The Green Machine is back in business, and better than ever. There’s going to be some changes made to promote better treatment of my car.
It used to be my dad’s car, but he gave it to me after I graduated from college. The Green Machine (yes, that’s its name) was in impeccable condition when I first took control. It was in good working condition, clean and smelled nice. Somewhere along the line, it lost most of those qualities. I can’t blame anybody but myself for that.
Oil changes were when I remembered to do them. Car washes were whenever it rained. The nice smell was the only thing left from its lasting legacy (at least when I remembered to get an air freshener).
Soon my parents started calling the Green Machine “Mobile Filth.” It wasn’t that it was filthy per say. It just had a lot of junk in it, and sunflower seeds usually littered the floor and seats.
Why sunflower seeds? Driving makes me nervous, and I have a tendency of falling asleep on the road. Sunflower seeds help distress me and keep me awake. There is something soothing and waking in having to crack open and remove sunflower seeds from their shells. Unfortunately, because I’m a bad driver, a lot of times those very seeds would fall over the place. Vacuuming them up would be the easiest solution, but sometimes (actually most) I would forget to do it.
I once pointed out to a friend that my car was like Texas Roadhouse. Instead of peanuts being thrown all over the place, I had sunflower seeds.
Living so far from home also put a lot of wear and tear on the Green Machine, and I wasn’t getting it serviced regularly. I was clearly asking for trouble. Who could have known oil changes were so important?
I do love the Green Machine despite its messy and unserviced state. The Green Machine has carried me on many a road trip, and not once has it broken down. I just had a bad way of showing the love. It was time to change that. Furthermore, I was tired of my daddy always nagging about how I need to get my car serviced and cleaned. And that’s only when he was not complaining about how I let his car get into such a bad shape.
So Wednesday, I spent four hours at the car dealership. I still have like 50 million things that need to be done, but for now the Green Machine is feeling all better. On top of that, they cleaned the Green Machine on the inside and outside! I almost didn’t recognize my car.
The guy that cleaned it said I owed him lunch or something because he hooked me up. Honestly he did.The Green Machine is quite happy now and so am I.
This made me realize something. If you care about someone, or something, you shouldn’t just treat them any kind of way. So I made a pledge to the Green Machine. I am going to keep it serviced on a regular basis and keep it as clean as possible. I don’t want a dirty car to be a reflection on me, and waiting too long to get it serviced can cause a whole heap of problems. Those problems get expensive. And if nothing else, I don’t want the mobile Texas Roadhouse anymore. Sunflowers seeds can be irritating when you sit on them
Trust me, I know.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Chronicles of Life … R&B music appreciation 101
Just a few of my random thoughts on some R&B songs on the ipod … There is a choreographer inside of me just waiting to get out. I have choreographed two songs from the Sasha Fierce album, “Radio,” the hip hop dance, and “Sweet Dreams,” the modern dance. Choreography is for three and up to five people. The problem is the moves are only inside my head. However, I did freestyle a Michael Jackson tribute to “Beat It.” It put a smile of my friends’ faces. Although, I think they were laughing at me, not with me … Whitney Houston is back. Granted, I wasn’t really feeling “I look to you,” but I do like “Million Dollar Bill.” My only question is can she still sing live? The juror’s out on that one … I have mixed emotions about the “Sweet Dreams” video by Beyonce. I didn’t really like it at first. It doesn’t make sense. Then again when do dreams ever make sense? I think I just wanted more choreography and less randomness. She should have used my choreography … Sometimes I think I could be a music video director. There are two songs on Chrisette Michele’s new album “Epiphany” that I have created videos for (in my mind), “Notebook” and “All I ever think about is you.” Chrisette, have your people call my people. … Speaking of Chrisette Michele’s album, LUVS IT. Absolutely luvs it! I can listen to that bad boy all the way through. Very few albums (Ryan Leslie’s debut album, Beyonce’s Sasha Fierce and John Legend’s Revolver) even get that distinction. The first time I heard Epiphany, I wasn’t interested. Then I actually opened my ears and was blown away. Sometimes albums have to grow on me … Dear Mario, why are you asking a stupid question in your song? Of course a woman would want to break up if you’re cheating on her. *Side note: For those that don’t know, Mario has a new song called “Break up” and it asks over and over, “When I’m loving you, why would you want to break up?” However, he blatantly talks about how he cheats in the verses. This is a no brainer.* Don’t ask stupid questions when you already know the answer. Signed Toni … At nearly 25 years of age, I am still not mature enough to listen to R. Kelly’s new song “Number One” which features Miss Keri, Baby. It’s just too much for me. Somebody will be conceived because of that song … Keri Hilson is everywhere, like on every song. I didn’t really like her at first, but she has indeed grown on me. The girl has nice chops … Drizzy aka Drake aka Wheelchair Jimmy has also grown on me. I heard a song he did over Goapele’s “Closer” and had to give him props … I am happily single, but sometimes certain songs make me want to be in a relationship so I can sing all the lovey dovey kiss kiss foolishness. But wait it gets better. Other songs make me want to have a bad break up so I can relate to the heart break hotel sadness. I just can’t relate either way it goes … Dear Mary J. Blige, I love the new song “The one.” Keep it up. Signed Toni … I love songs that touch my soul, not because of the lyrics or the voice but because of the music. Examples include “Irina” by Ryan Leslie, “T.O.N.Y.” by Solange and “Trust” by Keyshia Cole feat. Monica.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Chronicles of Life … The sum of all fears
I have really random fears. I probably need therapy to deal with them. Unfortunately, I can’t afford it. This chronicle will have to be a substitute.
1.Clowns. I used to like clowns, but one night I sneaked out of bed and looked at “Killer Clowns From Outer Space.” It started the fear. Later I read the book and watched the move “It” by Stephen King. My fear of clowns was further fueled my. I don’t even like Ronald McDonald. Happy Meals are a ploy to get you addicted to McDonald’s. Next thing you know it, you’re morbidly obese. Sheer coincidence that a clown is the mascot for McDonald’s? I think not.
2.Losing my teeth. I absolutely love my teeth. They’re not perfect, but I do have a really nice, straight and white set. I didn’t wear braces or have to use teeth whiteners. I take good care of my teeth by brushing several times a day and visiting the dentist every six months. People always compliment me on my teeth. Such would not be the case if I was Toothless Toni.
3.Crossing the street/ getting hit by a car. If you want to see me break out into a sweat, just watch me cross the street. It’s always a nerve racking experience. I think it’s because my daddy got hit by a car when I was in middle school. He was jogging on the sidewalk, but a drunk driver hit him and dragged him down the street. Since then I have had a deep fear of getting hit by a car. And how do most people get hit? By crossing the street.
4.Choking on pills/tic tacs. I once choked on a tic tac in college. I was talking to a friend when suddenly a tic tac got lodged in my throat. Tic tacs and pills are about the same size. If I can choke on a tic tac, then I can choke on a pill. I tend to crush my pills now and take them with tea, or just chew on them. Yeah it’s disgusting, but at least I don’t choke.
5.Flying on airplanes/ walking up stairs. I don’t have a fear of heights, because I’ll hop on a roller coaster in a minute. However, airplanes and stairs make me nervous. There is just something about being high off the ground in an airplane that makes me want to cry. And I have actually fallen up stairs. Don’t ask me how. I’m nervous that one day I will fall up the stairs bad enough to knock out my teeth.
6.Biting my tongue off. I have a problem with biting my tongue when I chew. It happens quite a bit. Twice I have bit a chunk of my tongue. Not off, but enough to have it bleed profusely for several minutes. It’s almost enough to make me want to stop eating. But a girl’s got to live. It’s only a matter of time before I have no tongue.
Franklin D. Roosevelt said, “There is nothing to fear but fear itself.” I beg to differ. There is a lot to fear.
The only thing I will say is don’t let your fears completely control your life. I still go to the circus. I cross the street everyday for work. And of course I eat.
However, each activity associated with one of my fears causes a chill in my spine.
1.Clowns. I used to like clowns, but one night I sneaked out of bed and looked at “Killer Clowns From Outer Space.” It started the fear. Later I read the book and watched the move “It” by Stephen King. My fear of clowns was further fueled my. I don’t even like Ronald McDonald. Happy Meals are a ploy to get you addicted to McDonald’s. Next thing you know it, you’re morbidly obese. Sheer coincidence that a clown is the mascot for McDonald’s? I think not.
2.Losing my teeth. I absolutely love my teeth. They’re not perfect, but I do have a really nice, straight and white set. I didn’t wear braces or have to use teeth whiteners. I take good care of my teeth by brushing several times a day and visiting the dentist every six months. People always compliment me on my teeth. Such would not be the case if I was Toothless Toni.
3.Crossing the street/ getting hit by a car. If you want to see me break out into a sweat, just watch me cross the street. It’s always a nerve racking experience. I think it’s because my daddy got hit by a car when I was in middle school. He was jogging on the sidewalk, but a drunk driver hit him and dragged him down the street. Since then I have had a deep fear of getting hit by a car. And how do most people get hit? By crossing the street.
4.Choking on pills/tic tacs. I once choked on a tic tac in college. I was talking to a friend when suddenly a tic tac got lodged in my throat. Tic tacs and pills are about the same size. If I can choke on a tic tac, then I can choke on a pill. I tend to crush my pills now and take them with tea, or just chew on them. Yeah it’s disgusting, but at least I don’t choke.
5.Flying on airplanes/ walking up stairs. I don’t have a fear of heights, because I’ll hop on a roller coaster in a minute. However, airplanes and stairs make me nervous. There is just something about being high off the ground in an airplane that makes me want to cry. And I have actually fallen up stairs. Don’t ask me how. I’m nervous that one day I will fall up the stairs bad enough to knock out my teeth.
6.Biting my tongue off. I have a problem with biting my tongue when I chew. It happens quite a bit. Twice I have bit a chunk of my tongue. Not off, but enough to have it bleed profusely for several minutes. It’s almost enough to make me want to stop eating. But a girl’s got to live. It’s only a matter of time before I have no tongue.
Franklin D. Roosevelt said, “There is nothing to fear but fear itself.” I beg to differ. There is a lot to fear.
The only thing I will say is don’t let your fears completely control your life. I still go to the circus. I cross the street everyday for work. And of course I eat.
However, each activity associated with one of my fears causes a chill in my spine.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
A Lake City Chronicle ... The Ballad of Ink Face
O the ink ain’t on my dresses
Or caught up in my tresses
It’s all over my face, o can’t you see
I thought I wiped it off now
But it stayed on anyhow
So when folks mention Ink Face that is me
Just call me Ink Face. That might be my new nickname.
