name, but in certain instances I can see some variations in personality. That’s not to say there are 27 different people living inside of me. But Tone-Tone is definitely not the same as Toni or Sunday. Tone-Tone is the child-like little cousin and full of restless energy. It’s a name I grew out of for the most part, like someone called Boo-Boo or Pumpkin. I do still hear it from time to time. Toni is the talkative but humorous friend. That nickname is used with casual acquaintances and close friends alike. Sunday is the charming and ambitious grandchild. Use of this name demonstrates a closeness only found with old, old friends and family. I’m likely to be even goofier around my friends as Toni. Of course Sunday will make you smile, but she’s a lot more practical at times. Tone-Tone comes out when a moment calls for a child-like innocence.
So who is Antonia? The sum and difference of all these names. The name that looks good on the surface. The professional name. There are slight differences in how I respond depending on what name is used. Ultimately each one equals me, Antonia. The only name without an identity is my middle name. J. is in hiding for now. One day she’ll come out to play.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
would be spinster
Lately becoming a cat lady has seemed quite appealing. I will likely end up a spinster because I cannot be bothered with the dating scene. Blame it on a lack of suitable prospects and my irritable personality syndrome. Dating is just not my thing. Supposedly it is the key to getting into a relationship and actually ending up married. I’ve been trying to get my parents to arrange a marriage for years so I can avoid dating. Apparently that’s not their thing either.
I made a list of several goals for 2010 including an ambitious one of going on 12 dates. It did not happen, and I realized I didn’t even care I failed. If I actually was motivated to go outside my house and meet people, I could possible scrounge up a date. Club Walmart for the record is not the hookup spot. I know from personal experience.
Maybe if I lowered my standards and accepted offers from any and everybody I might have met the dating quota. I tried to be accepting, but people weren’t up to par. There was the guy at Walmart who was put on the cut list after saying his adopted sister accused him of rape. That was too much drama for me. Then a guy at church ruined my worship experience one Sunday. I’m trying to get right with the Lord and he was spitting game during the service. And I can’t forget this one guy I met at a wedding. He started off good but lost interest.
Maybe it’s me. Everyone isn’t meant to be married anyway. My daddy, grandmother and aunt are praying daily I don’t end up an old maid. But would that be so bad? If I do end up a spinster, it won’t be the end of the world. No kids. No husband. No worries. That sounds like a decent tradeoff to me. Having a family of my own would be nice, and I would love to have a wedding. But if by 40 I’m still unmarried you can call it a wrap. This chick is throwing a spinster party in style. I’m going to marry myself. And I’ll actually buy a cat.
I made a list of several goals for 2010 including an ambitious one of going on 12 dates. It did not happen, and I realized I didn’t even care I failed. If I actually was motivated to go outside my house and meet people, I could possible scrounge up a date. Club Walmart for the record is not the hookup spot. I know from personal experience.
Maybe if I lowered my standards and accepted offers from any and everybody I might have met the dating quota. I tried to be accepting, but people weren’t up to par. There was the guy at Walmart who was put on the cut list after saying his adopted sister accused him of rape. That was too much drama for me. Then a guy at church ruined my worship experience one Sunday. I’m trying to get right with the Lord and he was spitting game during the service. And I can’t forget this one guy I met at a wedding. He started off good but lost interest.
Maybe it’s me. Everyone isn’t meant to be married anyway. My daddy, grandmother and aunt are praying daily I don’t end up an old maid. But would that be so bad? If I do end up a spinster, it won’t be the end of the world. No kids. No husband. No worries. That sounds like a decent tradeoff to me. Having a family of my own would be nice, and I would love to have a wedding. But if by 40 I’m still unmarried you can call it a wrap. This chick is throwing a spinster party in style. I’m going to marry myself. And I’ll actually buy a cat.
Monday, March 14, 2011
public perception
Perception is everything to some people. It doesn’t matter what the truth is about a situation. Their truth is how they perceive it. Unfortunately I learned that lesson growing up as a preacher’s kid, or a PK. I have never been a fan of have a pastor for a daddy. Growing up, and even now, I felt that he gave so much of his time and attention to other people and church issues that our family was sometimes placed on the backburner. And of course there was that whole issue of perception. Everyone always thinks preacher’s children are spoiled and wild. There are some who fit that profile of course, but that can be said about the children of doctors, lawyers or whoever. I wasn’t the best child or the worst. I was just a child. But I sometimes felt like I had to be extra good because of that perception. PKs were also expected to have a talent such as singing, playing an instrument or speaking. I played the piano for years until I realized it really wasn’t my thing.
The April issue of Ebony magazine asked several pastors’ wives about their life as a first lady. One of the questions was “Who has the most pressure on them: pastors, first ladies or their children.” I was happy to see them answer the children. “They have to conform to the expectations of those around them. And there are preconceived notions of how the children of a minister should behave or whether they will go into ministry,” said Elder Karen Bernard of Christian Cultural Center in Brooklyn, N.Y. A pastor has a calling on his life and the wife supports him, said Jamell Meeks of Salem Baptist Church in Chicago, Ill. “A pastor’s kids were born into it, unlike the pastor or his wife. From birth, everything the children do is judged. Anything they do that people feel is not right, that fact is going to be verbalized.”
I’m not sure what perception my dad’s members have of me these days. They probably think I’m so wild adult. Now that I’m in my mid-20s I don’t care anymore. The only perception that matters to me is God’s.
The April issue of Ebony magazine asked several pastors’ wives about their life as a first lady. One of the questions was “Who has the most pressure on them: pastors, first ladies or their children.” I was happy to see them answer the children. “They have to conform to the expectations of those around them. And there are preconceived notions of how the children of a minister should behave or whether they will go into ministry,” said Elder Karen Bernard of Christian Cultural Center in Brooklyn, N.Y. A pastor has a calling on his life and the wife supports him, said Jamell Meeks of Salem Baptist Church in Chicago, Ill. “A pastor’s kids were born into it, unlike the pastor or his wife. From birth, everything the children do is judged. Anything they do that people feel is not right, that fact is going to be verbalized.”
