It’s happening again. The dreaded yuckies are attacking me. But I refuse to let a cold bring me down. Not too long ago it seemed like I was sick for a year. Actually it was just November and half of December. I exaggerate sometimes. Normally I’m never sick for more than a few days each month – blame my week immune system - but something got a hold of me back then an wouldn’t let go, and I don’t mean the Holy Ghost.
It took a while for me to realize I wasn’t getting better after my first week. I tried Benadryl, Sudafed, Nightquil and two bottles of Robitussin. I drunk tea with honey by the pound and went through 10 boxes of tissues. The sickness still lingered. Finally I gave up and went to the doctor who diagnosed me with bronchitis. I got a prescription for Amoxicillin and thought everything would be cleared up by the time the bottle ran out. Wrong! I continued coughing like death was right around the corner. The constant runny nose and overall feeling of fatigue would not leave.
I went back to the doctor and he prescribed a Z-Pack which finally got the job done. Apparently, all of that could have been avoided if I had listened to old school remedies. Not the mustard plaster and garlic in the shoe my mother is always talking about (Voodoo). Or Father John – which tastes like death - my daddy champions. I’m breaking out alcohol, lemon juice and honey.
I heard so many variants of that remedy while sick. Some said use gin. Others prescribed whiskey. I’ve even heard vodka. I guess which alcohol is used doesn’t really matter. The point is it will knock you out and knock out whatever you have in the process. Getting drunk is the answer to sickness per the old folks. And you thought Grandma kept that Captain Morgan around just for rum cakes.
I have no fear of becoming a lush. There’s a bottle of vodka and tequila from about two years ago still in the bar. Maybe instead of reaching for that pack of Theraflu, I’ll try the bar. Liquor might just be quicker (just kidding).
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Au Natural Haters
There is something so special about natural hair that people just have to hate it. Many think it’s unmanageable, unattractive or unprofessional, and they have no problem sharing those sentiments. People have forgotten the courtesy rule, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”
Six years ago I transitioned from silky straight locks to an afro puff. Most people love my hair, but there are a few haters. Papa Duke is my chief hair hater. He constantly tells me to get a relaxer. One opinion of his is my hair will limit me in the professional world. It hasn’t stopped me yet. A longtime bestie already told me my hair must be straight for her wedding. OK I will straighten it for a day, but it will be twisted back up by the next. They both would prefer I have it bone straight with a bouncy wrap style. No thank you!
My granny and aunt both think my hair hinders my dating appeal. I’m often told I need to do something with my hair if I want to attract anyone. Another bestie shared a guy friend told her no man really likes natural hair. She pointed out a mutual friend with natural hair started straightening it and got a man, thus I need to do the same. In that case sign me up for cat ladyhood. I’m not one to change for other people.
Perhaps the biggest haters come from people at church. One member told me God wasn’t pleased with my hair. I told her God wasn’t pleased with her attitude. Another called my hair was short and nappy compared to my brother’s nice and silky grade. I had cut my hair off in solidarity for him losing his due to chemo. His hair grew back a different texture after treatments. She got the side-eye. Of course there are just the plain old rude ones that say “I don’t like it.” Well good thing it’s on my head and not yours.
I can’t make people accept my natural hair. They can’t make me relax it either. If loving my natural hair is wrong, I refuse to be right. Just keep hating haters.
Six years ago I transitioned from silky straight locks to an afro puff. Most people love my hair, but there are a few haters. Papa Duke is my chief hair hater. He constantly tells me to get a relaxer. One opinion of his is my hair will limit me in the professional world. It hasn’t stopped me yet. A longtime bestie already told me my hair must be straight for her wedding. OK I will straighten it for a day, but it will be twisted back up by the next. They both would prefer I have it bone straight with a bouncy wrap style. No thank you!
My granny and aunt both think my hair hinders my dating appeal. I’m often told I need to do something with my hair if I want to attract anyone. Another bestie shared a guy friend told her no man really likes natural hair. She pointed out a mutual friend with natural hair started straightening it and got a man, thus I need to do the same. In that case sign me up for cat ladyhood. I’m not one to change for other people.
Perhaps the biggest haters come from people at church. One member told me God wasn’t pleased with my hair. I told her God wasn’t pleased with her attitude. Another called my hair was short and nappy compared to my brother’s nice and silky grade. I had cut my hair off in solidarity for him losing his due to chemo. His hair grew back a different texture after treatments. She got the side-eye. Of course there are just the plain old rude ones that say “I don’t like it.” Well good thing it’s on my head and not yours.
I can’t make people accept my natural hair. They can’t make me relax it either. If loving my natural hair is wrong, I refuse to be right. Just keep hating haters.
Friday, March 25, 2011
The Rotten Cousin
Only one word can describe me as a child: rotten. I was the brat of the family for the longest time. I grew up mainly around my paternal family. Many of us went to the same church or schools and lived close to each other. My rottenness wasn’t to everyone. Oh I could be so sweet and innocent to my grandma, aunts and uncles. It was my cousins who had to deal with all my misdeeds.
Not too long ago I had an in-depth conversation with Ma Dukes about my rotten years. She knew I was pretty terrible as her child, but didn’t know of just how bad my cousins got it from me too. I was the family tattle tale if any of my cousins said or did something I didn’t like. One year at Christmas the big cousins wouldn’t let me play The Game of Life. I whined to our grandma who promptly fussed at them for keeping me out of the game.
There were also two older cousins I always had to bother. I called one stupid all the time and hit another (for no reason other than pure evilness). Only because I was little girl saved me from a few well-deserved beat downs. But I wasn’t mean to all my cousins. A few others just probably thought I was annoying for always following them underfoot.
Ma Dukes said it’s a wonder any of my cousins still talk to me today because of my behavior. It was hard being one of the youngest cousins in a big family. No one takes you seriously (until you kick them). I was just an “innocent” bystander in the cousin hierarchy. Little cousins are supposed to be bad.
Now I’m a big cousin, but most of my little cousins aren’t interested in me. I was away in college while most were born, and they all seem to adore my younger brother. However, they did take revenge for their parents at my graduation party by all jumping on my back. Guess I deserved it. But no one is beating up on me or calling me names. Unlike my older cousins I will fight a rotten little child.
Not too long ago I had an in-depth conversation with Ma Dukes about my rotten years. She knew I was pretty terrible as her child, but didn’t know of just how bad my cousins got it from me too. I was the family tattle tale if any of my cousins said or did something I didn’t like. One year at Christmas the big cousins wouldn’t let me play The Game of Life. I whined to our grandma who promptly fussed at them for keeping me out of the game.
There were also two older cousins I always had to bother. I called one stupid all the time and hit another (for no reason other than pure evilness). Only because I was little girl saved me from a few well-deserved beat downs. But I wasn’t mean to all my cousins. A few others just probably thought I was annoying for always following them underfoot.
Ma Dukes said it’s a wonder any of my cousins still talk to me today because of my behavior. It was hard being one of the youngest cousins in a big family. No one takes you seriously (until you kick them). I was just an “innocent” bystander in the cousin hierarchy. Little cousins are supposed to be bad.