I had the unfortunate pleasure of wearing ink all over my face
recently. I don’t know when or how the ink got on my face. What I do
know is it was there, and it was a lot.
Sometimes if I pause when writing, I’ll turn my pen up and
inadvertently mark up my face. It’s usually a line here or there.
Most times I catch it, but such was not the case Monday night.
I had been writing a lot of information down. When I finished, I went
to talk to some people.
While talking to someone, I noticed out the corner of my eye a man
wiping his face and looking at me.
At first I merely thought he was awestruck by my beauty. Then I
realized he was trying to tell me something was on my face.
Immediately I thought he meant boogers. If only that was the case.
He finally said, “You have ink on your face.”
Well silly me thought a simple wipe here or there would remove it. I
didn’t even make a dent.
After my quick wipe, I continued my conversation and talked to several
other people.
It wasn’t until after I left the crowd, went to the bathroom and
looked in the mirror I saw the extent of the ink on my face. It looked
like a big glob of ink snot was coming out of my nose!
Why didn’t anyone tell me just how bad it was?
They all kept talking to me politely and never even mentioned it. I
can’t be mad though. I probably wouldn’t have said anything either.
I’ve seen men with their zippers down, women with lipstick on their
teeth and cracks showing when people bend other. I don’t say a word.
It’s not because I’m mean and want them to be embarrassed. I just
don’t know how to say it without causing unnecessary embarrassment.
“They’ll figure it out,” I think. So mum’s the word
However, after being the one in an embarrassing situation, I’m not so
sure that’s the best logic anymore.
There might be some embarrassment, but it’ll pass. Embarrassment after
the fact is 10 times worse.
Hopefully everyone forgets my ink ordeal. If not, well I’m worried all
the people I talked to are going to call me Ink Face.
I for one will not stand for it. I am packing up and moving to Alaska.
OK that’s a bit extreme.
I’ll just use pencils from now on. The worst I can do with a pencil is
poke myself. I’d rather sport a Spiderman Band-Aid anyway.
Or caught up in my tresses
It’s all over my face, o can’t you see
I thought I wiped it off now
But it stayed on anyhow
So when folks mention Ink Face that is me
Just call me Ink Face. That might be my new nickname.
I had the unfortunate pleasure of wearing ink all over my face
recently. I don’t know when or how the ink got on my face. What I do
know is it was there, and it was a lot.
Sometimes if I pause when writing, I’ll turn my pen up and
inadvertently mark up my face. It’s usually a line here or there.
Most times I catch it, but such was not the case Monday night.
I had been writing a lot of information down. When I finished, I went
to talk to some people.
While talking to someone, I noticed out the corner of my eye a man
wiping his face and looking at me.
At first I merely thought he was awestruck by my beauty. Then I
realized he was trying to tell me something was on my face.
Immediately I thought he meant boogers. If only that was the case.
He finally said, “You have ink on your face.”
Well silly me thought a simple wipe here or there would remove it. I
didn’t even make a dent.
After my quick wipe, I continued my conversation and talked to several
other people.
It wasn’t until after I left the crowd, went to the bathroom and
looked in the mirror I saw the extent of the ink on my face. It looked
like a big glob of ink snot was coming out of my nose!
Why didn’t anyone tell me just how bad it was?
They all kept talking to me politely and never even mentioned it. I
can’t be mad though. I probably wouldn’t have said anything either.
I’ve seen men with their zippers down, women with lipstick on their
teeth and cracks showing when people bend other. I don’t say a word.
It’s not because I’m mean and want them to be embarrassed. I just
don’t know how to say it without causing unnecessary embarrassment.
“They’ll figure it out,” I think. So mum’s the word
However, after being the one in an embarrassing situation, I’m not so
sure that’s the best logic anymore.
There might be some embarrassment, but it’ll pass. Embarrassment after
the fact is 10 times worse.
Hopefully everyone forgets my ink ordeal. If not, well I’m worried all
the people I talked to are going to call me Ink Face.
I for one will not stand for it. I am packing up and moving to Alaska.
OK that’s a bit extreme.
I’ll just use pencils from now on. The worst I can do with a pencil is
poke myself. I’d rather sport a Spiderman Band-Aid anyway.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
A Lake City Chronicle ... When nature attacks
There is a Teenage Mutant Ninja Lizard in my house! I might have a nervous breakdown.
Unfortunately, I now live next to the forest. Seriously, lions, tigers and bears are probably ready to grab me for a meal. And don’t even get me started on how I think Jason, Jack the Ripper or Michael Myers is in hiding in the forest too.
Worst of all there are reptiles: creepy, crawly, scaly reptiles. I think I may have just made an enemy with one.
A lizard came into my apartment today.
I was minding my own business about to leave for work, when a little one immediately came in. It just ran in like it lived here. Call me a punk all you want, but all reptiles make me squeamish, no matter the size.
Immediately I began to scream.
I tried to swat it back out, but I only managed to cut off its tail. At least that’s what I thought it was wiggling around. For all I know a baby snake could have made its way in too.
The lizard did at one point almost go out the door. But then it decided to hide out in the crack between the door and wall. Of course the screaming started again. Next thing I knew, it was back inside.
It finally came to the point of do or die, me or it, now or never. So I manned up and grabbed my ant/roach spray and covered the lizard in the toxic chemicals.
You should have seen it squirm and such. The whole ordeal made me nauseous.
Once the deed was done, I continued my journey to work and decided to get rid of the body when I came home later in the evening.
I called my daddy to tell him of my epic battle. He was not very sympathetic to my plight.
At least the dreaded lizard was dead. I was the victor.
Honestly I sort of felt bad about killing. I probably could have figured out a better method of removing the lizard had I not been so hysterical (PETA please don’t come after me with pitchforks).
But what’s done was done. The lizard was no more.
Or so I thought.
Tonight when I came home from work, I looked in the exact same spot where the lizard and its tail was. And what did I see? NOTHING!
I DON’T KNOW WHERE THE LIZARD IS! IT IS COMPLETELY GONE FROM THE SPOT WITH NO FORWARDING ADDRESS.
I have looked everywhere. There is no trace of a dead lizard.
I called my daddy again and he said there is no need to worry. Lizards are harmless.
That’s easy for him to say. He’s not the one with a lizard, and a potentially mutated one at that.
Part of me is relieved that I didn’t kill it. The other part is about to pee on itself from fear.
That lizard is probably hiding somewhere thinking evil thoughts about me. So now I’m sitting here afraid that a 10-foot-tall mutated lizard is going to grab me out of bed tonight.
I for one will be sleeping with both eyes open, a blunt object and 911 on speed dial.
Unfortunately, I now live next to the forest. Seriously, lions, tigers and bears are probably ready to grab me for a meal. And don’t even get me started on how I think Jason, Jack the Ripper or Michael Myers is in hiding in the forest too.
Worst of all there are reptiles: creepy, crawly, scaly reptiles. I think I may have just made an enemy with one.
A lizard came into my apartment today.
I was minding my own business about to leave for work, when a little one immediately came in. It just ran in like it lived here. Call me a punk all you want, but all reptiles make me squeamish, no matter the size.
Immediately I began to scream.
I tried to swat it back out, but I only managed to cut off its tail. At least that’s what I thought it was wiggling around. For all I know a baby snake could have made its way in too.
The lizard did at one point almost go out the door. But then it decided to hide out in the crack between the door and wall. Of course the screaming started again. Next thing I knew, it was back inside.
It finally came to the point of do or die, me or it, now or never. So I manned up and grabbed my ant/roach spray and covered the lizard in the toxic chemicals.
You should have seen it squirm and such. The whole ordeal made me nauseous.
Once the deed was done, I continued my journey to work and decided to get rid of the body when I came home later in the evening.
I called my daddy to tell him of my epic battle. He was not very sympathetic to my plight.
At least the dreaded lizard was dead. I was the victor.
Honestly I sort of felt bad about killing. I probably could have figured out a better method of removing the lizard had I not been so hysterical (PETA please don’t come after me with pitchforks).
But what’s done was done. The lizard was no more.
Or so I thought.
Tonight when I came home from work, I looked in the exact same spot where the lizard and its tail was. And what did I see? NOTHING!
I DON’T KNOW WHERE THE LIZARD IS! IT IS COMPLETELY GONE FROM THE SPOT WITH NO FORWARDING ADDRESS.
I have looked everywhere. There is no trace of a dead lizard.
I called my daddy again and he said there is no need to worry. Lizards are harmless.
That’s easy for him to say. He’s not the one with a lizard, and a potentially mutated one at that.
Part of me is relieved that I didn’t kill it. The other part is about to pee on itself from fear.
That lizard is probably hiding somewhere thinking evil thoughts about me. So now I’m sitting here afraid that a 10-foot-tall mutated lizard is going to grab me out of bed tonight.
I for one will be sleeping with both eyes open, a blunt object and 911 on speed dial.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Chronicles of Life ... lips do lie
Don’t let the moving lips fool you. I DO NOT talk to myself. I merely think aloud.
Thinking aloud is easily confused with talking to yourself. However, there is a slight difference between the two. You have to answer back to talk to yourself.
If you say something aloud but don't respond or hold a conversation with yourself, then it's OK. You're clearly not talking to yourself.
At least that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
I have no qualms about thinking aloud, but I have noticed with increasing alarm that I do it quite a bit. I do it at work, at home, in the car, in public, wherever, whenever, whyever.
My coworkers notice me thinking aloud all the time. They usually think I’m talking to them. Then they just shrug me off as talking to myself.
To the casual observer, it would appear that I am talking to myself.
Well, I do not have dialogues with myself. Of course, no one probably believes me, but it is indeed the truth.
Sure I mutter about this and that aloud, but I don't go off into a full blown conversation.
The problem is I think aloud so much I tend to forget people are around. I'm just waiting on the day for everyone to start pointing and calling me the crazy lady.
Maybe I need to get a bluetooth so I can just act like I'm on the phone when I'm talking aloud. I used to look at people out the side of my eye when I thought they were having a conversation of one. Then I noticed the bluetooth. I could sport one, and everybody would be none the wiser about me talking aloud.
Or wouldn't it be cool if I could wear an earpiece like the secret service? Those that stared hard enough and saw the earpiece would think I'm like a spy or something. Just call me agent 007.5.
Better yet, I might just learn how to be a ventriloquist, and then my voice could project from someone else. No more crazy stares at me. I'll carry around a dummy named Mortimer and show off my skills.
OK in all honesty, I'm not doing any of the above. I know I'll just keep thinking aloud. I do it too much to stop. I'm not sure I even want to.
I'm comfortable thinking aloud. The rest of the world will just have to deal with it.
We all think to ourselves. I just take it one step further and actually think aloud. I'm not a quiet person anyway, and I like to talk.
