The Family Rules

Think I could write a book of reunion survival tips?

It’s family reunion time! This weekend yours truly is kickin’ it with the kin for the annual Lawson Family Reunion. We’ve been going strong for five years now. Yes, our reunion gatherings are fairly young, but momentum continues to build. The reunions have been in a variety of places including Belle Glade, Jacksonville, Atlanta and Orlando. This year we’re heading to West Palm Beach.

Family gatherings are always a joyous occasion for me. What’s not to enjoy? You’re together with all your family. The family elders talk about the past. The young folks talk about the present. The babies dream about the future. Family love is just all over the place.

There might be some people that find family gatherings less than appealing. Well no need to fear. If you’re headed to a family gathering anytime soon, I have a few survival rules to make the day as entertaining as possible.

1. Prepare funny responses to annoying questions and comments from family members, particularly Grandpa Buford, who you haven’t seen or talked to recently. If he asks, “When are you getting married?” just respond, “Never. I want to be a cat lady.” Then start meowing and rubbing your imaginary cat. This works if you’re a male or female.

2. When Uncle Buster starts telling you the stories from back in 1902 begin singing every last word of the sentence. He’ll look at you crazy, stop sharing and go tell Cousin Bridgette instead.

3. Do not, I repeat, do not eat anything cooked by Aunt Bessie who lives alone with two cats, three dogs, a ferret and a snake. They probably helped in the preparation process because she considers them her children. If she asks why you aren’t eating her runny potato salad, start asking to see pictures of her “babies.” She’ll forget all about it.

4. Once Cousin Bob and his new flavor of the month, Beatrice, start to argue, immediately find Grandma Bertha. Then grab a bag of popcorn to watch the fireworks that are sure to come when she gets to fussing at everyone. For some extra cash, pre-sell tickets to the upcoming fight of the century.
Ok maybe none of this takes place at your family gatherings. But just in case it does, you’ll be prepared.
*Disclaimer: Try at your own risk. I assume no responsibility for your family putting you in a jacket that makes you hug yourself all day.*

Chatting with Grandma

One of my favorite columns to read on a daily basis is Dear Abby. People have so many interesting issues, and I just love to read about them. A column on Sunday piqued my interest because it was about grandparents, particularly grandmothers.

The writer, who is from Florida, wrote that family members don’t call her grandmother because she talks too much. Apparently Granny is a Chatty Cathy and enjoys two-hour conversations. The writer is the only one willing to call, so relatives send messages about their lives through her. Unfortunately, she is also tired of the conversations. Poor Granny is oblivious to why they won’t call and told her she’s the only one that cares.

Abby essentially said to tell the grandmother the others don’t call because of her lengthy conversations. She said telling her so wouldn’t be cruel but really doing Granny a favor. Abby also encouraged telling the grandmother to get out and meet other people so she could talk to them.

The whole question and answer for this so-called issue annoyed me. Grandparents are my favorite things. How can you not like talking to them? I all but lived with my maternal grandparents, my two favorite people in the world. Most of my fondest childhood memories are from spending time with them. I went to church conventions with my granny, learned to read from my granddaddy and lived every child’s dream of having awesome grandparents.

I wasn’t as close initially with my paternal grandparents, but over time that changed. Grandma Pearl is my only grandparent still alive. I used to think she was mean, until I started to really pay attention to what irked her (other people in the family). Her remarks to them and about them were hilarious. Soon every encounter with Grandma Pearl, especially when she was fussing at someone else, became a memorable experience. Since college I’ve made sure to visit her every time I’m home. Our conversations are probably two hours at a minimum (I like to talk and she does too).

Perhaps since I had close relationship with my grandparents I can’t understand why someone wouldn’t enjoy talking to theirs for hours. Don't want Granny to dominate conversation? Then contribute a little more. You only get grandparents for so long in life. How hard is it just to map out time at least once a month for your family elders?

There were things about all my grandparents that irritated me, but nothing strong enough to keep me from wanting to talk to them. Sure a phone call or visit might require a packed lunch or two, but it’s a small price to pay for quality time with a loved one. I would give anything to have my grandparents back, because you truly miss them when they’re gone. Maybe, just maybe, if those family members called a little more regularly Granny would reduce her talk time.

A true story

Jennie and Winnie: Will they be cool after this movie?

It is my desire to become a famous writer. The world will read my works and want to know more about the great mind behind them. Hollywood will then create a biopic about my life. Hopefully, if I’m still alive, they consult me. Who knows my story better than me, right? Then again I might forget details, embellish others and want anything bad not included. Perhaps that is the reason Winnie Madikizela-Mandela, ex-wife of former South African President Nelson Mandela, was not consulted for her upcoming biopic.