Now I’m a big cousin, but most of my little cousins aren’t interested in me. I was away in college while most were born, and they all seem to adore my younger brother. However, they did take revenge for their parents at my graduation party by all jumping on my back. Guess I deserved it. But no one is beating up on me or calling me names. Unlike my older cousins I will fight a rotten little child.
A temperamental tale
The ancient Greek physician Hippocrates was on to something when he came up with the ancient medical concept of humorism. Essentially he believed a person’s personality was caused by body fluids or humors: blood, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm. From there sprung up the four temperaments of psychology. The humors were correlated to temperaments: sanguine for blood, melancholic for yellow bile, choleric for black bile and phlegmatic for phlegm.
It was during a leadership conference I first learned of the four temperaments. The presenter in one session had us take a temperament test to see where we fell in the scale. Some were half and half, others were a mix of all four. I was solidly sanguine and couldn’t have been happier. Sanguines are known as extroverts, talkers and optimists. Who wouldn’t want to be that temperament? Plus it sounds a whole lot better than the rest of the lot.
Everyone was grouped into their temperament categories, and the speaker started reading off the strengths and weaknesses. Cholerics are leaders but have type A personalities. Melancholics are deeply thoughtful yet can be perfectionists. Phelegmatics are easy going but can seem unmotivated. Then she got to Sanguines: the people person.
Sanguines are talkative (check), have energy and enthusiasm (double check) and are great storytellers (BINGO). What could possibly be weaknesses of this temperament? Unfortunately a Sanguine is a Compulsive talker (so I talk a lot), has restless energy (is it a crime to want to move around?) and exaggerates and elaborates (OK I might tell a tall tale here or there). When you get right down to it a Sanguine’s strength is also its weakness. I’m my own worst enemy. Oh the horror!
If others point out one of my tragic character flaws – such as forgetting names – I say it’s because of my temperament. But I can’t just chalk up shortcomings to my temperament, despite how much I want to. Knowing your temperament is only good if you not only learn your strengths but work to improve weaknesses. It is up to me to break out of the negative areas of my temperament. I wouldn’t be a sanguine otherwise. We’re known for changeable dispositions anyway.
It was during a leadership conference I first learned of the four temperaments. The presenter in one session had us take a temperament test to see where we fell in the scale. Some were half and half, others were a mix of all four. I was solidly sanguine and couldn’t have been happier. Sanguines are known as extroverts, talkers and optimists. Who wouldn’t want to be that temperament? Plus it sounds a whole lot better than the rest of the lot.
Everyone was grouped into their temperament categories, and the speaker started reading off the strengths and weaknesses. Cholerics are leaders but have type A personalities. Melancholics are deeply thoughtful yet can be perfectionists. Phelegmatics are easy going but can seem unmotivated. Then she got to Sanguines: the people person.
Sanguines are talkative (check), have energy and enthusiasm (double check) and are great storytellers (BINGO). What could possibly be weaknesses of this temperament? Unfortunately a Sanguine is a Compulsive talker (so I talk a lot), has restless energy (is it a crime to want to move around?) and exaggerates and elaborates (OK I might tell a tall tale here or there). When you get right down to it a Sanguine’s strength is also its weakness. I’m my own worst enemy. Oh the horror!
If others point out one of my tragic character flaws – such as forgetting names – I say it’s because of my temperament. But I can’t just chalk up shortcomings to my temperament, despite how much I want to. Knowing your temperament is only good if you not only learn your strengths but work to improve weaknesses. It is up to me to break out of the negative areas of my temperament. I wouldn’t be a sanguine otherwise. We’re known for changeable dispositions anyway.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Blocking the writing flow
It’s Writing Wednesday. Do you know where your post is? Neither do I. I was hit by the dreaded – dun, dun, dun – writer’s block. It happens. I am only a mere mortal. Sometimes writing for the man takes away my writing creativity and energy. That great idea I had in my head turns out to be not so great once typed up. The last paragraph in a potential post won’t come to me. Or I lack motivation to even write about a particular topic. And writing everyday for National Blog Posting Month has taken all the good ideas.
I used to stare at a blank screen wishing for inspiration to flow from the heavens above into my hands below to cure writer’s block. Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that. Staring gets you nowhere. Instead you have to take more drastic measures. Several different “cures” help with my writer’s block as I’ve discovered over the years.
Reading. Sometimes I’ll read a newspaper, visit a blog or look at old posts of mine. Reading gets your mind off of what you need to write and clears the way for creative inspiration. And remember a good writer is a good reader.
Word Jumble. There is something about having to organize random letters to figure out a word that relaxes my writing muscles. If I’m stressed at work, or lacking inspiration I head to the daily jumble. Plus the accompanying joke is always good for a laugh.
Coloring. There’s a reason I ask Ma Dukes for a coloring book in my Easter baskets. I have an assumed alias named Hambone Fisher (age 5) that colors pictures for people. I’m usually ready to write after Hambone finishes a masterpiece.
Clawdeen Wolf. My Clawdeen Wolf doll sits on my desk waiting for her hair to be styled at a moment’s notice. It’s amazing how inspiring a French braid can be.
Writing. When all else fails, I just write whatever whenever to ease the block. Sometimes it doesn’t make sense, but it gets thoughts out. I make heads and tails of the words once the writer’s block is gone. Much like I did with this post. Perhaps there is method to my madness.
I used to stare at a blank screen wishing for inspiration to flow from the heavens above into my hands below to cure writer’s block. Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that. Staring gets you nowhere. Instead you have to take more drastic measures. Several different “cures” help with my writer’s block as I’ve discovered over the years.
Reading. Sometimes I’ll read a newspaper, visit a blog or look at old posts of mine. Reading gets your mind off of what you need to write and clears the way for creative inspiration. And remember a good writer is a good reader.
Word Jumble. There is something about having to organize random letters to figure out a word that relaxes my writing muscles. If I’m stressed at work, or lacking inspiration I head to the daily jumble. Plus the accompanying joke is always good for a laugh.
Coloring. There’s a reason I ask Ma Dukes for a coloring book in my Easter baskets. I have an assumed alias named Hambone Fisher (age 5) that colors pictures for people. I’m usually ready to write after Hambone finishes a masterpiece.
Clawdeen Wolf. My Clawdeen Wolf doll sits on my desk waiting for her hair to be styled at a moment’s notice. It’s amazing how inspiring a French braid can be.
Writing. When all else fails, I just write whatever whenever to ease the block. Sometimes it doesn’t make sense, but it gets thoughts out. I make heads and tails of the words once the writer’s block is gone. Much like I did with this post. Perhaps there is method to my madness.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
The reader
Reading has been my favorite hobby since I was a child. It comes in handy for my line of work anyway. I have it on very good authority that most of the best writers are also readers. One of my best friends thinks I’m lame because I spend the majority of my time reading instead of watching TV. I think Grouch Marx said it best, “I find television to be very educating. Every time somebody turns on the set, I go in the other room and read a book.” Mysteries are my preferred genre of choice, but I have been known to throw science fiction, romance or something else in the mix. Here are a few of my favorite authors.