Why must our thoughts be confined to the head? That seems a little crazy if you ask me. How do you know the voice you hear in your head is you and not some multiple personality?
At least when I think aloud, I know it's coming from me and not Bertha, the 56-year-old, gruff and tough short order cook inside of my mind.
Shakespeare put it best in "As you like it" when he wrote, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances..."
Well this player tends to have extended soliloquies.
Thinking aloud is easily confused with talking to yourself. However, there is a slight difference between the two. You have to answer back to talk to yourself.
If you say something aloud but don't respond or hold a conversation with yourself, then it's OK. You're clearly not talking to yourself.
At least that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
I have no qualms about thinking aloud, but I have noticed with increasing alarm that I do it quite a bit. I do it at work, at home, in the car, in public, wherever, whenever, whyever.
My coworkers notice me thinking aloud all the time. They usually think I’m talking to them. Then they just shrug me off as talking to myself.
To the casual observer, it would appear that I am talking to myself.
Well, I do not have dialogues with myself. Of course, no one probably believes me, but it is indeed the truth.
Sure I mutter about this and that aloud, but I don't go off into a full blown conversation.
The problem is I think aloud so much I tend to forget people are around. I'm just waiting on the day for everyone to start pointing and calling me the crazy lady.
Maybe I need to get a bluetooth so I can just act like I'm on the phone when I'm talking aloud. I used to look at people out the side of my eye when I thought they were having a conversation of one. Then I noticed the bluetooth. I could sport one, and everybody would be none the wiser about me talking aloud.
Or wouldn't it be cool if I could wear an earpiece like the secret service? Those that stared hard enough and saw the earpiece would think I'm like a spy or something. Just call me agent 007.5.
Better yet, I might just learn how to be a ventriloquist, and then my voice could project from someone else. No more crazy stares at me. I'll carry around a dummy named Mortimer and show off my skills.
OK in all honesty, I'm not doing any of the above. I know I'll just keep thinking aloud. I do it too much to stop. I'm not sure I even want to.
I'm comfortable thinking aloud. The rest of the world will just have to deal with it.
We all think to ourselves. I just take it one step further and actually think aloud. I'm not a quiet person anyway, and I like to talk.
Why must our thoughts be confined to the head? That seems a little crazy if you ask me. How do you know the voice you hear in your head is you and not some multiple personality?
At least when I think aloud, I know it's coming from me and not Bertha, the 56-year-old, gruff and tough short order cook inside of my mind.
Shakespeare put it best in "As you like it" when he wrote, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances..."
Well this player tends to have extended soliloquies.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The Hartwell Chronicles ... saying goodbye
Saying goodbye has never been easy for me. It causes too many questions to pop up in my head.
Questions like, “How do you say goodbye? When do you say it? Can a bye even be good?
I don’t know the answers to these questions. Most people probably don’t know the answers either.
It’s not something they teach in school. You might learn in at home or in the school of life.
Clearly I missed that class.
I wish there as a goodbye manual. I’m no expert at goodbyes. That cancels me out as an authority on writing about the subject.
Goodbyes are always awkward for me, and usually not happy experiences.
Therefore, I am taking a stand against the word goodbye. I refuse to say it.
Such is the case with my recent departure from Hartwell.
I’m not saying goodbye to all my friends and adopted family there. You can’t say goodbye to special memories. Otherwise the situation would just be downright depressing.
Picture it: Sicily 19… wait wrong story.
OK picture me saying goodbye to everyone I know in Hartwell. That would take some years. I haven’t the time or the patience.
Then all those goodbyes would probably make me cry. It’s bad enough I get emotional while packing. And I already have overactive tear ducts. How many tears can a person take?
Too much crying usually causes my sinuses to act up. Next thing you know it, I have a headache, stuffy/runny nose and a host of other problems.
Clearly goodbyes are bad for my life.
Michael Jackson’s birthday is today and the radio is playing his songs non-stop. One song in particular sums up my thoughts on saying goodbye.
“Tell me why, is it so that I never can say goodbye? No, no, no, no. I never can say goodbye.”
I’ll tell you why. Goodbye is an unnatural phrase to utter because it causes confusing feelings.
When my granny died I said at her funeral, “I won’t say goodbye. I’ll just say see you later.”
How do you say goodbye? I don’t know. I can’t comprehend one anyway. But a see you later I can get with.
So my leaving is far from a goodbye, Hartwell. I’ll just see you later.
Questions like, “How do you say goodbye? When do you say it? Can a bye even be good?
I don’t know the answers to these questions. Most people probably don’t know the answers either.
It’s not something they teach in school. You might learn in at home or in the school of life.
Clearly I missed that class.
I wish there as a goodbye manual. I’m no expert at goodbyes. That cancels me out as an authority on writing about the subject.
Goodbyes are always awkward for me, and usually not happy experiences.
Therefore, I am taking a stand against the word goodbye. I refuse to say it.
Such is the case with my recent departure from Hartwell.
I’m not saying goodbye to all my friends and adopted family there. You can’t say goodbye to special memories. Otherwise the situation would just be downright depressing.
Picture it: Sicily 19… wait wrong story.
OK picture me saying goodbye to everyone I know in Hartwell. That would take some years. I haven’t the time or the patience.
Then all those goodbyes would probably make me cry. It’s bad enough I get emotional while packing. And I already have overactive tear ducts. How many tears can a person take?
Too much crying usually causes my sinuses to act up. Next thing you know it, I have a headache, stuffy/runny nose and a host of other problems.
Clearly goodbyes are bad for my life.
Michael Jackson’s birthday is today and the radio is playing his songs non-stop. One song in particular sums up my thoughts on saying goodbye.
“Tell me why, is it so that I never can say goodbye? No, no, no, no. I never can say goodbye.”
I’ll tell you why. Goodbye is an unnatural phrase to utter because it causes confusing feelings.
When my granny died I said at her funeral, “I won’t say goodbye. I’ll just say see you later.”
How do you say goodbye? I don’t know. I can’t comprehend one anyway. But a see you later I can get with.
So my leaving is far from a goodbye, Hartwell. I’ll just see you later.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Chronicles of Life ... Sensitive v. Desensitized
While talking about yesterday’s incident, my mentor brought up an interesting point: Are black people sometimes too sensitive about certain situations, or have others become too desensitized over time?
She asked would I have been offended if another black person said the exact same "Aunt Jemima" commen. Yes! Ignorance goes many ways. For instance, I hate when other black people call my hair nappy. The word denotes images of coarse, unmanageable and bad hair. My hair is none of the above. It’s soft, easy to deal with and healthy, therefore good.
But I digress.
My mentor’s first question was an interesting point to ponder. I’ve often wonder that about myself based on my reactions to certain incidents.
When the whole Jena 6 incident happened I wondered what the whole uproar was about, and why was every upset. It seemed simple to me. Noose or not, there was no need to jump somebody. Six boys beat up one. Duh, they should go to jail.
Maybe being charged as adults was harsh, but if you do the crime you do the time. They brought that on themselves. So I, for one, was not taking time off to march for criminals.
Was I desensitized?
Then again, there was the yearbook incident at Charter Oak High School in California. Someone placed faked names on the real ones of Black Student Union members. The names were negative, stereotypical ones such as Tay-Tay Shaniqua. Those students ended up having to place stickers with their real names over the fake ones.
How that got through the final rounds of proofreading is beyond me. Clearly that issue was wrong. I was outraged at that ignorant prank.
Am I too sensitive?
And who can forget the whole Skip Gates issue? His neighbor called the cops saying two black men were breaking into a house. Once the police arrived, tempers flared. Gates was arrested and the race card was thrown.
How did I feel? Was I desensitized or sensitive? The jury’s still out on that one. Race could have been a factor, but so were attitudes.
I just want to know, can I get an Arnold Palmer Summit (it’s like the beer summit except you drink sweet tea and lemonade mixed) for my incident?
Many black people are overly sensitive. We do throw the race card, a lot. Sometimes it’s at things that have nothing to do with race. But there are indeed many instances when it is justifiable.
I look at it like this: The Civil Rights Movement didn’t really end until 1968, if that early. It’s now 2009. That is only 41 years. Just how much progress do we expect?
Sure we have a “black” president, but that definitely doesn’t mean all ignorance is gone. And I don’t mean just between black and white people. Hispanics, Asians and homosexuals are still trying to progress too.
The racial divide and inequality gap has closed somewhat, but there is still a long way to go.
I can’t speak for all black people, just myself. So here's my attempt at answering the question.
At times I am desensitized about issues. Not because I think black people have finally “arrived,” but because sometimes there’s a whole lot of hoopla over nothing.
But I also know when to be sensitive about something. Not because I want to throw out the race card, but because ignorance is still around.
She asked would I have been offended if another black person said the exact same "Aunt Jemima" commen. Yes! Ignorance goes many ways. For instance, I hate when other black people call my hair nappy. The word denotes images of coarse, unmanageable and bad hair. My hair is none of the above. It’s soft, easy to deal with and healthy, therefore good.
But I digress.
My mentor’s first question was an interesting point to ponder. I’ve often wonder that about myself based on my reactions to certain incidents.
When the whole Jena 6 incident happened I wondered what the whole uproar was about, and why was every upset. It seemed simple to me. Noose or not, there was no need to jump somebody. Six boys beat up one. Duh, they should go to jail.
Maybe being charged as adults was harsh, but if you do the crime you do the time. They brought that on themselves. So I, for one, was not taking time off to march for criminals.
Was I desensitized?
Then again, there was the yearbook incident at Charter Oak High School in California. Someone placed faked names on the real ones of Black Student Union members. The names were negative, stereotypical ones such as Tay-Tay Shaniqua. Those students ended up having to place stickers with their real names over the fake ones.
How that got through the final rounds of proofreading is beyond me. Clearly that issue was wrong. I was outraged at that ignorant prank.
Am I too sensitive?
And who can forget the whole Skip Gates issue? His neighbor called the cops saying two black men were breaking into a house. Once the police arrived, tempers flared. Gates was arrested and the race card was thrown.
How did I feel? Was I desensitized or sensitive? The jury’s still out on that one. Race could have been a factor, but so were attitudes.
I just want to know, can I get an Arnold Palmer Summit (it’s like the beer summit except you drink sweet tea and lemonade mixed) for my incident?
Many black people are overly sensitive. We do throw the race card, a lot. Sometimes it’s at things that have nothing to do with race. But there are indeed many instances when it is justifiable.
I look at it like this: The Civil Rights Movement didn’t really end until 1968, if that early. It’s now 2009. That is only 41 years. Just how much progress do we expect?