I’m not sure what perception my dad’s members have of me these days. They probably think I’m so wild adult. Now that I’m in my mid-20s I don’t care anymore. The only perception that matters to me is God’s.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Family bonding time
My trips home are sometimes few and far between. I don’t do much when I come to visit anyway. Usually it consists of me coming home late on a Friday night or early on a Saturday morning, sleeping, visiting my grandma and going to church with my parents on a Sunday. Did I mention I have to sleep on the couch? There is no bed for me to lay my head, and my former room is now used for storage. Also my parents never had food. I usually have to grocery shop for myself. Not too much of a reason to come home, right?
Then last week at church I had an epiphany while the pastor was delivering his sermon: I missed my daddy’s preaching. That’s not to say the pastor in Lake City wasn’t a decent preacher, but after growing up under my daddy’s tutelage I have developed a certain affinity for his sermons. I toyed with the idea of going home this weekend. I was just home about two weeks ago, and I don’t like them getting too used to visits from me. Ma Dukes mentioned she was speaking at a church Sunday and that sealed the deal for me to come home.
I’m glad I did. If nothing else I got to enjoy ample amounts of family togetherness with the top people in my family. My mother and I were cuddle bunnies Friday night, and I talked her ear off while she tried to sleep. She probably wasn’t listening but just our moments of closeness made my night (until my daddy kicked me out the bedroom). Then Saturday night my daddy and I bonded over a showing of “Our Family Wedding.” We laughed and joked about what my wedding would be like (if it ever happens) Sunday night brought bonding with my little brother. Together we went to our granny’s house and visited with her and an aunt.
I might not do much on my trips homes but there is one activity that is always a given: family bonding. I may lack a bed and a room but their love is always there. That’s enough to make me come home any weekend.
Then last week at church I had an epiphany while the pastor was delivering his sermon: I missed my daddy’s preaching. That’s not to say the pastor in Lake City wasn’t a decent preacher, but after growing up under my daddy’s tutelage I have developed a certain affinity for his sermons. I toyed with the idea of going home this weekend. I was just home about two weeks ago, and I don’t like them getting too used to visits from me. Ma Dukes mentioned she was speaking at a church Sunday and that sealed the deal for me to come home.
I’m glad I did. If nothing else I got to enjoy ample amounts of family togetherness with the top people in my family. My mother and I were cuddle bunnies Friday night, and I talked her ear off while she tried to sleep. She probably wasn’t listening but just our moments of closeness made my night (until my daddy kicked me out the bedroom). Then Saturday night my daddy and I bonded over a showing of “Our Family Wedding.” We laughed and joked about what my wedding would be like (if it ever happens) Sunday night brought bonding with my little brother. Together we went to our granny’s house and visited with her and an aunt.
I might not do much on my trips homes but there is one activity that is always a given: family bonding. I may lack a bed and a room but their love is always there. That’s enough to make me come home any weekend.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Foul language musings
There’s just something about profane language that gets to me, and not in a good way. It actually makes me cringe a little inside. After all these years I should be used to it. My parents’ don’t always speak words filled with sprinkles and sunshine. My brother’s mouth often spouts crude terms. Several of my friends drop curse bombs. A few of them would put sailors to shame. That’s not to say I don’t curse. I do but not that much. I try to keep my language clean.
Sometimes I feel like people unnecessarily use choice words. While out with a friend once she dropped so many F- and S-bombs I wanted to hide. Did I mention children were nearby? The F-bomb does not need to be used in every single sentence. It shows a weak command of the English language in my humble opinion. If someone is dropping too many hard-hitting words I shout out “language, language.” It’s my little way of trying to clean up the swearing.
There are times when you might have to “make it plain” as my father would say. A simple phrase might need juicing up to address that person who cut you off while driving. Emphasis is sometimes involved by using a certain word in a story. Even still those moments should be few and far between.
Personally I think it sounds unbecoming of a lady to carelessly drop choice words. There was a time when gentlemen never used profane language around a lady. These days it doesn’t matter. Granted I’m not exactly the perfect epitome of a lady. I don’t wear pantyhose. I chuck globs of spit randomly to the side (I’m not swallowing it). And I chew gum like a cow chews cud. Not cussing has to count for something right? Certain words have a melodious sound to them. Whimsical. Facetious. Intrepid. There’s nothing pretty about cuss words. You can’t arrange them to produce a pleasing sound to the ear. Perhaps I’m just old fashion in my thinking. Besides people are going to cuss anyway. But there are too many other words out there to only use the crudest ones. Language is just as lovely clean.
Sometimes I feel like people unnecessarily use choice words. While out with a friend once she dropped so many F- and S-bombs I wanted to hide. Did I mention children were nearby? The F-bomb does not need to be used in every single sentence. It shows a weak command of the English language in my humble opinion. If someone is dropping too many hard-hitting words I shout out “language, language.” It’s my little way of trying to clean up the swearing.
There are times when you might have to “make it plain” as my father would say. A simple phrase might need juicing up to address that person who cut you off while driving. Emphasis is sometimes involved by using a certain word in a story. Even still those moments should be few and far between.
Personally I think it sounds unbecoming of a lady to carelessly drop choice words. There was a time when gentlemen never used profane language around a lady. These days it doesn’t matter. Granted I’m not exactly the perfect epitome of a lady. I don’t wear pantyhose. I chuck globs of spit randomly to the side (I’m not swallowing it). And I chew gum like a cow chews cud. Not cussing has to count for something right? Certain words have a melodious sound to them. Whimsical. Facetious. Intrepid. There’s nothing pretty about cuss words. You can’t arrange them to produce a pleasing sound to the ear. Perhaps I’m just old fashion in my thinking. Besides people are going to cuss anyway. But there are too many other words out there to only use the crudest ones. Language is just as lovely clean.
Friday, March 11, 2011
limit the lines
I talk a lot. Not a little, but a lot. A. Whole. Lot. My grandmother used to call me Mouth Almighty, Tongue Everlasting. However, I am the first to admit I can be a bit too talkative. I go from topic to topic with random rants thrown in and lose focus easily. Unfortunately that same trait carries over to my writing.