Walter Mosley
I’ve read every book in the Easy Rawlings series, and my favorite is “Black Betty.” One of my goals in life is to have Walter Mosley read a chapter of it aloud to me. Also I have a school girl crush on Easy Rawlings . If only he were real.
Lillian Jackson Braun
She’s probably close to 100 these days and is the author of “The Cat Who” series which features a former reporter, turned millionaire and amateur sleuth. He gets help in solving mysteries from his exceptionally talented Siamese cat. For a while I wanted a Siamese cat because of this series.
Valerie Wilson Wesley
She is my third favorite mystery novelist. Her Tamara Hayle mysteries feature a relatable character who reminds me of my mom, close friends and self. I don’t read her books. I devour them. One does not last a day with me.
Carl Hiassen
He writes “environmental thrillers” which make the reader root for nature. The first book I read by him was “Tourist Season” for my History of Journalism class. It was a page turner, much like all his books. I loved it and have a copy for my library.
Tananarive Due
I never heard of speculative fiction (a branch of sci-fi) until I started reading her books. It’s a hard call, but “The Between” is probably my favorite book by her. She meshes elements of the supernatural with just good old-fashion solid storytelling.
Walter Mosley
I’ve read every book in the Easy Rawlings series, and my favorite is “Black Betty.” One of my goals in life is to have Walter Mosley read a chapter of it aloud to me. Also I have a school girl crush on Easy Rawlings . If only he were real.
Lillian Jackson Braun
She’s probably close to 100 these days and is the author of “The Cat Who” series which features a former reporter, turned millionaire and amateur sleuth. He gets help in solving mysteries from his exceptionally talented Siamese cat. For a while I wanted a Siamese cat because of this series.
Valerie Wilson Wesley
She is my third favorite mystery novelist. Her Tamara Hayle mysteries feature a relatable character who reminds me of my mom, close friends and self. I don’t read her books. I devour them. One does not last a day with me.
Carl Hiassen
He writes “environmental thrillers” which make the reader root for nature. The first book I read by him was “Tourist Season” for my History of Journalism class. It was a page turner, much like all his books. I loved it and have a copy for my library.
Tananarive Due
I never heard of speculative fiction (a branch of sci-fi) until I started reading her books. It’s a hard call, but “The Between” is probably my favorite book by her. She meshes elements of the supernatural with just good old-fashion solid storytelling.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Career Days
Teacher: What do you want to be when you grow up?
Student: I want to be a ... doctor, ballerina, ninja.
Most children don’t really know what they want to be as adults. Visit an elementary school on career day and students will emphatically pick a certain career this year and something totally different the next. Young Logan probably wanted to be a rich logging tycoon before becoming the beloved X-Men Wolverine. I proclaimed my career choice in fourth grade. To this day I’ve actually stuck with it.
One day my fourth grade teacher, Ms. Brown, made the class write an essay entitled “If I ran away to the circus I would be...” I said the ring master because I loved talking and being the center of attention. I also said I would be a clown to make others laugh (even though I strongly dislike clowns). The essay was forgotten until several weeks later the principal announced in music class it won four tickets to the Ringling Bros. Circus. Apparently our class assignment was part of a citywide radio station contest. Winning that contest sparked something in me: I could write. I declared myself a writer from that moment on and was blessed to have the support of family, friends and school officials.
Folks had me writing for any and every thing after that day. No one was really sure what area of writing I would go into, especially me. Would I write poetry (I’m not that deep), plays (I have writing ADD) or short stories (fiction is hard to make up)? In middle school I decided to be a reporter. Getting a round of applause for my first article in the school paper was a major ego boost. It reinforced my childhood theory, “you get things for writing.”
Here I am 16 years later living my childhood dream as a newspaper writer (an award winning one too). I’m just glad I outgrew my pre-school career choice of a pay-for- lady (a cashier). Children might be fickle in their aspirations now, but encourage them in their quest for finding their dream career. One day they might really just grow up to be that childhood dream.
Student: I want to be a ... doctor, ballerina, ninja.
Most children don’t really know what they want to be as adults. Visit an elementary school on career day and students will emphatically pick a certain career this year and something totally different the next. Young Logan probably wanted to be a rich logging tycoon before becoming the beloved X-Men Wolverine. I proclaimed my career choice in fourth grade. To this day I’ve actually stuck with it.
One day my fourth grade teacher, Ms. Brown, made the class write an essay entitled “If I ran away to the circus I would be...” I said the ring master because I loved talking and being the center of attention. I also said I would be a clown to make others laugh (even though I strongly dislike clowns). The essay was forgotten until several weeks later the principal announced in music class it won four tickets to the Ringling Bros. Circus. Apparently our class assignment was part of a citywide radio station contest. Winning that contest sparked something in me: I could write. I declared myself a writer from that moment on and was blessed to have the support of family, friends and school officials.
Folks had me writing for any and every thing after that day. No one was really sure what area of writing I would go into, especially me. Would I write poetry (I’m not that deep), plays (I have writing ADD) or short stories (fiction is hard to make up)? In middle school I decided to be a reporter. Getting a round of applause for my first article in the school paper was a major ego boost. It reinforced my childhood theory, “you get things for writing.”
Here I am 16 years later living my childhood dream as a newspaper writer (an award winning one too). I’m just glad I outgrew my pre-school career choice of a pay-for- lady (a cashier). Children might be fickle in their aspirations now, but encourage them in their quest for finding their dream career. One day they might really just grow up to be that childhood dream.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Deep in Thought
Draped in all black and wearing a turban, the spoken word artist grabs the microphone with a fury. It is now her turn in the poetry slam. She begins a spoken word piece which parallels the genocide in Darfur to the inner turmoil facing black Americans in the debate of natural versus relaxed hair. The audience is drawn in to every word, nodding to the rhythm that flows so easily from her lips. At the end, fingers come together to snap admiration and approval, and everyone rises to their feet – except for one person. The lone figure in the front that whispered to a friend, “She didn’t even rhyme in this poem.”
Unfortunately I wasn’t blessed with much in the department of street smarts or common sense. Why else would I touch that straightening comb as a child after my grandmother warned me not to? But what I lack in those areas I make up for intellectually, right? After all I went to one of the top middle and high schools for academics. I studied at one of the best state colleges. By all accounts I should be a highly profound intellectual that can pontificate on any subject in the news. Yeah right. Not too long ago it hit me: I am not that deep. Did I even use pontificate correctly? Sometimes I wonder if I’m closer to an idiot than an intellectual. My preferred genre of choice for movies and TV shows is comedy. Instead of playing Sudoku or a cross word puzzle, I stimulate my brain with a word jumble or word search. Is my mind filled with just thoughts of bubblegum and popcorn?
Part of me feels like I wasn’t always this dense. I used to be deep or at least more of an intellectual. The peak time was probably in college. I was surrounded by other learned individuals. Then I graduated and the denseness set in. Or was it always there to begin with? Apparently I need to go pick up a “Deepness for Dummies” book. Then again I could be stressing over nothing. Maybe we aren’t all meant to be philosophers. Perhaps knowing your intellectual limitations is deep in itself.