Sure we have a “black” president, but that definitely doesn’t mean all ignorance is gone. And I don’t mean just between black and white people. Hispanics, Asians and homosexuals are still trying to progress too.
The racial divide and inequality gap has closed somewhat, but there is still a long way to go.
I can’t speak for all black people, just myself. So here's my attempt at answering the question.
At times I am desensitized about issues. Not because I think black people have finally “arrived,” but because sometimes there’s a whole lot of hoopla over nothing.
But I also know when to be sensitive about something. Not because I want to throw out the race card, but because ignorance is still around.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Chronicles of Life ... What not to say
Even in the 21st century, sensitivity and diversity seem to be an issue in the community. Some people just don’t know what to say to each other.
Perhaps I need to write a training manual to help people avoid making ignorant comments.
I have been inspired by an incident today.
I was rocking a head wrap, as I sometimes do, and walked passed someone. She preceded to ask me, “What’s with the Aunt Jemima look?”
Well you could have just knocked me over with a feather. I was flabbergasted.
This isn’t the first time I've worn the head wrap. In fact, each time people have responded with comments such as, “Oh you look so chic, sophisticated, stylish,” and so on.
Normally, I don’t have comebacks for ignorant comments. This time I did say something.
“This is not an Aunt Jemima look,” (and I didn’t even catch an attitude, I might add).
But what I should have said is, “And just what do you mean by that?”
Obviously it wasn’t a compliment. It felt more like an insult to me.
Aunt Jemima doesn’t really denote a positive connotation in my opinion.
Look at the old school images of Aunt Jemima, and what do you see? A a plump, smiling, bright-eyed, black woman wearing a head rag. Aunt Jemima was even marketed as a former slave.
Above all, Aunt Jemima is the most common representation of a “mammy.” Who in their right might would mistake me for a mammy?
In the words of my friend Cee, “I don’t know who you think you are, but most importantly I don’t know who you think I am.”
Whether or not the person knows the story behind Aunt Jemima is unimportant. The fact that she even thought a comment like that was acceptable is just disturbing.
Then again, I can’t be that surprised to hear her ask me that. She’s asked in the past if I rolled my neck and do other things “that black people do.”
I know she’s not the only one who thinks like that and sees no harm in asking ignorant questions. Thus, the need for my manual.
Fan Club Prez, and a few others, thinks I should have told her off or drop kicked her one time.
That’s not my style. And what would it have solved? She would have still been basking in her ignorance, while I would have looked equally ignorant and gotten arrested.
Above all, I have a fear of getting arrested and ending up as Big Shirley’s girlfriend in the pen. You know they probably would trade me around for a pack of gum and cigarettes. It just ain’t happening.
I’d love to print off pictures of myself and Aunt Jemima, then give them onto her with a note that says, “Ignorance is bliss.”
Then again, I’m not that confrontational. Besides the moment has passed, so there’s only one thing left to say, “Mrs. Jane Doe, you get a DO BETTER AWARD!”
Her prize is an autographed copy of my forth coming manual, “What Not to Say: Dealing with Diversity and Sensitivity.”
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
chronicles of life ... in theaters one summer
Fade from black into a scene featuring Taraji P. Henson lying in bed. Suddenly her alarm clock goes off.
It is 7 a.m.
She groans and rolls over to hit the snooze button.
The camera shifts to Taraji brushing her teeth.
Then she is walking out her front door with a bagel in one hand and keys in the other.
She yells a good-bye to her fish, Murphie, and mumbles a mantra to herself.
Thus begins my movie.
Yes, one day I am going to have a major box office blockbuster called “Small Town Single.” It is an adaptation of my semi-autobiographical novel of the same name.
Taraji is in fact me (well not exactly me, but there will be certain mannerisms that will clue people in).
The story chronicles a small town newspaper reporter as she goes through a year or two of dating and relating after a breakup.
I won’t give the plot away and spoil it for you (mainly because I haven’t actually wrote the book yet, much less the screenplay but it is in the works). You’ll just have to wait on your ticket to the advance premier screening.
My movie will make you laugh, cry, laugh some more, feel angry, but mostly laugh.
I’m thinking it’s going to be a comedy, not necessarily a romantic one mind you. It might fall into the chic flick category, but not because its all girlie girlie haha.
Seriously, I am far from girlie girlie haha. I just happen to be a funny girl, woman, young lady.
I’ve already asked some friends who would they like to play them in the movie.
So far the cast list includes Keshia Knight-Pulliam, Kerry Washington, Gabrielle Union, Cameron Diaz, Anthony Anderson and Brad Pitt. As you can see it will have several A-listers.
The cast list is far from complete. I don’t even know who all the book characters will be. All will definitely not make it in the movie.
I’m still working on a director, but Judd Apatow, Drew Berrymore and Sanaa Hamri are being heavily considered.
Key cast members will be my friends/co-workers. However, I will be lacking some family representation.
Why, because certain individuals laughed at the idea of me having a movie.
I called my mother one day and said, “Hey, who do you want to play you in my movie?”
“In your movie?” she said. “Nobody even knows you!”
This was followed by a round of laughter, much to my chagrin.
To make it even worse, my brother said the Discovery Channel was more interesting that my life, therefore a movie about me would be boring.
Their roles have been cut.
My dad still can be in it. Marvin Sapp will portray him in a brief church scene.
That’s what those two get for trying to douse my dream and calling me lame.
OK, I am sort of lame, but believe me, my movie will be 10 times as interesting as my real life.
That is the beauty of it being MY MOVIE! I can make myself even more fabulous than I already am.
Naturally if the book is going to be a page turner, then the movie will be awesome.
I’m aiming for number one box office spot opening weekend. So don’t go bootleging my movie.
Just remember, coming soon to a theatre near you, “Small Town Single,” based on the novel by AJR.
Check both out one day.
It is 7 a.m.
She groans and rolls over to hit the snooze button.
The camera shifts to Taraji brushing her teeth.
Then she is walking out her front door with a bagel in one hand and keys in the other.
She yells a good-bye to her fish, Murphie, and mumbles a mantra to herself.
Thus begins my movie.
Yes, one day I am going to have a major box office blockbuster called “Small Town Single.” It is an adaptation of my semi-autobiographical novel of the same name.
Taraji is in fact me (well not exactly me, but there will be certain mannerisms that will clue people in).
The story chronicles a small town newspaper reporter as she goes through a year or two of dating and relating after a breakup.
I won’t give the plot away and spoil it for you (mainly because I haven’t actually wrote the book yet, much less the screenplay but it is in the works). You’ll just have to wait on your ticket to the advance premier screening.
My movie will make you laugh, cry, laugh some more, feel angry, but mostly laugh.
I’m thinking it’s going to be a comedy, not necessarily a romantic one mind you. It might fall into the chic flick category, but not because its all girlie girlie haha.
Seriously, I am far from girlie girlie haha. I just happen to be a funny girl, woman, young lady.
I’ve already asked some friends who would they like to play them in the movie.
So far the cast list includes Keshia Knight-Pulliam, Kerry Washington, Gabrielle Union, Cameron Diaz, Anthony Anderson and Brad Pitt. As you can see it will have several A-listers.
The cast list is far from complete. I don’t even know who all the book characters will be. All will definitely not make it in the movie.
I’m still working on a director, but Judd Apatow, Drew Berrymore and Sanaa Hamri are being heavily considered.
Key cast members will be my friends/co-workers. However, I will be lacking some family representation.
Why, because certain individuals laughed at the idea of me having a movie.
I called my mother one day and said, “Hey, who do you want to play you in my movie?”
“In your movie?” she said. “Nobody even knows you!”
This was followed by a round of laughter, much to my chagrin.
To make it even worse, my brother said the Discovery Channel was more interesting that my life, therefore a movie about me would be boring.
Their roles have been cut.
My dad still can be in it. Marvin Sapp will portray him in a brief church scene.
That’s what those two get for trying to douse my dream and calling me lame.
OK, I am sort of lame, but believe me, my movie will be 10 times as interesting as my real life.
That is the beauty of it being MY MOVIE! I can make myself even more fabulous than I already am.
Naturally if the book is going to be a page turner, then the movie will be awesome.
I’m aiming for number one box office spot opening weekend. So don’t go bootleging my movie.
Just remember, coming soon to a theatre near you, “Small Town Single,” based on the novel by AJR.
Check both out one day.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Chronicles of Life … great news for the fam
Normally on Wednesdays, I block out the world and take a 13.5 hour nap. Today was the same, except I woke up at 2:30 a.m., checked my text messages, and now I can’t get back to sleep. My mom texted me some GREAT news: my brother’s tumor is gone!
Praise the Lord, cut the cake and let’s all dance!
My family found out AQ had a tumor in his stomach in late May. I hit the road quicker than lightening to make a trip home, soon as I heard. We may fuss, fight and argue on a regular, but I love my little brother. He’s irreplaceable.
I prayed and cried the whole trip down, because I know a tumor usually denotes cancer. Cancer is not something I would wish on anybody, and it seems even worse when it’s a child. Little Brother was just 16 (17 now) and a rising senior in high school.
Doctors did a biopsy and spinal tap and got the results. We soon learned he has Burkitt’s lymphoma and would be undergoing chemotherapy for about six months.
Burkitt’s lymphoma is an uncommon type of Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma that commonly affects children. The abdomen is usually the area that is affected for children in the United States and Europe (lymph nodes are the case in equatorial Africa). It is a fast-growing cancer, but Burkitt’s lymphoma responds really well to chemotherapy and is quite curable. Later relapses are hardly seen.
It was not as bad as it could have been. But of course we still were quite upset that he even had cancer. My parents and I were buckets of tears when the doctor told us that news. We made sure to dry up though so my brother wouldn’t see us and get depressed too.
I spent a few nights in the hospital with my brother, much to his dismay. I was the absolute best nurse, in my opinion. His every need was anticipated. Although soon he started cussing me out because I was “annoying him,” and he seemed just a little too happy when I left. Mind you, I was practically in tears because I didn’t want to leave my poor baby. But I make sure to call him (or at least both my parents) every day, sometimes multiple times even. I get hung up on a lot, or ignored calls. I’m not sure why.
But I digress.
That first week in the hospital was filled with visits from family and friends (and my own friends all called me on a regular for updates). They came to show their love and support and offer prayers. I think I heard at least a good 20 prayers. My dad is a pastor and most of his friends are too. Every night seemed like a new prayer meeting.
Prayer is good and does indeed change things. My brother has to go to the hospital every month for a weeklong treatment of chemotherapy. When doctors did the second biopsy in June, 50 percent of the tumor was gone. They were only expecting 20 percent. The chemo was working, but God was working more.