A few months ago it was announced Jennifer Hudson would play the starring role in a movie about Mandela. Unfortunately one person crying foul is the main character herself. Mandela said she will not support the movie, according to CNN. She feels it is an insult to make a movie about her life without consulting her, especially since she’s alive. Hudson wanted to meet Mandela, according to her reps, but the movie producers thought it was a bad idea. I can see where Mandela is coming from on one hand. It’s her life, and she should have some say on how it’s translated on the big screen. But they might tell a much better story without her input.

One of the best profiles ever written was “Frank Sinatra has a cold” by Gay Talese published in 1966 by Esquire Magazine. I read it in my college literary journalism class, and the story is phenomenal. It felt like I was a fly on the wall during Sinatra’s daily life. It is interesting to note Sinatra refused to be interviewed for the profile. Talese instead spent several months observing Sinatra’s actions and talking to members of his entourage. The final product is considered the greatest profile about Sinatra and one of the best pieces of magazine journalism. And it was made all without Sinatra’s consent.

As a writer, I interview people on a daily basis for their stories. Often they want to read the final draft before it’s published. The answer is no, but I do fact check. Most newspaper and magazines don’t let sources preview a story. It creates a lot of headaches because they ultimately want to change every single detail. It also eliminates the journalistic integrity of the article. My job is to gather the facts and tell the story accurately as a neutral observer. Not write what will make the source look amazing.

Mandela should wait to see the movie before giving her blessing or curse. At the very least the producers know enough to gather the correct facts for conveying the story. Hopefully, they will tell her true story, not the romanticized version. That’s the way any story should be told.

See my vision

“Don't get too influenced by one person's opinion. You might as well look within yourself and get influenced by your gut instinct.” ¬– author unknown


My life is an open book to my circle of friends. They hear about almost everything in my professional and personal life – the good, bad or in-between. Talking is my specialty, and I am all too happy to tell my stories. Unfortunately I have learned sometimes you can’t share your vision with certain people, even if they are close friends.

I’m trying to focus my life in a new direction, and a conversation about my plans with one friend felt somewhat discouraging. It was as if I was on trial and had to defend my particular choice. Her intent was probably not to bring me down. She said she was just trying to help me make the right decision. I appreciated the concern, but not really the delivery. I did my research to determine the best route for me, and didn’t just come up with a random plan from the sky. She forgot we are two unique people with different expectations for our lives. Her standards, while great for her, are not necessarily in line with what I am seeking. Still I was second guessing myself after our conversation.

I mentioned my newly formed doubts to the fantastic Cee and Ma Dukes, and they reassured me about my plans. Both echoed the sentiment that everyone can’t always see the vision you have for yourself. Their opinions might plant seeds of doubt, and what they think is helping is really hurting. I told my friend my plans to receive encouragement, not hear her opinion. Ultimately the direction I take is my decision. I have to experience my life for myself.

It should be everyone’s goal to support a friend’s path, (unless it’s illegal and destructive behavior). You might not think their plans are the best choice, but who are you to rain on their parade? As much as you might know about your friends, I am pretty sure they know themselves better.

The vision I have for my life is ever evolving as I grow as a person. There will be ups and downs, which I will share with my friends. But I’ll keep the overall vision to myself if someone can’t see it with me.

pay it forward

I tend to lose things a lot, namely my keys. Usually my keys are hidden by the paper monster at my desk. Paperwork has a way of covering everything in sight. I blurt out nearly every day, "Where are my keys?" 

Once I thought cats stole my keys. In my defense, there is a red band attached to the keys. It's a known fact, according to the "Cat Who Series" by Lillian Jackson Braun, that cats sense and like the color red. I assumed I dropped my keys unaware outside and the cats snatched them up. It turns out my keys were behind a box. But I digress.

Most things I "lose" are never really lost (except for maybe my mind, but that's a story for another day). Quite naturally I didn't think too much of it when I noticed my wallet was missing. I had it on Friday, but somewhere between the Chinese restaurant and my house it disappeared. It didn't bother me too much because I had my driver's license and debit card in my purse (I lose debit cards a lot too). The only thing in the wallet was my business cards, library cards and college ID. I thought the missing wallet was yet another item I left at my parents’ house. Imagine my surprise when I got a call at work from a woman saying she found my wallet. What? I really did lose it?

She and her husband found my wallet  on the ground and tracked me down via my business cards (I knew there was a reason I keep those handy). I profusely thanked them for finding my wallet and offering to mail it to me. The husband merely said it was their good deed of the week. 

It's nice to know people are willing to do good in this world, despite all the bad we see. Doing good should also spark a chain reaction in others. I have been inspired to pay it forward and perform a random act of kindness for someone else. Making someone's day doesn't require much effort. For me it was as simple as someone saying they found my wallet and sending it to me. Perhaps I can do a good deed by giving someone a latch to keep their keys handy. Maybe others won't have to worry about losing their keys to the paper monster too.

The fruitocalypse

Prunes and raisins have joined forces for a worldwide takeover. At least in my mind. Therefore I don’t trust them. How can you? Both are pretentious pieces of fruits.