Unfortunately I wasn’t blessed with much in the department of street smarts or common sense. Why else would I touch that straightening comb as a child after my grandmother warned me not to? But what I lack in those areas I make up for intellectually, right? After all I went to one of the top middle and high schools for academics. I studied at one of the best state colleges. By all accounts I should be a highly profound intellectual that can pontificate on any subject in the news. Yeah right. Not too long ago it hit me: I am not that deep. Did I even use pontificate correctly? Sometimes I wonder if I’m closer to an idiot than an intellectual. My preferred genre of choice for movies and TV shows is comedy. Instead of playing Sudoku or a cross word puzzle, I stimulate my brain with a word jumble or word search. Is my mind filled with just thoughts of bubblegum and popcorn?
Part of me feels like I wasn’t always this dense. I used to be deep or at least more of an intellectual. The peak time was probably in college. I was surrounded by other learned individuals. Then I graduated and the denseness set in. Or was it always there to begin with? Apparently I need to go pick up a “Deepness for Dummies” book. Then again I could be stressing over nothing. Maybe we aren’t all meant to be philosophers. Perhaps knowing your intellectual limitations is deep in itself.
case not closed
In a perfect world there would always be closure for a situation. That ex would explain exactly why he dumped you. Your favorite TV series would have an official ending. The bully from middle school would apologize. Unfortunately we live in a world of perfect imperfections. Those fairy tale examples of getting that closure we desire often never occur. Sometimes you have to let go of that pipe dream of perfectly closing the case of emotions spurred by a particular experience. We don’t always get the closure we want.
One of my tragic character flows is holding grudges. I’ve let go most of them, but every now and then I get riled up about an old one that dates back to middle school. I wrote about “The Grudge” in August and will spare rehashing the details. I’m still very bitter about everything that went down between me and she who shall not be named. It’s pretty sad considering that was more than 10 years ago (don’t judge me).
I just want closure. I would like to look back on that time and not feel any ill will toward her (or my crappy ex-boyfriend). One should not continue going through life hoping the people that have done you wrong stub their toe. I know that and you know that. Will someone please tell my head that too?
Perhaps if I really do want closure I have to get it myself. I see home girl every time I hit up my granny’s church. Part of me wants to go up to her and say something. Forget the apology on Oprah I use to want. I just want to hear out of her own mouth why she felt the need to pick on me. Sure I have an idea why (I was a nerd), but getting her to acknowledge it would do my heart a world of good for some reason. The problem is there is a good chance she doesn’t even remember me. That would probably make me even bitter. Ultimately I should just leave well enough alone and keep working to let it go. One day this case will be closed.
One of my tragic character flows is holding grudges. I’ve let go most of them, but every now and then I get riled up about an old one that dates back to middle school. I wrote about “The Grudge” in August and will spare rehashing the details. I’m still very bitter about everything that went down between me and she who shall not be named. It’s pretty sad considering that was more than 10 years ago (don’t judge me).
I just want closure. I would like to look back on that time and not feel any ill will toward her (or my crappy ex-boyfriend). One should not continue going through life hoping the people that have done you wrong stub their toe. I know that and you know that. Will someone please tell my head that too?
Perhaps if I really do want closure I have to get it myself. I see home girl every time I hit up my granny’s church. Part of me wants to go up to her and say something. Forget the apology on Oprah I use to want. I just want to hear out of her own mouth why she felt the need to pick on me. Sure I have an idea why (I was a nerd), but getting her to acknowledge it would do my heart a world of good for some reason. The problem is there is a good chance she doesn’t even remember me. That would probably make me even bitter. Ultimately I should just leave well enough alone and keep working to let it go. One day this case will be closed.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Now introducing ... television
There was a time when I didn’t watch television. It started during my college years because I was too busy to watch TV. I missed out on hit shows such as “Lost” or “Grey’s Anatomy.” Then Cee introduced me to Hulu and all that changed. I finally didn’t have to worry about watching the exact air date. Instead I could watch my shows online.
I started watching several of my shows mid-series. They didn’t require knowing too much back history to understand the dynamics of the show.
“The Simpsons”
My first experience with this show was watching the movie in 2007. It makes me smile.
“Family Guy”
I absolutely love Stewie and Brian. Their back and forth relationship keeps me grinning.
“The Office”
Michael Scott – the man you love and hate at the same time. I watch this show because of him.
“Psych”
Shawn and Gus have one of the best bromances of all times. Not to mention they’re both adorable.
Last year I decided to expand my horizons and ride the wave with several new shows. Some of my favorites were canceled (R.I.P. “Eastwick” and “Dollhouse”) but the rest have survived the chopping block.
“Community”
The bromance between Abed and Troy is perhaps the second best of all times. Watch out “Psych.”
“Parks and Recreation”
There is something about Leslie Knopes’ character that reminds me of myself. She’s socially inept but loveable.
“Glee”
For the love of music, they sing in this show. Cee bought me several of the albums from the show and I absolutely love it.
“The Event”
This is for the Sci-Fi lover in me. The first episode had me so caught up I couldn’t stop watching.
“The Cleveland Show”
Sometimes this show has me laugh even harder than “Family Guy.”
“Modern Family”
Dysfunctional families telling their tales to the camera. What’s not to love?
The main link between the majority of the shows I watch is comedy. I like to laugh. Only one really makes me think, “The Event.” My time of TV watching is a chance to escape life with a laugh here and there. Thanks to the wonders of Hulu I can keep the laughs coming forever more.
I started watching several of my shows mid-series. They didn’t require knowing too much back history to understand the dynamics of the show.
“The Simpsons”
My first experience with this show was watching the movie in 2007. It makes me smile.
“Family Guy”
I absolutely love Stewie and Brian. Their back and forth relationship keeps me grinning.
“The Office”
Michael Scott – the man you love and hate at the same time. I watch this show because of him.
“Psych”
Shawn and Gus have one of the best bromances of all times. Not to mention they’re both adorable.
Last year I decided to expand my horizons and ride the wave with several new shows. Some of my favorites were canceled (R.I.P. “Eastwick” and “Dollhouse”) but the rest have survived the chopping block.
“Community”
The bromance between Abed and Troy is perhaps the second best of all times. Watch out “Psych.”
“Parks and Recreation”
There is something about Leslie Knopes’ character that reminds me of myself. She’s socially inept but loveable.
“Glee”
For the love of music, they sing in this show. Cee bought me several of the albums from the show and I absolutely love it.
“The Event”
This is for the Sci-Fi lover in me. The first episode had me so caught up I couldn’t stop watching.
“The Cleveland Show”
Sometimes this show has me laugh even harder than “Family Guy.”
“Modern Family”
Dysfunctional families telling their tales to the camera. What’s not to love?
The main link between the majority of the shows I watch is comedy. I like to laugh. Only one really makes me think, “The Event.” My time of TV watching is a chance to escape life with a laugh here and there. Thanks to the wonders of Hulu I can keep the laughs coming forever more.