My brother is bald right now (I cut my hair in solidarity) and extremely skinny, but he’s been in good spirits about the whole cancer situation. He makes jokes saying: he is going to ride his bicycle from Jacksonville, Fla. to Palatka, Fla. and get a medal like Lance Armstrong; he is now excused from all gift giving because he has cancer; or the girls all love his sexy bald head (he actually doesn’t look too bad).
I think he has one more treatment in September then he’s done. Yay!
I am thankful to everyone for all their thoughts and prayers. That is what helped my family get through this.
It was too late/early to call anyone, so writing it out was the next best thing. Now we can all rejoice at this great news.
Praise the Lord, cut the cake and let’s all dance!
My family found out AQ had a tumor in his stomach in late May. I hit the road quicker than lightening to make a trip home, soon as I heard. We may fuss, fight and argue on a regular, but I love my little brother. He’s irreplaceable.
I prayed and cried the whole trip down, because I know a tumor usually denotes cancer. Cancer is not something I would wish on anybody, and it seems even worse when it’s a child. Little Brother was just 16 (17 now) and a rising senior in high school.
Doctors did a biopsy and spinal tap and got the results. We soon learned he has Burkitt’s lymphoma and would be undergoing chemotherapy for about six months.
Burkitt’s lymphoma is an uncommon type of Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma that commonly affects children. The abdomen is usually the area that is affected for children in the United States and Europe (lymph nodes are the case in equatorial Africa). It is a fast-growing cancer, but Burkitt’s lymphoma responds really well to chemotherapy and is quite curable. Later relapses are hardly seen.
It was not as bad as it could have been. But of course we still were quite upset that he even had cancer. My parents and I were buckets of tears when the doctor told us that news. We made sure to dry up though so my brother wouldn’t see us and get depressed too.
I spent a few nights in the hospital with my brother, much to his dismay. I was the absolute best nurse, in my opinion. His every need was anticipated. Although soon he started cussing me out because I was “annoying him,” and he seemed just a little too happy when I left. Mind you, I was practically in tears because I didn’t want to leave my poor baby. But I make sure to call him (or at least both my parents) every day, sometimes multiple times even. I get hung up on a lot, or ignored calls. I’m not sure why.
But I digress.
That first week in the hospital was filled with visits from family and friends (and my own friends all called me on a regular for updates). They came to show their love and support and offer prayers. I think I heard at least a good 20 prayers. My dad is a pastor and most of his friends are too. Every night seemed like a new prayer meeting.
Prayer is good and does indeed change things. My brother has to go to the hospital every month for a weeklong treatment of chemotherapy. When doctors did the second biopsy in June, 50 percent of the tumor was gone. They were only expecting 20 percent. The chemo was working, but God was working more.
My brother is bald right now (I cut my hair in solidarity) and extremely skinny, but he’s been in good spirits about the whole cancer situation. He makes jokes saying: he is going to ride his bicycle from Jacksonville, Fla. to Palatka, Fla. and get a medal like Lance Armstrong; he is now excused from all gift giving because he has cancer; or the girls all love his sexy bald head (he actually doesn’t look too bad).
I think he has one more treatment in September then he’s done. Yay!
I am thankful to everyone for all their thoughts and prayers. That is what helped my family get through this.
It was too late/early to call anyone, so writing it out was the next best thing. Now we can all rejoice at this great news.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Chronicles of Life ... Auntie-for-hire
At 24, my maternal instincts haven’t kicked in yet, but I am quite ready to be an auntie.
I want millions of nieces and nephews running around in shirts that say, “I’m as cute as my auntie,” or “Auntie’s baby.”
This fixation with being an aunt was bound to happen sooner or later.
I think aunties are the third greatest people after grandmothers, who are number one, and mothers who are number two.
Clearly if I’m not a mother I can’t be a grandmother. I do think I could definitely handle being a grandmother. You don’t have to put in nearly as much effort into raising grandkids as your did your own children (unless you are completely raising them).
I’m not at that level to be a mother, but oh an auntie I could be.
I tried the cool older cousin thing. It didn’t work because I had a heifer of an ex-cousin (yes, I do disown unappreciative kin).
I tried the cool young mentor thing. It was moderately successful during the school year.
Naturally, the next step is the cool auntie.
However, there are several obstacles standing in my way. The chief one being my only brother is still but a babe of 17.
He better not have children any time soon or I will beat him silly. Neither my nerves nor my parents’ could take him procreating just yet.
I do have millions of little cousins running around. I could probably claim one of them as a niece or nephew, but even that plan has a few flaws. Mainly I don’t think most of them even like me.
Perhaps it is because they don’t know me.
I was away in college when most of them were born. They know my brother and just look at me like, “Who are you and why should we care?”
It kind of lowers your self-esteem to hear a little child act all disinterested in you when you’re trying to bond but brighten up with such joy when they see everyone else, especially your brother. I’m not jealous, just unloved.
I need to start afresh with somebody else’s baby who can grow to adore me as the cool favorite auntie.
None of my friends are expecting, and even if they were we don’t live in the same area. The ones with nieces and nephews aren’t sharing.
So where does that leave me? Niece and nephewless.
Or does it?
Undeterred, I have decided to proclaim myself an auntie-for-hire.
I know there is someone out there whose children are lacking the joys of a cool, young and hip auntie. I just know I was meant to be such a person.
I would love to spoil somebody else’s child with lots of attention, gifts and whatever else being an auntie entails. I'm not really sure about all the duties of an auntie. Hopefully diaper changes, getting covered in drool and cleaning dirty noses aren't a part of it.
It can't be that hard, because at the end of the day the children go home to their parents. Not me!
Ralphie, my betta fish, and I can’t be bothered with full-time children. We’re just fine with part-timers.
I can’t possibly mess up a child with me for only part of the day.
I know my brother wants to have at least four children in the future. Well I can’t wait that long.
The time is now for me to be elevated to the status of auntie.
Now if only I knew who was in need of an auntie-for-hire. This future auntie is ready and waiting.
I want millions of nieces and nephews running around in shirts that say, “I’m as cute as my auntie,” or “Auntie’s baby.”
This fixation with being an aunt was bound to happen sooner or later.
I think aunties are the third greatest people after grandmothers, who are number one, and mothers who are number two.
Clearly if I’m not a mother I can’t be a grandmother. I do think I could definitely handle being a grandmother. You don’t have to put in nearly as much effort into raising grandkids as your did your own children (unless you are completely raising them).
I’m not at that level to be a mother, but oh an auntie I could be.
I tried the cool older cousin thing. It didn’t work because I had a heifer of an ex-cousin (yes, I do disown unappreciative kin).
I tried the cool young mentor thing. It was moderately successful during the school year.
Naturally, the next step is the cool auntie.
However, there are several obstacles standing in my way. The chief one being my only brother is still but a babe of 17.
He better not have children any time soon or I will beat him silly. Neither my nerves nor my parents’ could take him procreating just yet.
I do have millions of little cousins running around. I could probably claim one of them as a niece or nephew, but even that plan has a few flaws. Mainly I don’t think most of them even like me.
Perhaps it is because they don’t know me.
I was away in college when most of them were born. They know my brother and just look at me like, “Who are you and why should we care?”
It kind of lowers your self-esteem to hear a little child act all disinterested in you when you’re trying to bond but brighten up with such joy when they see everyone else, especially your brother. I’m not jealous, just unloved.
I need to start afresh with somebody else’s baby who can grow to adore me as the cool favorite auntie.
None of my friends are expecting, and even if they were we don’t live in the same area. The ones with nieces and nephews aren’t sharing.
So where does that leave me? Niece and nephewless.
Or does it?
Undeterred, I have decided to proclaim myself an auntie-for-hire.
I know there is someone out there whose children are lacking the joys of a cool, young and hip auntie. I just know I was meant to be such a person.
I would love to spoil somebody else’s child with lots of attention, gifts and whatever else being an auntie entails. I'm not really sure about all the duties of an auntie. Hopefully diaper changes, getting covered in drool and cleaning dirty noses aren't a part of it.
It can't be that hard, because at the end of the day the children go home to their parents. Not me!
Ralphie, my betta fish, and I can’t be bothered with full-time children. We’re just fine with part-timers.
I can’t possibly mess up a child with me for only part of the day.
I know my brother wants to have at least four children in the future. Well I can’t wait that long.
The time is now for me to be elevated to the status of auntie.
Now if only I knew who was in need of an auntie-for-hire. This future auntie is ready and waiting.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Chronicles of Life ... Fabulously Fly
I am what some would consider a fashion disaster most days. I defy, well actually ignore, fashion rules and trends.
My hair is usually wild and unruly (or at least it was back when I had hair). My style is considered non-existent by my friends and families.
Personally, I don’t care. I do me (and I do it well). However, there are those very few occasions when I conform to normal beauty standards and might make people think I am a fashionista.
They are rare, very rare. Like maybe once every six months rare.
I can turn heads quicker than lightning with the right hair style, outfit and shoes. Yes, I do clean up quite nicely, I must admit. Of course the compliments just flow right it.
“Girl you look good! Sexy mama! Watch out now!”
But the one saying that really grinds my gears is “What’s his name?”
What, I can’t look good just for me?
I’ve been asked that quite a few times lately. I now cheerfully responded, “Jesus.”
Anytime I change up my look or style people chalk it up to some dude. I have never changed my look for anyone except myself.
Even though my brother was the basis for me cutting my hair, I had thrown the idea around of actually doing it for a while.
If I get a mani/pedi it’s for me. These freshly arched eyebrows point to my enjoyment. I am rocking the fro in recognition of my own beauty.
Believe me, my ego is already so inflated that I know how fly I am even on those “rough days.” I don’t have to step it up to notice it. And if I do, you can bet it isn’t for some man.
As one friend pointed out, men don’t really even notice things like arched eyebrows or manicures. Women do it for other women.
I am sure men appreciate the overall package. But seriously who really pays that much attention to detail? Surely not I. And I’m a woman.
At any rate, I would prefer some guy catch me on my regular days. Being extra fabulous is too much work for me.
I’ll just stick to my normal fabulously fly self.
My hair is usually wild and unruly (or at least it was back when I had hair). My style is considered non-existent by my friends and families.
Personally, I don’t care. I do me (and I do it well). However, there are those very few occasions when I conform to normal beauty standards and might make people think I am a fashionista.
They are rare, very rare. Like maybe once every six months rare.
I can turn heads quicker than lightning with the right hair style, outfit and shoes. Yes, I do clean up quite nicely, I must admit. Of course the compliments just flow right it.
“Girl you look good! Sexy mama! Watch out now!”
But the one saying that really grinds my gears is “What’s his name?”
What, I can’t look good just for me?