The news industry often tells reporters to write tight, meaning keep it to the point, clear and concise. I have to keep that rule in mind constantly at work because space is limited sometimes. In my personal writing and reflections I tend to throw that rule out the window. My early days of blogging started on Facebook. Each Facebook note probably read more like a college essay. I wrote and wrote and wrote some more. And just when you’d think I was done, I added another 2,000 words for good measure. That’s not to say what I wrote was bad. Some of it was fairly good, but it was too long.
I knew writing 10,000 word blog posts wasn’t going to be an option while participating in NaBloPoMo. Lengthy posts, even though they are my own thoughts, take time to write depending on the subject matter. I set up a word limit of 365 for each post, which is about half of what I normally write. A person’s attention span is only so long. Following a word limit can sometimes be challenging. You have so much to say but are only allocated a certain amount of space. It’s kind of like using Twitter. You only have 140 characters to tweet.
I am starting to see some improvement with my self-imposed word limit. It’s helping me cut out a lot of fluff in my writing and become a stronger storyteller. This should hopefully carry over to the day job. There might come a time when I feel the need to write a good 500 words again, but for now I’m following the limit. I still tend to write with no end in sight in my personal journal. Readers can rest assured there’s a limit to my posts now. I’ll keep it simple.
The news industry often tells reporters to write tight, meaning keep it to the point, clear and concise. I have to keep that rule in mind constantly at work because space is limited sometimes. In my personal writing and reflections I tend to throw that rule out the window. My early days of blogging started on Facebook. Each Facebook note probably read more like a college essay. I wrote and wrote and wrote some more. And just when you’d think I was done, I added another 2,000 words for good measure. That’s not to say what I wrote was bad. Some of it was fairly good, but it was too long.
I knew writing 10,000 word blog posts wasn’t going to be an option while participating in NaBloPoMo. Lengthy posts, even though they are my own thoughts, take time to write depending on the subject matter. I set up a word limit of 365 for each post, which is about half of what I normally write. A person’s attention span is only so long. Following a word limit can sometimes be challenging. You have so much to say but are only allocated a certain amount of space. It’s kind of like using Twitter. You only have 140 characters to tweet.
I am starting to see some improvement with my self-imposed word limit. It’s helping me cut out a lot of fluff in my writing and become a stronger storyteller. This should hopefully carry over to the day job. There might come a time when I feel the need to write a good 500 words again, but for now I’m following the limit. I still tend to write with no end in sight in my personal journal. Readers can rest assured there’s a limit to my posts now. I’ll keep it simple.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
a head full of personality
“'Cause you've got (personality).
Walk (with personality).
Talk (with personality).
Smile (with personality).
Charm (with personality).
Love (with personality).
An' plus you got a great big heart.”
Personality is usually attributed to people or animals. Tell that to my hair. It’s always had a mind of its own. I began to fully comprehend that idea after I went natural. That’s not to say my hair lacked personality while chemically processed. Personality has seemed to shine through even more so in its natural state.
Over time I’ve noticed several consistent traits about my hair. My hair is outgoing. It’s always all over the place, making friends with people. It’s also adaptable. I used to rock twists out every week, then I started braiding it. Now I’ve ventured into Bantu knots, flat twists and more. Whatever style I throw its way, my hair can handle. There are times when my hair can be assertive too. Some days it won’t even humble down to be styled. I usually end up letting it flow free as it wants to be.
The second time I cut all my hair off a cousin had a fit. Apparently rocking the tapered fro didn’t seem to fit my personality. A drastically different look invoked a new hair personality. This hair was more mature, refined and serious. It was fun while it lasted, but eventually I started to miss my longer locks and the personality that went with twists and braid outs or whatnot.
Essentially I’ve realized my hair is a reflection of me or who I want to be. “Hair is often an excellent predictor of someone’s self-image and lifestyle,” according to Jo-Ellan Dimitrius in “Reading People: How to Understand People and Predict Their Behavior – Anyplace, Anytime.” Most people would agree I’m outgoing. I never meet a stranger and talk to any and every body. I’m also fairly adaptable. One minute I have to be a writer and the next I’m a photographer. I’m not as assertive as I want to be, but it’s a work in progress. At the end of the day my hair is a mirror image of me. I’ve got personality. Of course my hair would have it too.
Walk (with personality).
Talk (with personality).
Smile (with personality).
Charm (with personality).
Love (with personality).
An' plus you got a great big heart.”
Personality is usually attributed to people or animals. Tell that to my hair. It’s always had a mind of its own. I began to fully comprehend that idea after I went natural. That’s not to say my hair lacked personality while chemically processed. Personality has seemed to shine through even more so in its natural state.
Over time I’ve noticed several consistent traits about my hair. My hair is outgoing. It’s always all over the place, making friends with people. It’s also adaptable. I used to rock twists out every week, then I started braiding it. Now I’ve ventured into Bantu knots, flat twists and more. Whatever style I throw its way, my hair can handle. There are times when my hair can be assertive too. Some days it won’t even humble down to be styled. I usually end up letting it flow free as it wants to be.
The second time I cut all my hair off a cousin had a fit. Apparently rocking the tapered fro didn’t seem to fit my personality. A drastically different look invoked a new hair personality. This hair was more mature, refined and serious. It was fun while it lasted, but eventually I started to miss my longer locks and the personality that went with twists and braid outs or whatnot.
Essentially I’ve realized my hair is a reflection of me or who I want to be. “Hair is often an excellent predictor of someone’s self-image and lifestyle,” according to Jo-Ellan Dimitrius in “Reading People: How to Understand People and Predict Their Behavior – Anyplace, Anytime.” Most people would agree I’m outgoing. I never meet a stranger and talk to any and every body. I’m also fairly adaptable. One minute I have to be a writer and the next I’m a photographer. I’m not as assertive as I want to be, but it’s a work in progress. At the end of the day my hair is a mirror image of me. I’ve got personality. Of course my hair would have it too.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Spontaneously a bust
There was a time when I lived spontaneously. Nike’s motto, “Just Do It,” was also my own, and I freely gave into any impulse. Each day was different from the last. The only schedule I followed was for classes, and everything else was played by ear. Breakfast might be at 1 p.m. today or 8 a.m. tomorrow. Studying was thrown in the loop somewhere. Club meetings were attended as needed. Fun was 24/7. There was no set time for most activities. It was all free flowing.