Summertime crush
Crushes have been an important part of my life since I was a child. Someone has always been an object of my affection. Sometimes they’ve been a celebrity, such as Ray J. and Jason Weaver (don’t judge me). For the most part it’s someone I know and even interact with. Usually they don’t know I have a crush. At least that’s what I’d like to think. Subtlety is not one of my strong suits. Cee says it’s not even in my closet (she’s such a joker).
I can’t remember a time without me having a crush, until now. These days I’m going through a dry spell. My old crush got engaged so I had to end that one. He has yet to provide a crush replacement, and pickings are slim around here. There is no one that has captured my attention as of late. Celebrities. Real people. Not one person. I tried having a not-so-secret crush on one person I see on the regular. Nobody could take it seriously. He’s not my actual type, and in theory my crush should be someone I really would want to date and relate to. Good crushes just don’t seem to come easy anymore. This can’t be life. I have no one to fawn over or come up with a special crush song.
If only I could find someone to crush on these days. I don’t ask for much. I just need someone I find attractive with a good personality. Cee is trying to push off one of her friends on me for a crush. He’s cute as pie (as she would say) but I don’t feel that crush connection. That connection is key for a successful crush. Plus I never see him. I need to be in constant interaction with my crush. I need to see my crush on the regular in some form.
One of my friends thinks it’s abnormal for a mid-20 something to have adult crushes. Perhaps it is, but I am not motivated to date. I crush instead. I prefer to window shop than actually purchase something out the store. A crush is an easy breezy carefree type activity. Let it be known I’m accepting applications for a summertime crush.
I can’t remember a time without me having a crush, until now. These days I’m going through a dry spell. My old crush got engaged so I had to end that one. He has yet to provide a crush replacement, and pickings are slim around here. There is no one that has captured my attention as of late. Celebrities. Real people. Not one person. I tried having a not-so-secret crush on one person I see on the regular. Nobody could take it seriously. He’s not my actual type, and in theory my crush should be someone I really would want to date and relate to. Good crushes just don’t seem to come easy anymore. This can’t be life. I have no one to fawn over or come up with a special crush song.
If only I could find someone to crush on these days. I don’t ask for much. I just need someone I find attractive with a good personality. Cee is trying to push off one of her friends on me for a crush. He’s cute as pie (as she would say) but I don’t feel that crush connection. That connection is key for a successful crush. Plus I never see him. I need to be in constant interaction with my crush. I need to see my crush on the regular in some form.
One of my friends thinks it’s abnormal for a mid-20 something to have adult crushes. Perhaps it is, but I am not motivated to date. I crush instead. I prefer to window shop than actually purchase something out the store. A crush is an easy breezy carefree type activity. Let it be known I’m accepting applications for a summertime crush.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Name that identity
Maybe the question isn’t “What’s in a name?” as Shakespeare so eloquently put it but “who is the name?” Growing up I answered to quite a few names. Actually I still hear all of them. Antonia is what my parents named me, but my granddaddy said it was too hard to say or remember. He christened me Sunday instead. Then Tone-Tone was bestowed on me by a relative on my dad’s side of the family. I introduced myself as “Toni like the tiger except with an I” in college. Antonia. Sunday. Tone-Tone. Toni. It’s a wonder I don’t have split personalities for each name. Talking to a friend the other day made me think about how many of us go by nicknames with family and close friends. Are we different people with each name? Does a name make us change?
I’d like to think I’m the same person with every name, but in certain instances I can see some variations in personality. That’s not to say there are 27 different people living inside of me. But Tone-Tone is definitely not the same as Toni or Sunday. Tone-Tone is the child-like little cousin and full of restless energy. It’s a name I grew out of for the most part, like someone called Boo-Boo or Pumpkin. I do still hear it from time to time. Toni is the talkative but humorous friend. That nickname is used with casual acquaintances and close friends alike. Sunday is the charming and ambitious grandchild. Use of this name demonstrates a closeness only found with old, old friends and family. I’m likely to be even goofier around my friends as Toni. Of course Sunday will make you smile, but she’s a lot more practical at times. Tone-Tone comes out when a moment calls for a child-like innocence.
So who is Antonia? The sum and difference of all these names. The name that looks good on the surface. The professional name. There are slight differences in how I respond depending on what name is used. Ultimately each one equals me, Antonia. The only name without an identity is my middle name. J. is in hiding for now. One day she’ll come out to play.
I’d like to think I’m the same person with every name, but in certain instances I can see some variations in personality. That’s not to say there are 27 different people living inside of me. But Tone-Tone is definitely not the same as Toni or Sunday. Tone-Tone is the child-like little cousin and full of restless energy. It’s a name I grew out of for the most part, like someone called Boo-Boo or Pumpkin. I do still hear it from time to time. Toni is the talkative but humorous friend. That nickname is used with casual acquaintances and close friends alike. Sunday is the charming and ambitious grandchild. Use of this name demonstrates a closeness only found with old, old friends and family. I’m likely to be even goofier around my friends as Toni. Of course Sunday will make you smile, but she’s a lot more practical at times. Tone-Tone comes out when a moment calls for a child-like innocence.
So who is Antonia? The sum and difference of all these names. The name that looks good on the surface. The professional name. There are slight differences in how I respond depending on what name is used. Ultimately each one equals me, Antonia. The only name without an identity is my middle name. J. is in hiding for now. One day she’ll come out to play.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
would be spinster
Lately becoming a cat lady has seemed quite appealing. I will likely end up a spinster because I cannot be bothered with the dating scene. Blame it on a lack of suitable prospects and my irritable personality syndrome. Dating is just not my thing. Supposedly it is the key to getting into a relationship and actually ending up married. I’ve been trying to get my parents to arrange a marriage for years so I can avoid dating. Apparently that’s not their thing either.
I made a list of several goals for 2010 including an ambitious one of going on 12 dates. It did not happen, and I realized I didn’t even care I failed. If I actually was motivated to go outside my house and meet people, I could possible scrounge up a date. Club Walmart for the record is not the hookup spot. I know from personal experience.
Maybe if I lowered my standards and accepted offers from any and everybody I might have met the dating quota. I tried to be accepting, but people weren’t up to par. There was the guy at Walmart who was put on the cut list after saying his adopted sister accused him of rape. That was too much drama for me. Then a guy at church ruined my worship experience one Sunday. I’m trying to get right with the Lord and he was spitting game during the service. And I can’t forget this one guy I met at a wedding. He started off good but lost interest.
Maybe it’s me. Everyone isn’t meant to be married anyway. My daddy, grandmother and aunt are praying daily I don’t end up an old maid. But would that be so bad? If I do end up a spinster, it won’t be the end of the world. No kids. No husband. No worries. That sounds like a decent tradeoff to me. Having a family of my own would be nice, and I would love to have a wedding. But if by 40 I’m still unmarried you can call it a wrap. This chick is throwing a spinster party in style. I’m going to marry myself. And I’ll actually buy a cat.
I made a list of several goals for 2010 including an ambitious one of going on 12 dates. It did not happen, and I realized I didn’t even care I failed. If I actually was motivated to go outside my house and meet people, I could possible scrounge up a date. Club Walmart for the record is not the hookup spot. I know from personal experience.