I’ve been asked that quite a few times lately. I now cheerfully responded, “Jesus.”
Anytime I change up my look or style people chalk it up to some dude. I have never changed my look for anyone except myself.
Even though my brother was the basis for me cutting my hair, I had thrown the idea around of actually doing it for a while.
If I get a mani/pedi it’s for me. These freshly arched eyebrows point to my enjoyment. I am rocking the fro in recognition of my own beauty.
Believe me, my ego is already so inflated that I know how fly I am even on those “rough days.” I don’t have to step it up to notice it. And if I do, you can bet it isn’t for some man.
As one friend pointed out, men don’t really even notice things like arched eyebrows or manicures. Women do it for other women.
I am sure men appreciate the overall package. But seriously who really pays that much attention to detail? Surely not I. And I’m a woman.
At any rate, I would prefer some guy catch me on my regular days. Being extra fabulous is too much work for me.
I’ll just stick to my normal fabulously fly self.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Chronicles of Life ... my favorite things
I am going to be bigger than Oprah one day (in name only, not weight).
In my continuing quest to take over her empire, I have decided it is now time to present a few of my favorite things.
She highlights them on her show and O Magazine and tells you where to get them.
It shall be called A Magazine when I take over. Hilarity will ensue similar to the “Who’s on First” shtick.
But I digress.
In no particular order, my favorite things include:
1. Birthday Cake. I love cake. It is my weakness. Any problem can be solved with a slice or two of birthday cake. And no, I am not talking about that corn bread with icing they sell at Wal-Mart. I have a special fondness in my heart for birthday cake from Publix. Of course a real bakery is always a good choice too.
2. Reading. Not only is it fundamental, it’s entertaining. I read an equal amount of fiction and non-fiction each day. I like reading mystery novels first and foremost. I’m also starting to really get into speculative fiction. On the non-fiction sphere I enjoy newspapers, magazines and blogs. But I will read a good non-fiction book, if it’s written like a novel.
3. Ryan Leslie. Not only is his voice amazing, but he has superb lyrics. Furthermore, his backing music touches my soul. Just listen to “Irina” and you’ll hear the greatness that is him. I love that song simply because of the music. The lyrics are really sweet too. And the good thing is all of his songs are like that.
4. Solange. She is not the anti-Beyonce, she is just herself. I follow her on Twitter and the girl is raw. We should totally hang out and become BFFs. Also, her music speaks to my soul. I feel like some of the songs on Sol-Angel and the Hadley Street Dreams were taken from a page in my journal. Great minds do indeed think alike.
5. Cee’s nephew. He’s adorable, entertaining and 3. He is the epitome of my favorite thing. I’ve only seen him once but he stole my heart. If I was a preschooler we would absolutely have to hang in the same circle. Cee says he has me wrapped around his finger. I think she’s a hater. He said I was one of his favorite people too.
6. The phrase, “I can’t be bothered.” That one sentence is versatile for any situation. It conveys my exact sentiments. Sometimes you just can’t be bothered. When I say that, you know exactly how I feel. There is no need to say any more.
7. Twitter. God bless the inventor of Twitter. Mirco-blogging is the wave of the future. I do so enjoy keeping a journal, but it is not feasible to write my every thought every second of the day. Well it is with Twitter (providing it’s in 140 characters or less). I might not post a note or blog for days, but I tweet at least 10 times an hour. What I love best about Twitter is it allows a random person like me an additional outlet to post my random ramblings.
8.Ralphie. Yes, the fish made the list. I don’t think people realize just how much I love that little red betta. He helps calm my nerves on any given day. He is also an excellent listener (yes, I do talk to my fish). If everyone owned a betta fish the world would be a better place.
9. Turkey meat. I don’t know why some people treat turkey like the red-headed step cousin of the food world. It’s not just for special occasions like Thanksgiving. I only cook chicken and turkey. On any given night you will find turkey wings, ground turkey, turkey breast filets and much more in my house. Turkey meat is absolutely delicious.
10. My family/friends. They’re crazy, loud and annoying at times, but I wouldn’t trade them for the world. It takes a special person to deal with me. Some are born into it. Others (for some strange reason) choose to. I appreciate each and everyone of them. I might not call as much as I should, but they’re never far from my thoughts.
Now if only someone would just list me as one of their favorite things...
In my continuing quest to take over her empire, I have decided it is now time to present a few of my favorite things.
She highlights them on her show and O Magazine and tells you where to get them.
It shall be called A Magazine when I take over. Hilarity will ensue similar to the “Who’s on First” shtick.
But I digress.
In no particular order, my favorite things include:
1. Birthday Cake. I love cake. It is my weakness. Any problem can be solved with a slice or two of birthday cake. And no, I am not talking about that corn bread with icing they sell at Wal-Mart. I have a special fondness in my heart for birthday cake from Publix. Of course a real bakery is always a good choice too.
2. Reading. Not only is it fundamental, it’s entertaining. I read an equal amount of fiction and non-fiction each day. I like reading mystery novels first and foremost. I’m also starting to really get into speculative fiction. On the non-fiction sphere I enjoy newspapers, magazines and blogs. But I will read a good non-fiction book, if it’s written like a novel.
3. Ryan Leslie. Not only is his voice amazing, but he has superb lyrics. Furthermore, his backing music touches my soul. Just listen to “Irina” and you’ll hear the greatness that is him. I love that song simply because of the music. The lyrics are really sweet too. And the good thing is all of his songs are like that.
4. Solange. She is not the anti-Beyonce, she is just herself. I follow her on Twitter and the girl is raw. We should totally hang out and become BFFs. Also, her music speaks to my soul. I feel like some of the songs on Sol-Angel and the Hadley Street Dreams were taken from a page in my journal. Great minds do indeed think alike.
5. Cee’s nephew. He’s adorable, entertaining and 3. He is the epitome of my favorite thing. I’ve only seen him once but he stole my heart. If I was a preschooler we would absolutely have to hang in the same circle. Cee says he has me wrapped around his finger. I think she’s a hater. He said I was one of his favorite people too.
6. The phrase, “I can’t be bothered.” That one sentence is versatile for any situation. It conveys my exact sentiments. Sometimes you just can’t be bothered. When I say that, you know exactly how I feel. There is no need to say any more.
7. Twitter. God bless the inventor of Twitter. Mirco-blogging is the wave of the future. I do so enjoy keeping a journal, but it is not feasible to write my every thought every second of the day. Well it is with Twitter (providing it’s in 140 characters or less). I might not post a note or blog for days, but I tweet at least 10 times an hour. What I love best about Twitter is it allows a random person like me an additional outlet to post my random ramblings.
8.Ralphie. Yes, the fish made the list. I don’t think people realize just how much I love that little red betta. He helps calm my nerves on any given day. He is also an excellent listener (yes, I do talk to my fish). If everyone owned a betta fish the world would be a better place.
9. Turkey meat. I don’t know why some people treat turkey like the red-headed step cousin of the food world. It’s not just for special occasions like Thanksgiving. I only cook chicken and turkey. On any given night you will find turkey wings, ground turkey, turkey breast filets and much more in my house. Turkey meat is absolutely delicious.
10. My family/friends. They’re crazy, loud and annoying at times, but I wouldn’t trade them for the world. It takes a special person to deal with me. Some are born into it. Others (for some strange reason) choose to. I appreciate each and everyone of them. I might not call as much as I should, but they’re never far from my thoughts.
Now if only someone would just list me as one of their favorite things...
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Chronicles of Life ... the best man i can’t be
I have a not so secret addiction to Esquire.
Each month, I read over every single page of the magazine, soaking in all that is carefully written.
Some of the information I can apply to my own life, like knowing how to soothe a crying baby, jump-starting a car or making a great omelette.
Others not so much, well, because I’m not a man.
Esquire is the quintessential men’s magazine.
It has almost everything a man needs to know to be at his best. That is after all its motto: man at his best.
Well what magazine is the female equivalent? None of them!
I would have to get at least 10 women magazines to equal one issue of Esquire.
I can’t be bothered!
I have subscriptions to three magazines: Esquire because it’s amazing, Rolling Stone for the music lover in me, and Essence to inspire me as a black woman.
Clearly there is no time to read nine other women magazines.
Don’t get me wrong. I adore being a girl, but my fear is I’ll know how to be the best man possible and end up the worst woman ever.
The pages of Esquire teach how to dress, impress and jest in an easy-to-follow guide.
Each issue is filled with practical information and tackles diverse topics from politics to fashion and everything in between. And the articles, oh those magnificent articles, are always thought-provoking, informative and enriching.
Women’s magazines, such as Cosmo, are too superficial for me. There is more to a woman than just relationships, wearing the latest trends and getting a hot body.
Can I get an article of some substance, please? The likes of "Ways to train your boyfriend" do not count.
You can't even compare that to stories like "Tonight on Dateline This Man Will Die," which can be found in Esquire. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.
I will admit Essence comes pretty close to a comprehensive women’s magazine. But sometimes it seems to only scratch the surface, leaving me hungry as if I only ate an appetizer. I need more depth, more substance, more something.
Where is my main course like Esquire?
I guess wanting an end-all be-all women’s magazine is asking for a little too much.
As one friend pointed out, men are simple creatures. One magazine can very well suit their purposes.
Women on the other hand are too complex to have an all-encompassing magazine. Therefore we have several dedicated to our womanly issues such as fashion, sex, good house keeping, etc.
Perhaps I shouldn’t try to look in the pages of a magazine to learn how to be the best I can be. I just have to live and learn.
But a few cliff notes would be nice.
Each month, I read over every single page of the magazine, soaking in all that is carefully written.
Some of the information I can apply to my own life, like knowing how to soothe a crying baby, jump-starting a car or making a great omelette.
Others not so much, well, because I’m not a man.
Esquire is the quintessential men’s magazine.
It has almost everything a man needs to know to be at his best. That is after all its motto: man at his best.
Well what magazine is the female equivalent? None of them!
I would have to get at least 10 women magazines to equal one issue of Esquire.
I can’t be bothered!
I have subscriptions to three magazines: Esquire because it’s amazing, Rolling Stone for the music lover in me, and Essence to inspire me as a black woman.
Clearly there is no time to read nine other women magazines.
Don’t get me wrong. I adore being a girl, but my fear is I’ll know how to be the best man possible and end up the worst woman ever.
The pages of Esquire teach how to dress, impress and jest in an easy-to-follow guide.
Each issue is filled with practical information and tackles diverse topics from politics to fashion and everything in between. And the articles, oh those magnificent articles, are always thought-provoking, informative and enriching.
Women’s magazines, such as Cosmo, are too superficial for me. There is more to a woman than just relationships, wearing the latest trends and getting a hot body.