Then I graduated from college, and the real world set in. Gone are the days of just going with the flow. Spontaneity often seems to be a foreign concept. My life is all about schedules now. Get up at 8:30 a.m. Work at 9 a.m. Lunch at 12 p.m. Bed at 11 p.m. Does anyone know how to build a time machine? Please send me back to those carefree days of college.
I tried to not conform to a regular schedule at first. How hard could it be to just follow impulsives? That didn’t work out too well. I gave in and started using a planner and making To Do Lists. Now everything must have an assigned appointment slot. No more random road trips with my friends. We have to plan months and months in advance. On those rare occasions when I don't make a schedule, I sleep all day. This can’t be life. Something has to give.
Being an adult can be a drag with all the responsibilities. Unlike the carefree days of youth, there is much more rigidness and structure to follow. You can’t just take a mental health day and skip work or push aside projects to party hearty. But that doesn’t mean adulthood has to lack fun. It’s up to me to spice up life. I can’t be completely carefree and throw caution to the wind. I can, however, have weekly moments of spontaneity. Yes, I will schedule the fun. Maybe I’ll pop into a movie out of the blue or bake a peach cobbler at 1 a.m. just for fun. I refuse to be a dull 20-something. I’ll live spontaneously – at least once in a while.
Then I graduated from college, and the real world set in. Gone are the days of just going with the flow. Spontaneity often seems to be a foreign concept. My life is all about schedules now. Get up at 8:30 a.m. Work at 9 a.m. Lunch at 12 p.m. Bed at 11 p.m. Does anyone know how to build a time machine? Please send me back to those carefree days of college.
I tried to not conform to a regular schedule at first. How hard could it be to just follow impulsives? That didn’t work out too well. I gave in and started using a planner and making To Do Lists. Now everything must have an assigned appointment slot. No more random road trips with my friends. We have to plan months and months in advance. On those rare occasions when I don't make a schedule, I sleep all day. This can’t be life. Something has to give.
Being an adult can be a drag with all the responsibilities. Unlike the carefree days of youth, there is much more rigidness and structure to follow. You can’t just take a mental health day and skip work or push aside projects to party hearty. But that doesn’t mean adulthood has to lack fun. It’s up to me to spice up life. I can’t be completely carefree and throw caution to the wind. I can, however, have weekly moments of spontaneity. Yes, I will schedule the fun. Maybe I’ll pop into a movie out of the blue or bake a peach cobbler at 1 a.m. just for fun. I refuse to be a dull 20-something. I’ll live spontaneously – at least once in a while.
The point of all annoyance
My irritable personality syndrome is flaring up again. Little things are starting to set me on edge. It’s not so much with everyone, but a few select people. Don’t blame PMS. There’s just something in my nature that makes me lose patience easily about minor things. A friend texted me during my time of sustained silent reading Tuesday. I might have possibly overacted. The text transcript, with my thoughts, is as follows:
“Real Gs move in silence like lasagna…” he wrote
“What?” I replied.
“It’s true. The modern day philosopher Weezy F, please say the baby, hath decreed it.”
Now was it really that important to send me this text message at 9:13 p.m. in the first place? We are not cool like that.
“OK and on that note I return to reading.”
At this point he should have left me alone, but no. Clearly he was asking for my wrath.
“Oh what you getting into?”
“A book.”
Didn’t I just say this a few seconds ago?
“Don’t be coy. What book?”
I was not being coy. I was being curt so he would get the message to leave me be. That didn’t help so I had to get rude.
“CAN I READ IN PEACE?”
“Why do you always make things difficult? For once can you be friendly without catching an attitude? You never talk to (our other friends) like this. What’s your problem with me?”
“I would like to read in peace.”
“Go ahead and read, friend.”
My problem with him is he couldn’t seem to understand I was reading. Don’t try to engage me in a conversation. Other friends don’t do stupid things to irritate me; therefore they don’t get an attitude.
Typing in all caps probably wasn’t the nicest way to handle this, but when I reach my annoyance boiling point there is no telling what will happen. I am sorry for my snippiness. I do need to stop. I have since asked God to help me have the same amount of patience with others that he would have with me. It’s only fair. Patience is a virtue I desire. It would just be so much easier if people didn’t annoy me.
“Real Gs move in silence like lasagna…” he wrote
“What?” I replied.
“It’s true. The modern day philosopher Weezy F, please say the baby, hath decreed it.”
Now was it really that important to send me this text message at 9:13 p.m. in the first place? We are not cool like that.
“OK and on that note I return to reading.”
At this point he should have left me alone, but no. Clearly he was asking for my wrath.
“Oh what you getting into?”
“A book.”
Didn’t I just say this a few seconds ago?
“Don’t be coy. What book?”
I was not being coy. I was being curt so he would get the message to leave me be. That didn’t help so I had to get rude.
“CAN I READ IN PEACE?”
“Why do you always make things difficult? For once can you be friendly without catching an attitude? You never talk to (our other friends) like this. What’s your problem with me?”
“I would like to read in peace.”
“Go ahead and read, friend.”
My problem with him is he couldn’t seem to understand I was reading. Don’t try to engage me in a conversation. Other friends don’t do stupid things to irritate me; therefore they don’t get an attitude.
Typing in all caps probably wasn’t the nicest way to handle this, but when I reach my annoyance boiling point there is no telling what will happen. I am sorry for my snippiness. I do need to stop. I have since asked God to help me have the same amount of patience with others that he would have with me. It’s only fair. Patience is a virtue I desire. It would just be so much easier if people didn’t annoy me.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Pursuit of happiness
“All I really want is to be happy and to find a love that's mine. It would be so sweet.” Mary J. Blige sung of happiness regarding a relationship. For me happiness relates to my career choices. My particular industry has never been known for the reasonable hours, large paychecks or praise and admiration. Some would say it downright sucks. That didn’t stop me one bit. Sure there are long hours, I get paid peanuts and most days are thankless. But I had passion for my job. It made me happy. Nothing could take that away.
Much to my parents’ chagrin I spent four years in college getting a degree in a field that makes no money. They wanted me to go to law school, get a master’s degree or do something more with life. I like observing court cases not being an active participant. School was hard enough the first go round, I couldn’t take any more. And I do something more with my life every day as a writer.