Maybe if I lowered my standards and accepted offers from any and everybody I might have met the dating quota. I tried to be accepting, but people weren’t up to par. There was the guy at Walmart who was put on the cut list after saying his adopted sister accused him of rape. That was too much drama for me. Then a guy at church ruined my worship experience one Sunday. I’m trying to get right with the Lord and he was spitting game during the service. And I can’t forget this one guy I met at a wedding. He started off good but lost interest.
Maybe it’s me. Everyone isn’t meant to be married anyway. My daddy, grandmother and aunt are praying daily I don’t end up an old maid. But would that be so bad? If I do end up a spinster, it won’t be the end of the world. No kids. No husband. No worries. That sounds like a decent tradeoff to me. Having a family of my own would be nice, and I would love to have a wedding. But if by 40 I’m still unmarried you can call it a wrap. This chick is throwing a spinster party in style. I’m going to marry myself. And I’ll actually buy a cat.
Monday, March 14, 2011
public perception
Perception is everything to some people. It doesn’t matter what the truth is about a situation. Their truth is how they perceive it. Unfortunately I learned that lesson growing up as a preacher’s kid, or a PK. I have never been a fan of have a pastor for a daddy. Growing up, and even now, I felt that he gave so much of his time and attention to other people and church issues that our family was sometimes placed on the backburner. And of course there was that whole issue of perception. Everyone always thinks preacher’s children are spoiled and wild. There are some who fit that profile of course, but that can be said about the children of doctors, lawyers or whoever. I wasn’t the best child or the worst. I was just a child. But I sometimes felt like I had to be extra good because of that perception. PKs were also expected to have a talent such as singing, playing an instrument or speaking. I played the piano for years until I realized it really wasn’t my thing.
The April issue of Ebony magazine asked several pastors’ wives about their life as a first lady. One of the questions was “Who has the most pressure on them: pastors, first ladies or their children.” I was happy to see them answer the children. “They have to conform to the expectations of those around them. And there are preconceived notions of how the children of a minister should behave or whether they will go into ministry,” said Elder Karen Bernard of Christian Cultural Center in Brooklyn, N.Y. A pastor has a calling on his life and the wife supports him, said Jamell Meeks of Salem Baptist Church in Chicago, Ill. “A pastor’s kids were born into it, unlike the pastor or his wife. From birth, everything the children do is judged. Anything they do that people feel is not right, that fact is going to be verbalized.”
I’m not sure what perception my dad’s members have of me these days. They probably think I’m so wild adult. Now that I’m in my mid-20s I don’t care anymore. The only perception that matters to me is God’s.
The April issue of Ebony magazine asked several pastors’ wives about their life as a first lady. One of the questions was “Who has the most pressure on them: pastors, first ladies or their children.” I was happy to see them answer the children. “They have to conform to the expectations of those around them. And there are preconceived notions of how the children of a minister should behave or whether they will go into ministry,” said Elder Karen Bernard of Christian Cultural Center in Brooklyn, N.Y. A pastor has a calling on his life and the wife supports him, said Jamell Meeks of Salem Baptist Church in Chicago, Ill. “A pastor’s kids were born into it, unlike the pastor or his wife. From birth, everything the children do is judged. Anything they do that people feel is not right, that fact is going to be verbalized.”
I’m not sure what perception my dad’s members have of me these days. They probably think I’m so wild adult. Now that I’m in my mid-20s I don’t care anymore. The only perception that matters to me is God’s.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Family bonding time
My trips home are sometimes few and far between. I don’t do much when I come to visit anyway. Usually it consists of me coming home late on a Friday night or early on a Saturday morning, sleeping, visiting my grandma and going to church with my parents on a Sunday. Did I mention I have to sleep on the couch? There is no bed for me to lay my head, and my former room is now used for storage. Also my parents never had food. I usually have to grocery shop for myself. Not too much of a reason to come home, right?
Then last week at church I had an epiphany while the pastor was delivering his sermon: I missed my daddy’s preaching. That’s not to say the pastor in Lake City wasn’t a decent preacher, but after growing up under my daddy’s tutelage I have developed a certain affinity for his sermons. I toyed with the idea of going home this weekend. I was just home about two weeks ago, and I don’t like them getting too used to visits from me. Ma Dukes mentioned she was speaking at a church Sunday and that sealed the deal for me to come home.
I’m glad I did. If nothing else I got to enjoy ample amounts of family togetherness with the top people in my family. My mother and I were cuddle bunnies Friday night, and I talked her ear off while she tried to sleep. She probably wasn’t listening but just our moments of closeness made my night (until my daddy kicked me out the bedroom). Then Saturday night my daddy and I bonded over a showing of “Our Family Wedding.” We laughed and joked about what my wedding would be like (if it ever happens) Sunday night brought bonding with my little brother. Together we went to our granny’s house and visited with her and an aunt.
I might not do much on my trips homes but there is one activity that is always a given: family bonding. I may lack a bed and a room but their love is always there. That’s enough to make me come home any weekend.
Then last week at church I had an epiphany while the pastor was delivering his sermon: I missed my daddy’s preaching. That’s not to say the pastor in Lake City wasn’t a decent preacher, but after growing up under my daddy’s tutelage I have developed a certain affinity for his sermons. I toyed with the idea of going home this weekend. I was just home about two weeks ago, and I don’t like them getting too used to visits from me. Ma Dukes mentioned she was speaking at a church Sunday and that sealed the deal for me to come home.
I’m glad I did. If nothing else I got to enjoy ample amounts of family togetherness with the top people in my family. My mother and I were cuddle bunnies Friday night, and I talked her ear off while she tried to sleep. She probably wasn’t listening but just our moments of closeness made my night (until my daddy kicked me out the bedroom). Then Saturday night my daddy and I bonded over a showing of “Our Family Wedding.” We laughed and joked about what my wedding would be like (if it ever happens) Sunday night brought bonding with my little brother. Together we went to our granny’s house and visited with her and an aunt.
I might not do much on my trips homes but there is one activity that is always a given: family bonding. I may lack a bed and a room but their love is always there. That’s enough to make me come home any weekend.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Foul language musings
There’s just something about profane language that gets to me, and not in a good way. It actually makes me cringe a little inside. After all these years I should be used to it. My parents’ don’t always speak words filled with sprinkles and sunshine. My brother’s mouth often spouts crude terms. Several of my friends drop curse bombs. A few of them would put sailors to shame. That’s not to say I don’t curse. I do but not that much. I try to keep my language clean.
Sometimes I feel like people unnecessarily use choice words. While out with a friend once she dropped so many F- and S-bombs I wanted to hide. Did I mention children were nearby? The F-bomb does not need to be used in every single sentence. It shows a weak command of the English language in my humble opinion. If someone is dropping too many hard-hitting words I shout out “language, language.” It’s my little way of trying to clean up the swearing.
There are times when you might have to “make it plain” as my father would say. A simple phrase might need juicing up to address that person who cut you off while driving. Emphasis is sometimes involved by using a certain word in a story. Even still those moments should be few and far between.