Can I get an article of some substance, please? The likes of "Ways to train your boyfriend" do not count.
You can't even compare that to stories like "Tonight on Dateline This Man Will Die," which can be found in Esquire. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.
I will admit Essence comes pretty close to a comprehensive women’s magazine. But sometimes it seems to only scratch the surface, leaving me hungry as if I only ate an appetizer. I need more depth, more substance, more something.
Where is my main course like Esquire?
I guess wanting an end-all be-all women’s magazine is asking for a little too much.
As one friend pointed out, men are simple creatures. One magazine can very well suit their purposes.
Women on the other hand are too complex to have an all-encompassing magazine. Therefore we have several dedicated to our womanly issues such as fashion, sex, good house keeping, etc.
Perhaps I shouldn’t try to look in the pages of a magazine to learn how to be the best I can be. I just have to live and learn.
But a few cliff notes would be nice.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Chronicles of Life ... random religious thoughts
Some people look for signs of Jesus’ existence in big booming miracles.
Not so for me. Give me the little things.
I have “Jesus is real” moments everyday.
Take for instance gas prices.
At one point gas was nearing $4 a gallon. It was costing a small fortune to fill up the Green Machine.
Monday gas was $2.16, and I filled up for $23. Jesus is real!
Then there was the time when I was starving and ready to eat a small child. I had no money and lunch was still a few hours off.
I went to my car to get a note pad, and voila, there was nearly $1 in change on the floor. Just enough money for me to head to the snack machine.
Yet another “Jesus is real” moment.
My all time favorite is when I see a fine looking specimen of a man. I’m talking about one who just bring tears to your eyes because of his beauty.
As Cee would say, “Jesus is real and there is a God.”
The Lord wakes me up each morning, but I tend to take that for granted. Having my “Jesus is Real” moments helps me remember to thank the Lord for every blessing, no matter how big or how small... Does anyone else think those e-mail and text message forwards about God are annoying? You know, the ones where it says send to 10 people if you love God.
Well I love God but I hate forwarding, so I usually don’t send them.
They always have some message at the bottom calling you out if you don’t join the e-mail/text chain.
No, I am not ashamed of God. I highly doubt I am blocking a financial blessing. And the little e-mail angel is definitely not watching over me.
Last I checked, my relationship with God was not dependent upon responding to modern technology. It’s a personal thing.
Send me your forwards and e-mails if you must, just know you won’t get one back from me... I think people say the phrase, “God knows my heart,” a little to loosely.
Even I used to throw it out without really thinking.
Then one day I realized God indeed knows my heart. He sees that evil streak inside.
Personally, that made me a little nervous. Here I am saying it all lightly and he could just zap me.
I don’t know about you, but I’m not saying it anymore... I have a serious problem. I am a sermon critic.
Maybe that’s why I’m not a member of any church.
Despite what my parents think, I don’t stay home out of laziness. I stay home because if I don’t like a sermon I can’t be bothered.
I think it’s my daddy’s fault.
I’ve been hearing his preaching for as long as I can remember and tend to critique others based on his style.
I can take bad singing. I can stand Sunday morning service chaos. However, I will not and can not tolerate a bad sermon.
I look for several things in a sermon including: were there points and illustrations, was it informative and entertaining and was it grammatically sound?
This year Cee and I set out on our “get right before you get left” weekly worship experience. That was a bust
It’s July and I’m still churchless.
We often said we wished my daddy had a church here. We definitely could get right then.
Nevertheless, I will continue on my search for a church home.
In the meantime I need to start getting taped copies of my daddy’s sermons... I am so glad God is patience and loving. I am not.
Once Cee was reading a few stories from the Bible. One told of how Sarah lied to the Lord.
She laughed and God asked her why did she do it, then Sarah had the nerve to say she didn’t.
Now if it had been me I would have just went, “Zap, your dead.”
You don’t lie to the Lord!
The Bible is filled with zap moments.
If left up to me, there wouldn’t be an old testament because Abraham, Moses and a few others would have been zapped
It’s a wonder we even have any people.
I know God probably gets fed up with us and wants to zapped everybody. But he doesn’t.
Thank God for grace and mercy.
Not so for me. Give me the little things.
I have “Jesus is real” moments everyday.
Take for instance gas prices.
At one point gas was nearing $4 a gallon. It was costing a small fortune to fill up the Green Machine.
Monday gas was $2.16, and I filled up for $23. Jesus is real!
Then there was the time when I was starving and ready to eat a small child. I had no money and lunch was still a few hours off.
I went to my car to get a note pad, and voila, there was nearly $1 in change on the floor. Just enough money for me to head to the snack machine.
Yet another “Jesus is real” moment.
My all time favorite is when I see a fine looking specimen of a man. I’m talking about one who just bring tears to your eyes because of his beauty.
As Cee would say, “Jesus is real and there is a God.”
The Lord wakes me up each morning, but I tend to take that for granted. Having my “Jesus is Real” moments helps me remember to thank the Lord for every blessing, no matter how big or how small... Does anyone else think those e-mail and text message forwards about God are annoying? You know, the ones where it says send to 10 people if you love God.
Well I love God but I hate forwarding, so I usually don’t send them.
They always have some message at the bottom calling you out if you don’t join the e-mail/text chain.
No, I am not ashamed of God. I highly doubt I am blocking a financial blessing. And the little e-mail angel is definitely not watching over me.
Last I checked, my relationship with God was not dependent upon responding to modern technology. It’s a personal thing.
Send me your forwards and e-mails if you must, just know you won’t get one back from me... I think people say the phrase, “God knows my heart,” a little to loosely.
Even I used to throw it out without really thinking.
Then one day I realized God indeed knows my heart. He sees that evil streak inside.
Personally, that made me a little nervous. Here I am saying it all lightly and he could just zap me.
I don’t know about you, but I’m not saying it anymore... I have a serious problem. I am a sermon critic.
Maybe that’s why I’m not a member of any church.
Despite what my parents think, I don’t stay home out of laziness. I stay home because if I don’t like a sermon I can’t be bothered.
I think it’s my daddy’s fault.
I’ve been hearing his preaching for as long as I can remember and tend to critique others based on his style.
I can take bad singing. I can stand Sunday morning service chaos. However, I will not and can not tolerate a bad sermon.
I look for several things in a sermon including: were there points and illustrations, was it informative and entertaining and was it grammatically sound?
This year Cee and I set out on our “get right before you get left” weekly worship experience. That was a bust
It’s July and I’m still churchless.
We often said we wished my daddy had a church here. We definitely could get right then.
Nevertheless, I will continue on my search for a church home.
In the meantime I need to start getting taped copies of my daddy’s sermons... I am so glad God is patience and loving. I am not.
Once Cee was reading a few stories from the Bible. One told of how Sarah lied to the Lord.
She laughed and God asked her why did she do it, then Sarah had the nerve to say she didn’t.
Now if it had been me I would have just went, “Zap, your dead.”
You don’t lie to the Lord!
The Bible is filled with zap moments.
If left up to me, there wouldn’t be an old testament because Abraham, Moses and a few others would have been zapped
It’s a wonder we even have any people.
I know God probably gets fed up with us and wants to zapped everybody. But he doesn’t.
Thank God for grace and mercy.
The Hartwell Chronicles ... Have you seen me?
I’ve always heard that everyone has a twin. You know, a person totally unrelated who looks (and in some cases even acts) like you.
Apparently, I have a few in Georgia.
The first person was actually another reporter at a sister paper.
I went to a play one night and several people kept saying her name. I didn’t realize they were talking to me.
Finally, one woman came up and asked, “Aren’t you XYZ?”
“No, I’m me.”
“Oh you two look just alike,” she said.
After that I was itching to meet my twin. We finally met at a company conference.
And guess what? We look nothing alike.
She’s taller, thinner and has relaxed hair. Her complexion is a bit lighter too.
Other than the fact we’re both reporters that wear glasses and are black, we look and act nothing alike. We often joke about how people mix us up.
She’s a really nice person. So it’s not so bad being mistaken for her.
I’d rather be mistaken for her then Evillene, the Wicked Witch of the West.
There’s another woman in town people call my twin. I think it’s because we both have natural hair, and even that’s a stretch.
Her hair is past shoulder length and in locs. I tend to keep my short and in a puff or twists.
She’s a cool cat too, though.
One day I’m going to ask her if anyone ever mistakes her for me.
It was about a year before I met my so called “true blue twin.”
Several people thought I was either her or related to her. Someone even said her son looks more like me than my own little brother.
I once met her aunt, and she thought I was my twin at first glance.
I knew I had to meet this woman.
Finally I did, by chance.
I was out interviewing people and came across her one day. She asked my name and said, “You’re the one everybody says I look like.”
“You must be my twin,” I said. “It’s nice to finally met you.”
And it was except, again, I saw no similarities.
I was expecting to see a lot more, since even her aunt said we looked alike.
Personally, I don’t really think I have a twin. I look uniquely like me.
Then again it was years before I saw how much I looked like my parents.
There is a photographer named Francois Brunelle who likes to find non-related twins around the world and photograph them together for his Web site, http://www.francoisbrunelle.com/.
So if you should happen to see my “twin” let me know and we can get photographed for the Web site.
It would be a shame to not share double the beauty.
Apparently, I have a few in Georgia.
The first person was actually another reporter at a sister paper.
I went to a play one night and several people kept saying her name. I didn’t realize they were talking to me.
Finally, one woman came up and asked, “Aren’t you XYZ?”
“No, I’m me.”
“Oh you two look just alike,” she said.
After that I was itching to meet my twin. We finally met at a company conference.
And guess what? We look nothing alike.
She’s taller, thinner and has relaxed hair. Her complexion is a bit lighter too.
Other than the fact we’re both reporters that wear glasses and are black, we look and act nothing alike. We often joke about how people mix us up.
She’s a really nice person. So it’s not so bad being mistaken for her.
I’d rather be mistaken for her then Evillene, the Wicked Witch of the West.
There’s another woman in town people call my twin. I think it’s because we both have natural hair, and even that’s a stretch.
Her hair is past shoulder length and in locs. I tend to keep my short and in a puff or twists.
She’s a cool cat too, though.
One day I’m going to ask her if anyone ever mistakes her for me.
It was about a year before I met my so called “true blue twin.”
Several people thought I was either her or related to her. Someone even said her son looks more like me than my own little brother.
I once met her aunt, and she thought I was my twin at first glance.
I knew I had to meet this woman.
Finally I did, by chance.
I was out interviewing people and came across her one day. She asked my name and said, “You’re the one everybody says I look like.”
“You must be my twin,” I said. “It’s nice to finally met you.”
And it was except, again, I saw no similarities.