Now with any job there comes moments of frustration, self-doubt or lack of motivation. I’ve learned to not go to my parents looking for a boost. Their responses tend to be along the lines of, “We told you not to go into that field. Why don’t you teach school? Merrill Lynch is hiring.” Whatever happened to saying “It will be OK,” or “Keep pressing on and doing what you love?” So much for encouragement from them.
Personally, I can’t just do any and everything. There’s a little thing called happiness heavily involved. I must be happy. That wouldn’t be the case as a teacher. I don’t like large groups of students. There isn’t enough vacation time or money in the world to change that. I would suffocate to death in a cubicle. I can’t stand being in an office all day. I need to get out and about talking to and interviewing people. Granted what I do might not be the best job to some – OK most – people, but there is something special about it. It makes me happy (for the most part). That’s all anyone wants in a job (and to make money).
Much to my parents’ chagrin I spent four years in college getting a degree in a field that makes no money. They wanted me to go to law school, get a master’s degree or do something more with life. I like observing court cases not being an active participant. School was hard enough the first go round, I couldn’t take any more. And I do something more with my life every day as a writer.
Now with any job there comes moments of frustration, self-doubt or lack of motivation. I’ve learned to not go to my parents looking for a boost. Their responses tend to be along the lines of, “We told you not to go into that field. Why don’t you teach school? Merrill Lynch is hiring.” Whatever happened to saying “It will be OK,” or “Keep pressing on and doing what you love?” So much for encouragement from them.
Personally, I can’t just do any and everything. There’s a little thing called happiness heavily involved. I must be happy. That wouldn’t be the case as a teacher. I don’t like large groups of students. There isn’t enough vacation time or money in the world to change that. I would suffocate to death in a cubicle. I can’t stand being in an office all day. I need to get out and about talking to and interviewing people. Granted what I do might not be the best job to some – OK most – people, but there is something special about it. It makes me happy (for the most part). That’s all anyone wants in a job (and to make money).
Monday, March 7, 2011
A lesson in limericks
Poetry writing has never been my strength. I can appreciate a good poem, of course, but don’t ask me to write one. Unless it’s a limerick.
Typically a limerick is a stanza of five lines with the first, second and fifth rhyming with each other. The third and fourth rhyme with each other. Back in the early days of limericks the first and fifth line ended with the same word. Limericks are witty, humorous and full of nonsense, kind of like me. What’s not to like about this style of poetry?
A character in one of my favorite book series, “The Cat Who ...” by Lillian Jackson Braun, wrote a column dedicated solely to limericks. I might not have a column, per say, but I do have this blog. Here are some limericks I find entertaining.
The limerick packs laughs anatomical
In space that is quite economical,
But the good ones I've seen
So seldom are clean,
And the clean ones so seldom are comical.
Readers be warned. Limericks can be raunchy.
There was a Young Person of Smyrna
Whose grandmother threatened to burn her;
But she seized on the cat,
and said 'Granny, burn that!
You incongruous old woman of Smyrna!'
My granny used to threaten to spank me. Usually she did spank me. We didn’t have a cat handy.
There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all his gold in a bucket.
But his daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.
My mother used to tell me a dirtier version of this one. We’ll leave it at that.
There was an old man from Peru,
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke in the night
with a terrible fright
and found out that it was quite true.
This is one of my favorite limericks. My mom often recited it, and I used to hear it in school.
And now introducing my very own limerick.
There once was a nice girl named Toni
Who only ate Kraft macaroni
She refused to eat meat
Abhorred fruits and sweets
Her tombstone said, "Here lies Miss Bony."
Typically a limerick is a stanza of five lines with the first, second and fifth rhyming with each other. The third and fourth rhyme with each other. Back in the early days of limericks the first and fifth line ended with the same word. Limericks are witty, humorous and full of nonsense, kind of like me. What’s not to like about this style of poetry?
A character in one of my favorite book series, “The Cat Who ...” by Lillian Jackson Braun, wrote a column dedicated solely to limericks. I might not have a column, per say, but I do have this blog. Here are some limericks I find entertaining.
The limerick packs laughs anatomical
In space that is quite economical,
But the good ones I've seen
So seldom are clean,
And the clean ones so seldom are comical.
Readers be warned. Limericks can be raunchy.
There was a Young Person of Smyrna
Whose grandmother threatened to burn her;
But she seized on the cat,
and said 'Granny, burn that!
You incongruous old woman of Smyrna!'
My granny used to threaten to spank me. Usually she did spank me. We didn’t have a cat handy.
There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all his gold in a bucket.
But his daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.
My mother used to tell me a dirtier version of this one. We’ll leave it at that.
There was an old man from Peru,
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke in the night
with a terrible fright
and found out that it was quite true.
This is one of my favorite limericks. My mom often recited it, and I used to hear it in school.
And now introducing my very own limerick.
There once was a nice girl named Toni
Who only ate Kraft macaroni
She refused to eat meat
Abhorred fruits and sweets
Her tombstone said, "Here lies Miss Bony."
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Puberty … the return
Remember the days of puberty? Who can forget that magical time when the body went crazy? Eventually you grew into it. One of the biggest parts of puberty is acne which is triggered by hormones. My acne was really bad and required a trip to the dermatologist at one point. It calmed down by college, and gone were those days of giant pimples all over my face. Or so I thought until now.
My face is starting to look like puberty all over again. The acne has returned and with a vengeance. This is a scene from “Puberty II: Pimple Harder.” Something is causing me to break out, and I don’t like it. Not. One. Bit. It was hard enough to go through my younger years as a zit face. Must I face that again as an adult?
Acne affects 25 percent of all men and 50 percent of women at some time in their adult lives, according to Acne.org. At least I’m not the only character in “Puberty II.” The site also stated one third of adults affected with facial acne also have it on their body. I’m a member of that club too. "Recent epidemiological studies show that there appears to be an increase in post-adolescent acne, and that the disease is lasting longer and is requiring treatment well into the mid forties," according to a 2004 International Journal of Cosmetic Science article. Are you kidding me? I refuse to be middle-age with pimples.