Personally I think it sounds unbecoming of a lady to carelessly drop choice words. There was a time when gentlemen never used profane language around a lady. These days it doesn’t matter. Granted I’m not exactly the perfect epitome of a lady. I don’t wear pantyhose. I chuck globs of spit randomly to the side (I’m not swallowing it). And I chew gum like a cow chews cud. Not cussing has to count for something right? Certain words have a melodious sound to them. Whimsical. Facetious. Intrepid. There’s nothing pretty about cuss words. You can’t arrange them to produce a pleasing sound to the ear. Perhaps I’m just old fashion in my thinking. Besides people are going to cuss anyway. But there are too many other words out there to only use the crudest ones. Language is just as lovely clean.
Sometimes I feel like people unnecessarily use choice words. While out with a friend once she dropped so many F- and S-bombs I wanted to hide. Did I mention children were nearby? The F-bomb does not need to be used in every single sentence. It shows a weak command of the English language in my humble opinion. If someone is dropping too many hard-hitting words I shout out “language, language.” It’s my little way of trying to clean up the swearing.
There are times when you might have to “make it plain” as my father would say. A simple phrase might need juicing up to address that person who cut you off while driving. Emphasis is sometimes involved by using a certain word in a story. Even still those moments should be few and far between.
Personally I think it sounds unbecoming of a lady to carelessly drop choice words. There was a time when gentlemen never used profane language around a lady. These days it doesn’t matter. Granted I’m not exactly the perfect epitome of a lady. I don’t wear pantyhose. I chuck globs of spit randomly to the side (I’m not swallowing it). And I chew gum like a cow chews cud. Not cussing has to count for something right? Certain words have a melodious sound to them. Whimsical. Facetious. Intrepid. There’s nothing pretty about cuss words. You can’t arrange them to produce a pleasing sound to the ear. Perhaps I’m just old fashion in my thinking. Besides people are going to cuss anyway. But there are too many other words out there to only use the crudest ones. Language is just as lovely clean.
Friday, March 11, 2011
limit the lines
I talk a lot. Not a little, but a lot. A. Whole. Lot. My grandmother used to call me Mouth Almighty, Tongue Everlasting. However, I am the first to admit I can be a bit too talkative. I go from topic to topic with random rants thrown in and lose focus easily. Unfortunately that same trait carries over to my writing.
The news industry often tells reporters to write tight, meaning keep it to the point, clear and concise. I have to keep that rule in mind constantly at work because space is limited sometimes. In my personal writing and reflections I tend to throw that rule out the window. My early days of blogging started on Facebook. Each Facebook note probably read more like a college essay. I wrote and wrote and wrote some more. And just when you’d think I was done, I added another 2,000 words for good measure. That’s not to say what I wrote was bad. Some of it was fairly good, but it was too long.
I knew writing 10,000 word blog posts wasn’t going to be an option while participating in NaBloPoMo. Lengthy posts, even though they are my own thoughts, take time to write depending on the subject matter. I set up a word limit of 365 for each post, which is about half of what I normally write. A person’s attention span is only so long. Following a word limit can sometimes be challenging. You have so much to say but are only allocated a certain amount of space. It’s kind of like using Twitter. You only have 140 characters to tweet.
I am starting to see some improvement with my self-imposed word limit. It’s helping me cut out a lot of fluff in my writing and become a stronger storyteller. This should hopefully carry over to the day job. There might come a time when I feel the need to write a good 500 words again, but for now I’m following the limit. I still tend to write with no end in sight in my personal journal. Readers can rest assured there’s a limit to my posts now. I’ll keep it simple.
The news industry often tells reporters to write tight, meaning keep it to the point, clear and concise. I have to keep that rule in mind constantly at work because space is limited sometimes. In my personal writing and reflections I tend to throw that rule out the window. My early days of blogging started on Facebook. Each Facebook note probably read more like a college essay. I wrote and wrote and wrote some more. And just when you’d think I was done, I added another 2,000 words for good measure. That’s not to say what I wrote was bad. Some of it was fairly good, but it was too long.
I knew writing 10,000 word blog posts wasn’t going to be an option while participating in NaBloPoMo. Lengthy posts, even though they are my own thoughts, take time to write depending on the subject matter. I set up a word limit of 365 for each post, which is about half of what I normally write. A person’s attention span is only so long. Following a word limit can sometimes be challenging. You have so much to say but are only allocated a certain amount of space. It’s kind of like using Twitter. You only have 140 characters to tweet.
I am starting to see some improvement with my self-imposed word limit. It’s helping me cut out a lot of fluff in my writing and become a stronger storyteller. This should hopefully carry over to the day job. There might come a time when I feel the need to write a good 500 words again, but for now I’m following the limit. I still tend to write with no end in sight in my personal journal. Readers can rest assured there’s a limit to my posts now. I’ll keep it simple.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
a head full of personality
“'Cause you've got (personality).
Walk (with personality).
Talk (with personality).
Smile (with personality).
Charm (with personality).
Love (with personality).
An' plus you got a great big heart.”
Personality is usually attributed to people or animals. Tell that to my hair. It’s always had a mind of its own. I began to fully comprehend that idea after I went natural. That’s not to say my hair lacked personality while chemically processed. Personality has seemed to shine through even more so in its natural state.
Over time I’ve noticed several consistent traits about my hair. My hair is outgoing. It’s always all over the place, making friends with people. It’s also adaptable. I used to rock twists out every week, then I started braiding it. Now I’ve ventured into Bantu knots, flat twists and more. Whatever style I throw its way, my hair can handle. There are times when my hair can be assertive too. Some days it won’t even humble down to be styled. I usually end up letting it flow free as it wants to be.
The second time I cut all my hair off a cousin had a fit. Apparently rocking the tapered fro didn’t seem to fit my personality. A drastically different look invoked a new hair personality. This hair was more mature, refined and serious. It was fun while it lasted, but eventually I started to miss my longer locks and the personality that went with twists and braid outs or whatnot.
Essentially I’ve realized my hair is a reflection of me or who I want to be. “Hair is often an excellent predictor of someone’s self-image and lifestyle,” according to Jo-Ellan Dimitrius in “Reading People: How to Understand People and Predict Their Behavior – Anyplace, Anytime.” Most people would agree I’m outgoing. I never meet a stranger and talk to any and every body. I’m also fairly adaptable. One minute I have to be a writer and the next I’m a photographer. I’m not as assertive as I want to be, but it’s a work in progress. At the end of the day my hair is a mirror image of me. I’ve got personality. Of course my hair would have it too.
Walk (with personality).
Talk (with personality).
Smile (with personality).
Charm (with personality).
Love (with personality).
An' plus you got a great big heart.”
Personality is usually attributed to people or animals. Tell that to my hair. It’s always had a mind of its own. I began to fully comprehend that idea after I went natural. That’s not to say my hair lacked personality while chemically processed. Personality has seemed to shine through even more so in its natural state.