I was expecting to see a lot more, since even her aunt said we looked alike.
Personally, I don’t really think I have a twin. I look uniquely like me.
Then again it was years before I saw how much I looked like my parents.
There is a photographer named Francois Brunelle who likes to find non-related twins around the world and photograph them together for his Web site, http://www.francoisbrunelle.com/.
So if you should happen to see my “twin” let me know and we can get photographed for the Web site.
It would be a shame to not share double the beauty.
Chronicles of Life ... When insanity attacks
Perhaps, I really have gone off the deep end.
The signs have been apparent to everyone else for some time now. But I’m just finally recognizing them.
Recently Cee told me, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
Well just sign me up for a brand new jacket that makes me hug myself constantly, because by golly I always do that.
For instance, I know that if I wash my hair on an empty stomach I’ll will soon feel faint in the shower. My blood sugar level always seems to drop in all of the heat and steam.
Yet once a week, I still end up in the shower dizzy. Then I have to hurry and rinse out my shampoo so I can add the conditioner, hop out the shower and gulp down some orange juice to bring my blood sugar level back up.
After the ordeal, I always pledge to start eating before my weekly hair washing ritual.
That pledge lasts until the conditioner is washed out.
Next week I’m back in the same predicament.
You would think I’ve learned by now.
But hair is the least of my worries.
I tend to do bad repeats in many facets of my life: relationships, money and anything else you can name.
Clearly someone needs to call the nut house for me.
Maybe I’m not insane, just a simpleton. But how could that be?
I graduated from one of the top high schools and colleges in the nation.
My mother certainly didn’t raise any dummies.
At the very least, I’m smarter than the average bear.
But smart in what way, books only?
I am totally lacking in the common sense department.
Am I insane in the membrane or just a Simple Simone?
Either way it goes, that’s a problem and making me a prime candidate for a do better award.
I know the saying is if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Maybe I need to start trying again with new methods to get the end results I want.
Otherwise I’m just plain crazy.
The signs have been apparent to everyone else for some time now. But I’m just finally recognizing them.
Recently Cee told me, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
Well just sign me up for a brand new jacket that makes me hug myself constantly, because by golly I always do that.
For instance, I know that if I wash my hair on an empty stomach I’ll will soon feel faint in the shower. My blood sugar level always seems to drop in all of the heat and steam.
Yet once a week, I still end up in the shower dizzy. Then I have to hurry and rinse out my shampoo so I can add the conditioner, hop out the shower and gulp down some orange juice to bring my blood sugar level back up.
After the ordeal, I always pledge to start eating before my weekly hair washing ritual.
That pledge lasts until the conditioner is washed out.
Next week I’m back in the same predicament.
You would think I’ve learned by now.
But hair is the least of my worries.
I tend to do bad repeats in many facets of my life: relationships, money and anything else you can name.
Clearly someone needs to call the nut house for me.
Maybe I’m not insane, just a simpleton. But how could that be?
I graduated from one of the top high schools and colleges in the nation.
My mother certainly didn’t raise any dummies.
At the very least, I’m smarter than the average bear.
But smart in what way, books only?
I am totally lacking in the common sense department.
Am I insane in the membrane or just a Simple Simone?
Either way it goes, that’s a problem and making me a prime candidate for a do better award.
I know the saying is if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Maybe I need to start trying again with new methods to get the end results I want.
Otherwise I’m just plain crazy.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Chronicles of Life ... Writer’s Block
It’s been a while since I’ve posted to my blog, Facebook or anywhere, but not due to a lack of ideas. Moreso a lack of liking the end results of said ideas.
I think I’ve been dealing with a bout of writer’s block. But it’s not the traditional kind where you can’t write.
On the contrary, I have been writing quite a bit. I am just not motivated to post it.
I think the problem is I’m my own worse critic.
Aren’t we all?
So I write something and then think it sucks and decide to let it marinate in my mind for a few.
Well a few days turns into weeks, months maybe even years.
I think I’ve been too concerned with whether anyone else will like it or not.
Poppycock!
My chronicles are actual (altered) entries from my journal.
Since when does one start caring what others think about their journal entries? Exactly when did I start caring?
I don’t know. What I do know is it’s time for me to get back to I can’t be bothered mode. Otherwise I’ll scrutinize every little thing I write.
Don’t get me wrong, some scrutiny is always needed. But not to the point where I’m second guessing myself.
It’s giving me an ulcer and flaring up my acid reflex.
Therefore, I pledge to do better in the month of July. I will write and post and post and write until my fingers fall off.
And I will do it for myself.
I’ll still continue to critique my stuff, but at least I’ll post first.
There’s nothing worse than a pile of chronicles of my computer that have never been posted.
I only have so much free space on my new laptop anyway. The least I could do is free it up.
Maybe then I’ll be free from the writer’s block.
I think I’ve been dealing with a bout of writer’s block. But it’s not the traditional kind where you can’t write.
On the contrary, I have been writing quite a bit. I am just not motivated to post it.
I think the problem is I’m my own worse critic.
Aren’t we all?
So I write something and then think it sucks and decide to let it marinate in my mind for a few.
Well a few days turns into weeks, months maybe even years.
I think I’ve been too concerned with whether anyone else will like it or not.
Poppycock!
My chronicles are actual (altered) entries from my journal.
Since when does one start caring what others think about their journal entries? Exactly when did I start caring?
I don’t know. What I do know is it’s time for me to get back to I can’t be bothered mode. Otherwise I’ll scrutinize every little thing I write.
Don’t get me wrong, some scrutiny is always needed. But not to the point where I’m second guessing myself.
It’s giving me an ulcer and flaring up my acid reflex.
Therefore, I pledge to do better in the month of July. I will write and post and post and write until my fingers fall off.
And I will do it for myself.
I’ll still continue to critique my stuff, but at least I’ll post first.
There’s nothing worse than a pile of chronicles of my computer that have never been posted.
I only have so much free space on my new laptop anyway. The least I could do is free it up.
Maybe then I’ll be free from the writer’s block.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Chronicles of Life… are you Easy
I sort of have a school girl crush on Ezekiel “Easy” Rawlins.
He is everything a girl/woman could want: street-wise, hard-boiled and downright sexy. Easy has the swagger THAT young and old men alike only wish they could possess.
Men either love or hate him. And women just love him.
Despite being in his late 40s, he can hang with the best of them.
He takes care of his own children, as well as countless others, and watches out for his fellow man.
Can you blame me for drooling over the very thought of him?
I met Easy one night after coming home from a long day’s work.
See he’s a private eye. But not your every day, average run of the mill type PI.
He learns what people want hidden. Find what the police can’t, and makes it all seem so “Easy.”
Easy used to be an unlicensed PI. But he’s so smooth the cops practically begged to give him a license.
But I digress.
He was on the trail of the murderer of a missing woman when I was first introduced to him.
Yes, he’s constantly in harms way. I feared for his safety every turn of the page.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, Easy’s not real. He’s the protagonist of Walter Mosley’s Easy Rawlins Mysteries.
Denzel Washington brought him to life in the movie “Devil in a Blue Dress,” which was based on the first book of the series. Soon as I finish the series, I plan on watching the movie to see if it’s close to the book.
That’s going to be a bittersweet moment.
I started reading the series backwards in chronological order because I’m crazy. So I already know how it ends … for now.
Yes, Walter Mosley is trying to punk us all into thinking Easy is dead. I refuse to believe it.
If people can still believe Elvis, Tupac and Biggie are alive, why can’t I hold out for Easy?
I still have two books left in the series, and I’m almost certain I might cry when I’m through.
This crush didn’t happen over night.
The first book merely had me intrigued with Easy. Book two deepened my interest.
But by book three I was sprung like spring.
If only I could meet a real Easy.
Part of me wonders if the character is somewhat based on Mosley himself. I can dig it.
Sure he may be 56, but have you heard his voice? He sounds simply irresistible.
I could love that voice.
Mosley has been added to the list of people I have to meet.
When that day comes, I am simply going to ask “Are you Easy?” Then he is required to read no less than three chapters of one of the books aloud to me, while I sit and swoon over him.
I haven’t decided on which book yet. Maybe “Black Betty” because the ending was purely poetic justice.
Easy has a tendency of doing that.
So how am I going to ever survive without him?
Maybe the Fearless Jones series will spark a new crush. And I am eagerly anticipating reading the Leonid McGill series.
But deep down I know none can quite compare to Easy.
He is everything a girl/woman could want: street-wise, hard-boiled and downright sexy. Easy has the swagger THAT young and old men alike only wish they could possess.
Men either love or hate him. And women just love him.
Despite being in his late 40s, he can hang with the best of them.
He takes care of his own children, as well as countless others, and watches out for his fellow man.
Can you blame me for drooling over the very thought of him?
I met Easy one night after coming home from a long day’s work.
See he’s a private eye. But not your every day, average run of the mill type PI.
He learns what people want hidden. Find what the police can’t, and makes it all seem so “Easy.”
Easy used to be an unlicensed PI. But he’s so smooth the cops practically begged to give him a license.
But I digress.
He was on the trail of the murderer of a missing woman when I was first introduced to him.
Yes, he’s constantly in harms way. I feared for his safety every turn of the page.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, Easy’s not real. He’s the protagonist of Walter Mosley’s Easy Rawlins Mysteries.
Denzel Washington brought him to life in the movie “Devil in a Blue Dress,” which was based on the first book of the series. Soon as I finish the series, I plan on watching the movie to see if it’s close to the book.
That’s going to be a bittersweet moment.
I started reading the series backwards in chronological order because I’m crazy. So I already know how it ends … for now.
Yes, Walter Mosley is trying to punk us all into thinking Easy is dead. I refuse to believe it.
If people can still believe Elvis, Tupac and Biggie are alive, why can’t I hold out for Easy?
I still have two books left in the series, and I’m almost certain I might cry when I’m through.
This crush didn’t happen over night.
The first book merely had me intrigued with Easy. Book two deepened my interest.
But by book three I was sprung like spring.
If only I could meet a real Easy.
Part of me wonders if the character is somewhat based on Mosley himself. I can dig it.
Sure he may be 56, but have you heard his voice? He sounds simply irresistible.
I could love that voice.
Mosley has been added to the list of people I have to meet.
When that day comes, I am simply going to ask “Are you Easy?” Then he is required to read no less than three chapters of one of the books aloud to me, while I sit and swoon over him.
I haven’t decided on which book yet. Maybe “Black Betty” because the ending was purely poetic justice.
Easy has a tendency of doing that.
So how am I going to ever survive without him?
Maybe the Fearless Jones series will spark a new crush. And I am eagerly anticipating reading the Leonid McGill series.
But deep down I know none can quite compare to Easy.
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