Several things lead to adult acne including: stress, PMS and cosmetics. I’ve had the PMS flare ups before. Those last a day or two. My hair products can be oily, and I’ve change items and certain styles to avoid any problems. I’ve worked in a high stress environment for several years with no problems. What gives now?
This has all led me to one conclusion: I’m going through puberty again. Help, the end is near! OK it probably is just stress catching up with me. Perhaps I need to woo sah just a little bit more. And I’ve started washing my face three times a day. I kicked pimples in puberty. I can do it again as an adult.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Cleaning lady
It’s bad when your room gets so messy you can’t take it anymore. Starting today my Saturdays will be dedicated to cleaning my room. It’s been a bona fide mess for the past two weeks. Most people are familiar with the phrase, “Cleanliness is next to godliness.” Right about now the devil and I are best friends if my room is any indicator.
I have a tendency to let things pile up. Laundry in one corner. That bookshelf I need to assemble in the other. Trash scattered throughout. Sometimes disorganization sets in and rules supreme. I often have this same issue with my work desk. Clutter starts to spread like a deadly virus. Then suddenly I realize I can’t see the bottom of it anymore. That’s when it’s time for the cleaning lady to step in.
Initially my goal was to clean my room earlier in the week. I put together a to-do list and that was in the top three along with cooking and washing clothes. Alas and alack, the demanding hours of my profession, not to mention good old fashion laziness, kept me from getting anything done. I just washed clothes this morning. Lunch might happen by tomorrow. But by golly I am going to clean my entire room today.
There isn’t that much work to actually do in the grand scheme of things. Clean the dresser, organize the top of the book chest, hang up clothes, make the bed and voila, I’m done. Often I lack motivation to clean my room. It’s one of my least favorite activities, along with cooking, washing dishes and putting away laundry. What happened to those robots of the Jetson’s era? Shouldn’t there be a model available to clean my room for me? No? OK, guess it’s just me.
Maybe if I start cleaning my room in sections throughout the week it won’t seem like such a massive task. And playing music soothes me while cooking. I can perhaps start doing that during my cleaning sessions. The ultimate goal is to not let my room be such a mess every week. Every two weeks should be manageable. Then the cleaning lady can make a very brief appearance.
I have a tendency to let things pile up. Laundry in one corner. That bookshelf I need to assemble in the other. Trash scattered throughout. Sometimes disorganization sets in and rules supreme. I often have this same issue with my work desk. Clutter starts to spread like a deadly virus. Then suddenly I realize I can’t see the bottom of it anymore. That’s when it’s time for the cleaning lady to step in.
Initially my goal was to clean my room earlier in the week. I put together a to-do list and that was in the top three along with cooking and washing clothes. Alas and alack, the demanding hours of my profession, not to mention good old fashion laziness, kept me from getting anything done. I just washed clothes this morning. Lunch might happen by tomorrow. But by golly I am going to clean my entire room today.
There isn’t that much work to actually do in the grand scheme of things. Clean the dresser, organize the top of the book chest, hang up clothes, make the bed and voila, I’m done. Often I lack motivation to clean my room. It’s one of my least favorite activities, along with cooking, washing dishes and putting away laundry. What happened to those robots of the Jetson’s era? Shouldn’t there be a model available to clean my room for me? No? OK, guess it’s just me.
Maybe if I start cleaning my room in sections throughout the week it won’t seem like such a massive task. And playing music soothes me while cooking. I can perhaps start doing that during my cleaning sessions. The ultimate goal is to not let my room be such a mess every week. Every two weeks should be manageable. Then the cleaning lady can make a very brief appearance.
Friday, March 4, 2011
A Texture Tale
Once upon a time, but not long ago, a young woman realized there was something unusual about her hair. It was more than just the fact that fairy knots appeared mysteriously at the end of some strands each night. Instead she noticed there were two different textures in her hair. This caught the woman by surprise. Never had she noticed her hair to have more than one texture while rocking a relaxer. Her natural hair seemed to shine a light on the comparison.
The vast majority of her hair was of the Congo thick and kinky variety. Right dead center in the front patch was a variety of another. This patch was a lot finer and silkier compared to the course texture throughout the rest of the head. She dubbed it the North Africa Patch.
Normally the two textures united in hair harmony for most style. But one day the woman decided to just flat twist the patch and two strand twist the rest. A difference wasn’t noticeable – at first. The style remained in place for several days until it morphed into a twist out. Then a difference was visible. The entire head was coily and curly, but one little patch was ever so curlier. As the twist out faded, the Congo coils started morphing into an organized mess, due to a lack of a sleeping cap, but the North Africa patch remained vigilant in its defined curl pattern. What did this all mean? Was she the only one with this problem? The young woman decided to research and find out.
Hair websites, such as the Long Hair Care Forum, soon put the young woman to ease. Many other posters shared the same dilemma. It was indeed normal to have two different hair textures. Different circumstances could be the culprit, such as poor health, genetics or just because hair can be random in some cases. There was no need to be alarmed (not that she was worrying much anyway). So the girl went back to styling her hair with the same products. All was well in the world of her hair. And now dear reader this texture tale has come to an end.
The vast majority of her hair was of the Congo thick and kinky variety. Right dead center in the front patch was a variety of another. This patch was a lot finer and silkier compared to the course texture throughout the rest of the head. She dubbed it the North Africa Patch.
Normally the two textures united in hair harmony for most style. But one day the woman decided to just flat twist the patch and two strand twist the rest. A difference wasn’t noticeable – at first. The style remained in place for several days until it morphed into a twist out. Then a difference was visible. The entire head was coily and curly, but one little patch was ever so curlier. As the twist out faded, the Congo coils started morphing into an organized mess, due to a lack of a sleeping cap, but the North Africa patch remained vigilant in its defined curl pattern. What did this all mean? Was she the only one with this problem? The young woman decided to research and find out.