Over time I’ve noticed several consistent traits about my hair. My hair is outgoing. It’s always all over the place, making friends with people. It’s also adaptable. I used to rock twists out every week, then I started braiding it. Now I’ve ventured into Bantu knots, flat twists and more. Whatever style I throw its way, my hair can handle. There are times when my hair can be assertive too. Some days it won’t even humble down to be styled. I usually end up letting it flow free as it wants to be.
The second time I cut all my hair off a cousin had a fit. Apparently rocking the tapered fro didn’t seem to fit my personality. A drastically different look invoked a new hair personality. This hair was more mature, refined and serious. It was fun while it lasted, but eventually I started to miss my longer locks and the personality that went with twists and braid outs or whatnot.
Essentially I’ve realized my hair is a reflection of me or who I want to be. “Hair is often an excellent predictor of someone’s self-image and lifestyle,” according to Jo-Ellan Dimitrius in “Reading People: How to Understand People and Predict Their Behavior – Anyplace, Anytime.” Most people would agree I’m outgoing. I never meet a stranger and talk to any and every body. I’m also fairly adaptable. One minute I have to be a writer and the next I’m a photographer. I’m not as assertive as I want to be, but it’s a work in progress. At the end of the day my hair is a mirror image of me. I’ve got personality. Of course my hair would have it too.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Spontaneously a bust
There was a time when I lived spontaneously. Nike’s motto, “Just Do It,” was also my own, and I freely gave into any impulse. Each day was different from the last. The only schedule I followed was for classes, and everything else was played by ear. Breakfast might be at 1 p.m. today or 8 a.m. tomorrow. Studying was thrown in the loop somewhere. Club meetings were attended as needed. Fun was 24/7. There was no set time for most activities. It was all free flowing.
Then I graduated from college, and the real world set in. Gone are the days of just going with the flow. Spontaneity often seems to be a foreign concept. My life is all about schedules now. Get up at 8:30 a.m. Work at 9 a.m. Lunch at 12 p.m. Bed at 11 p.m. Does anyone know how to build a time machine? Please send me back to those carefree days of college.
I tried to not conform to a regular schedule at first. How hard could it be to just follow impulsives? That didn’t work out too well. I gave in and started using a planner and making To Do Lists. Now everything must have an assigned appointment slot. No more random road trips with my friends. We have to plan months and months in advance. On those rare occasions when I don't make a schedule, I sleep all day. This can’t be life. Something has to give.
Being an adult can be a drag with all the responsibilities. Unlike the carefree days of youth, there is much more rigidness and structure to follow. You can’t just take a mental health day and skip work or push aside projects to party hearty. But that doesn’t mean adulthood has to lack fun. It’s up to me to spice up life. I can’t be completely carefree and throw caution to the wind. I can, however, have weekly moments of spontaneity. Yes, I will schedule the fun. Maybe I’ll pop into a movie out of the blue or bake a peach cobbler at 1 a.m. just for fun. I refuse to be a dull 20-something. I’ll live spontaneously – at least once in a while.
Then I graduated from college, and the real world set in. Gone are the days of just going with the flow. Spontaneity often seems to be a foreign concept. My life is all about schedules now. Get up at 8:30 a.m. Work at 9 a.m. Lunch at 12 p.m. Bed at 11 p.m. Does anyone know how to build a time machine? Please send me back to those carefree days of college.
I tried to not conform to a regular schedule at first. How hard could it be to just follow impulsives? That didn’t work out too well. I gave in and started using a planner and making To Do Lists. Now everything must have an assigned appointment slot. No more random road trips with my friends. We have to plan months and months in advance. On those rare occasions when I don't make a schedule, I sleep all day. This can’t be life. Something has to give.
Being an adult can be a drag with all the responsibilities. Unlike the carefree days of youth, there is much more rigidness and structure to follow. You can’t just take a mental health day and skip work or push aside projects to party hearty. But that doesn’t mean adulthood has to lack fun. It’s up to me to spice up life. I can’t be completely carefree and throw caution to the wind. I can, however, have weekly moments of spontaneity. Yes, I will schedule the fun. Maybe I’ll pop into a movie out of the blue or bake a peach cobbler at 1 a.m. just for fun. I refuse to be a dull 20-something. I’ll live spontaneously – at least once in a while.
The point of all annoyance
My irritable personality syndrome is flaring up again. Little things are starting to set me on edge. It’s not so much with everyone, but a few select people. Don’t blame PMS. There’s just something in my nature that makes me lose patience easily about minor things. A friend texted me during my time of sustained silent reading Tuesday. I might have possibly overacted. The text transcript, with my thoughts, is as follows:
“Real Gs move in silence like lasagna…” he wrote
“What?” I replied.
“It’s true. The modern day philosopher Weezy F, please say the baby, hath decreed it.”
Now was it really that important to send me this text message at 9:13 p.m. in the first place? We are not cool like that.
“OK and on that note I return to reading.”
At this point he should have left me alone, but no. Clearly he was asking for my wrath.
“Oh what you getting into?”
“A book.”
Didn’t I just say this a few seconds ago?
“Don’t be coy. What book?”
I was not being coy. I was being curt so he would get the message to leave me be. That didn’t help so I had to get rude.
“CAN I READ IN PEACE?”
“Why do you always make things difficult? For once can you be friendly without catching an attitude? You never talk to (our other friends) like this. What’s your problem with me?”
“I would like to read in peace.”
“Go ahead and read, friend.”
My problem with him is he couldn’t seem to understand I was reading. Don’t try to engage me in a conversation. Other friends don’t do stupid things to irritate me; therefore they don’t get an attitude.
Typing in all caps probably wasn’t the nicest way to handle this, but when I reach my annoyance boiling point there is no telling what will happen. I am sorry for my snippiness. I do need to stop. I have since asked God to help me have the same amount of patience with others that he would have with me. It’s only fair. Patience is a virtue I desire. It would just be so much easier if people didn’t annoy me.
“Real Gs move in silence like lasagna…” he wrote
“What?” I replied.
“It’s true. The modern day philosopher Weezy F, please say the baby, hath decreed it.”
Now was it really that important to send me this text message at 9:13 p.m. in the first place? We are not cool like that.
“OK and on that note I return to reading.”
At this point he should have left me alone, but no. Clearly he was asking for my wrath.
“Oh what you getting into?”
“A book.”
Didn’t I just say this a few seconds ago?
“Don’t be coy. What book?”
I was not being coy. I was being curt so he would get the message to leave me be. That didn’t help so I had to get rude.
“CAN I READ IN PEACE?”
“Why do you always make things difficult? For once can you be friendly without catching an attitude? You never talk to (our other friends) like this. What’s your problem with me?”
“I would like to read in peace.”
“Go ahead and read, friend.”
My problem with him is he couldn’t seem to understand I was reading. Don’t try to engage me in a conversation. Other friends don’t do stupid things to irritate me; therefore they don’t get an attitude.
Typing in all caps probably wasn’t the nicest way to handle this, but when I reach my annoyance boiling point there is no telling what will happen. I am sorry for my snippiness. I do need to stop. I have since asked God to help me have the same amount of patience with others that he would have with me. It’s only fair. Patience is a virtue I desire. It would just be so much easier if people didn’t annoy me.
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