Hair websites, such as the Long Hair Care Forum, soon put the young woman to ease. Many other posters shared the same dilemma. It was indeed normal to have two different hair textures. Different circumstances could be the culprit, such as poor health, genetics or just because hair can be random in some cases. There was no need to be alarmed (not that she was worrying much anyway). So the girl went back to styling her hair with the same products. All was well in the world of her hair. And now dear reader this texture tale has come to an end.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
The art of persuasion
Let the dry run of National Blog Posting Month begin (granted I’m a few days late). NaBloPoMo, which is officially in November, is an offshoot of National Novel Writing Month. Instead of writing a book in a month, bloggers post something every day. Different blog themes during the months leading up to November are set to help writers prepare for the challenge. The theme is “In a word” for the month of March.
Faithful reader and friend, Cee, participated in NaBlogPoMo a couple of years ago. She plans on doing it again and proclaimed March as her dry run. And guess who was dragged in to join her? I had no intent of even participating in this month’s challenge. I do good to participate in Writing Wednesday every week. I barely write a sports column quarterly for my job. What would possess me to take on the challenge of writing every single day? All I know is Cee asked me to try it Wednesday, and after some prodding I said yes. What can I say? She’s persuasive like that.
Cee always has her pulse on some of the coolest things out there. She was on Twitter before it became the next big thing. Perhaps that’s what makes her persuasion of me so easy. I know if she’s down with the cause it’s probably something I’ll enjoy.
If nothing else, this should help me improve myself as a “blogger.” My posts should become more concise and direct. Usually my blog posts are a wild reading tangent. Also I tend to feign being too busy writing for the man to write for myself when I miss Writing Wednesday. This will perhaps be an exercise in time management. I must post or die (well maybe not). Regular readers know I tend to be lackadaisical about posting. Sometimes months pass between new ones.
Hopefully I can come up with enough interesting posts. I’m already two days behind, but Cee said to continue the challenge for the rest of the month. If I make it through 28 days of March, perhaps there is hope for me in November. Cee will most certainly persuade me to participate in the official NaBloPoMo.
Faithful reader and friend, Cee, participated in NaBlogPoMo a couple of years ago. She plans on doing it again and proclaimed March as her dry run. And guess who was dragged in to join her? I had no intent of even participating in this month’s challenge. I do good to participate in Writing Wednesday every week. I barely write a sports column quarterly for my job. What would possess me to take on the challenge of writing every single day? All I know is Cee asked me to try it Wednesday, and after some prodding I said yes. What can I say? She’s persuasive like that.
Cee always has her pulse on some of the coolest things out there. She was on Twitter before it became the next big thing. Perhaps that’s what makes her persuasion of me so easy. I know if she’s down with the cause it’s probably something I’ll enjoy.
If nothing else, this should help me improve myself as a “blogger.” My posts should become more concise and direct. Usually my blog posts are a wild reading tangent. Also I tend to feign being too busy writing for the man to write for myself when I miss Writing Wednesday. This will perhaps be an exercise in time management. I must post or die (well maybe not). Regular readers know I tend to be lackadaisical about posting. Sometimes months pass between new ones.
Hopefully I can come up with enough interesting posts. I’m already two days behind, but Cee said to continue the challenge for the rest of the month. If I make it through 28 days of March, perhaps there is hope for me in November. Cee will most certainly persuade me to participate in the official NaBloPoMo.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
bad seeds
Little people should be seen and not heard. At least that’s what my granny used to tell me as a child. That saying didn’t mean too much to me as a child. Actually it was somewhat of an insult. I had a voice and was definitely going to use it. But I’m starting to better understand just what she meant by that very phrase. Quite a few parents of today need to take that statement to heart. Frame it on their wall. Put it in their wallet. Make it a personal family mantra. Actually I’m starting to feel little people shouldn’t be seen or heard.
More and more children have gone wild, and it’s driving me crazy. I wish it drove the parents crazy too. Then maybe they would do something about it. Head to the grocery story during the day and you’ll hear little Johnny throwing a tantrum because Mommy won’t buy a box of some sugary cereal. Like he needed it anyway. Little Johnny is already a demon spawn. That cereal would just make him 10 times worse. Go to a special event and have the (dis)pleasure of sitting in front of or next to a child. Little Becky will probably kick your seat non-stop and give you the evil eye when you confront her. Or she’ll just walk randomly over to your seat 10 feet from her parents. If you’re me you’ll ask ever so loudly, “Whose child is this? Where is your mother?”
My personal favorite sighting for children gone wild is church. If you want to mess up a person’s worship experience quicker than the devil, just bring some bad seeds into the mix. Little Lulu will whine and cry all during the service if she can’t get a church fan. Then Rosemary’s baby will proceed to shred it up on the pew while Mommy just ignores it. Then she’ll have the audacity to not share her snacks. I can’t stand it. I told my mother churches need to institute a cage system for children. Drop your child off at a designated spot, and little Lulu will be placed in her own personal kennel. Each kennel will have snacks, water and toys to entertain the child. You and everyone else that knows how to make their children behave can enjoy service in peace. A cage supervisor will be on hand to ensure your child is returned to you by the end of service. My mother said I would have everyone in jail (at least we’d be away from bad children).
I just don’t like bad children. They make me itch and then I have to sit on my hands before I snatch them up and show them what my granddaddy used to call “The Rod of Correction.” Even more so I don’t like bad parenting. Ignoring a child’s bad behavior is not going to make it stop. Do something with your child before I do.
Now I must confess I wasn’t the best little child growing up. There are some, namely my mother, who will allege I used to spit on people or tell them to shut up. Supposedly I even caused a Bible to go flying in the air during Bible Study. I don’t recall those times at all. Bad as I was, my mother was badder (yeah I know it’s not a word). She believed in discipline (read spankings). Lots and lots of discipline. Five times a day. As a result I grew out of my evil child ways.
I shudder to think about what will happen to the ones of today that receive no discipline. It doesn’t have to be a spanking. Send them to time out. Take a privilege away. Do something. Just rectify the bad behavior before it gets out of hand. Or they might have to face me. I’m not prejudice. I will fight a child. Child gone wild today. Girls Gone Wild tomorrow.
More and more children have gone wild, and it’s driving me crazy. I wish it drove the parents crazy too. Then maybe they would do something about it. Head to the grocery story during the day and you’ll hear little Johnny throwing a tantrum because Mommy won’t buy a box of some sugary cereal. Like he needed it anyway. Little Johnny is already a demon spawn. That cereal would just make him 10 times worse. Go to a special event and have the (dis)pleasure of sitting in front of or next to a child. Little Becky will probably kick your seat non-stop and give you the evil eye when you confront her. Or she’ll just walk randomly over to your seat 10 feet from her parents. If you’re me you’ll ask ever so loudly, “Whose child is this? Where is your mother?”
My personal favorite sighting for children gone wild is church. If you want to mess up a person’s worship experience quicker than the devil, just bring some bad seeds into the mix. Little Lulu will whine and cry all during the service if she can’t get a church fan. Then Rosemary’s baby will proceed to shred it up on the pew while Mommy just ignores it. Then she’ll have the audacity to not share her snacks. I can’t stand it. I told my mother churches need to institute a cage system for children. Drop your child off at a designated spot, and little Lulu will be placed in her own personal kennel. Each kennel will have snacks, water and toys to entertain the child. You and everyone else that knows how to make their children behave can enjoy service in peace. A cage supervisor will be on hand to ensure your child is returned to you by the end of service. My mother said I would have everyone in jail (at least we’d be away from bad children).
I just don’t like bad children. They make me itch and then I have to sit on my hands before I snatch them up and show them what my granddaddy used to call “The Rod of Correction.” Even more so I don’t like bad parenting. Ignoring a child’s bad behavior is not going to make it stop. Do something with your child before I do.
Now I must confess I wasn’t the best little child growing up. There are some, namely my mother, who will allege I used to spit on people or tell them to shut up. Supposedly I even caused a Bible to go flying in the air during Bible Study. I don’t recall those times at all. Bad as I was, my mother was badder (yeah I know it’s not a word). She believed in discipline (read spankings). Lots and lots of discipline. Five times a day. As a result I grew out of my evil child ways.
I shudder to think about what will happen to the ones of today that receive no discipline. It doesn’t have to be a spanking. Send them to time out. Take a privilege away. Do something. Just rectify the bad behavior before it gets out of hand. Or they might have to face me. I’m not prejudice. I will fight a child. Child gone wild today. Girls Gone Wild tomorrow.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Chronicles of Life … on the clock
Why do people keep ruining my worship experience? I try to get my praise and worship on, but the devil is ever busy. Usually it’s some loud child making animal noises or an ignorant suitor using church as the hookup spot that annoys me during the service. But things went to a new level Sunday.
I’m not really a big fan of the whole greet your neighbor segment at church. It’s all well and good, but I have my qualms. Some people just don’t wash their hands. I don’t like touching any and everybody. I get sick enough as it is without catching their germs. I’ll semi participate which means I say howdy to two people and sit down (unless someone comes over). I’m not an official member of any church in Lake City, so I try to stay low key during that portion of the service. I hate being recognized during the fellowship because of my profession. People tend to ask am I writing an article on the service. NO! Can’t I at least be “off duty” for the Lord?
At the service I attended Sunday two women recognized me and mentioned they were going to contact me later. I thought later meant like during normal business hours. One of them just couldn’t wait that long. There I was trying to clap and sing along with the choir (OK I was sitting still as a rock but I do hum in my head) when she passed an announcement from pew to pew to me. Really! She couldn’t at least wait until the offering? In her rush to get it to me she left off vital bits of information. We had to go back and forth correcting it. That ended my sing-along time with the choir.
No place is safe for me anymore. I keep a notepad on hand at all times because I never know who’s going to stop me next. It doesn’t matter if I’m on the phone, in the bathroom or sitting in my car. They absolutely have to share their news right then and there. I go to Walmart late at night because that’s when I’m least likely to be bothered. If someone sees me they will stop to give me information. That’s probably half the reason I’m not a member of a particular church here. People get pushy with their news. I don’t want to have to set some deacon straight if he was trying to discuss work-related issues while passing the communion wine.
It is technically the nature of my line of work to never really be “off duty.” I should be use to it by now. Most times I am, except for when I’m tuned into the service. I’m just glad it wasn’t during the sermon. I think I might start going to church incognito. I’ll create an alias, and no one will know it’s me. Unless there is something Earth shattering that needs coverage right then and there, people can wait to share their news during normal business hours. If nothing else, wait until after church. I’ll get back on the clock then.
I’m not really a big fan of the whole greet your neighbor segment at church. It’s all well and good, but I have my qualms. Some people just don’t wash their hands. I don’t like touching any and everybody. I get sick enough as it is without catching their germs. I’ll semi participate which means I say howdy to two people and sit down (unless someone comes over). I’m not an official member of any church in Lake City, so I try to stay low key during that portion of the service. I hate being recognized during the fellowship because of my profession. People tend to ask am I writing an article on the service. NO! Can’t I at least be “off duty” for the Lord?
At the service I attended Sunday two women recognized me and mentioned they were going to contact me later. I thought later meant like during normal business hours. One of them just couldn’t wait that long. There I was trying to clap and sing along with the choir (OK I was sitting still as a rock but I do hum in my head) when she passed an announcement from pew to pew to me. Really! She couldn’t at least wait until the offering? In her rush to get it to me she left off vital bits of information. We had to go back and forth correcting it. That ended my sing-along time with the choir.
No place is safe for me anymore. I keep a notepad on hand at all times because I never know who’s going to stop me next. It doesn’t matter if I’m on the phone, in the bathroom or sitting in my car. They absolutely have to share their news right then and there. I go to Walmart late at night because that’s when I’m least likely to be bothered. If someone sees me they will stop to give me information. That’s probably half the reason I’m not a member of a particular church here. People get pushy with their news. I don’t want to have to set some deacon straight if he was trying to discuss work-related issues while passing the communion wine.
It is technically the nature of my line of work to never really be “off duty.” I should be use to it by now. Most times I am, except for when I’m tuned into the service. I’m just glad it wasn’t during the sermon. I think I might start going to church incognito. I’ll create an alias, and no one will know it’s me. Unless there is something Earth shattering that needs coverage right then and there, people can wait to share their news during normal business hours. If nothing else, wait until after church. I’ll get back on the clock then.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, January 17, 2011
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.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
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).
‘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).
Sunday, November 28, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, April 9, 2010
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.
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.
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