First and foremost prunes and raisins think I’m stupid and don’t know their origins: a dried plum for prunes and a dried grape for raisins. That in itself makes me raise an eyebrow. Changing your name to hide your identity is a no-no in my world, at least regarding fruits. It means you’re too good for your past. If you’re too good for that, what else are you too good for? Other dried fruits – such as peaches, oranges and apples – don’t change their names, but such is not the case for prunes and raisins.

There can only be one reason for this name change: World domination. Attack of the killer tomatoes will have nothing on the prune and raisin revolution. And no, the revolution will not be televised because the deranged fruits will attack the camera men. The whole drying process messed up their brains. Now both have become disgustingly evil.

Anyone who has ever eaten a prune or a raisin will be singled out for annihilation. After all you were limiting their numbers. I shudder to think of the despair the revolution will bring. The world’s only opportunity for survival is me. That’s right; I’m doing my part to lead the resistance by making sure no one eats either fruit. I like the originals anyway. Food remixes are just not for me (yes pickles, I’m looking at you too).

Do not assume these two fruits are mild-mannered and easy going. That’s how they get your guard down. “Oh I’ll just pop a nice little raisin into my mouth,” you say. “Attack from within,” says the prunes and raisins. Fight the impulse to eat them if you come into contact with either one. No good can come from eating a prune, despite what Granny and Granddaddy say. Only the runs. And raisins are a choking hazard waiting to happen. Take it from a person who choked on a tic-tac. Those dissolve quickly. Not raisins.

Take this message to heart, people. We survived the non-rapture May 21. There will be no survival of the fruitocalypse if you don’t think, and eat, smart.

Lazy post

My mother bought me “The Children’s Book of Virtues” when I was but a wee lass. One of my favorite poems in the book was “I Meant To Do My Work Today” by Richard LeGallienne:

I meant to do my work today,
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.
And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand,
So what could I do but laugh and go?

Nice as that poem was, using that excuse in school will get you a big fat goose egg on an assignment. Good thing this is my personal writing post and not an assignment. Just before the clock strikes midnight and Writing Wednesday ends, I present an original poem:

I meant to do my post today
But a zombie was thrown from a tree
And an ambush was waiting in the field
And my roommates watched Zombieland with me.
And all in the scary Zombieland
Tossing zombies was a hobby to and fro
And I had to watch how the group joined hand in hand
So writing a post was just a no go.

Seriously, check out Zombieland. It’s a great movie.

Do I know you?

I might need this t-shirt.

Just when you think you know a person, you realize you don’t. Or is that just the case for me? I am perhaps the worst friend, family member, whatever in the history of mankind. I don’t know anything about anyone. This revelation came to me Mother’s Day weekend.

I was hanging with @Diva_luvfeva at her house when I noticed some artwork on the wall. “Oh, I love that painting,” I said. “Thanks. I painted it,” she replied. “I also painted several others in the house.” You could have just knocked me over with a feather. Apparently she is quite the artist. There are canvases, paints and more in the house ready to create her next masterpiece. “OMG I feel like I don’t even know you,” I said. “What else don’t I know?” Honestly, I never, ever, ever knew she liked to paint. I don’t remember her mentioning it or anything. I’d like to think I have a pretty good memory about most things. Not this. Our families have known each other before we were even thought of, but I didn't know that one important tidbit about her. I. AM. HORRIBLE. And it gets worse.

@Ceetastic and I talked about a Mother’s Day brunch she attended later that day. Mothers and daughters played a variation of The Newlywed Game and had to answer several questions such as favorite color, favorite movie, favorite holiday, favorite food and childhood best friend. Passing would not have been an option for me. I don’t know any of these things about my mother. I definitely don’t know most of the answers for my friends. I don’t even know for myself on some. What do I know?

Obviously I don’t pay enough attention to detail when it comes to the ones I love and care about. Maybe if I did it wouldn’t be so hard to figure out gifts for them. Spending enough time with a person should eventually clue you in to things about them. The key is to actively listen and observe. Everyone knows what I like because I’m pretty vocal about my interests. Am I really taking the time to get to know family and friends and their interests or do I dominant talking about me? Relationships, be it family or friends, should not be one-sided. One person should not always be in the forefront. It’s a wonder they still tolerate me.

It seems like I’ve got some catching up to do in realizing just who people are. The first step will be sending out copies of those questions. Who knows when that information may come in handy? The next is to do a better job of really tuning into them.

Just in case anyone wants to know my answers: favorite color – orange; favorite holiday – Thanksgiving; favorite movie – Coming to America/Harlem Nights; favorite food – unknown, perhaps pancakes; childhood best friend – Ashley Riley/ @Diva_LuvFeva.

wedding bell blues

Too often I seem to operate in a false sense of reality. Why else would I start stressing over my non- existent wedding? The reality of the situation is I DON’T EVEN HAVE A BOYFRIEND! There is no fiancée, beau or a summer time crush. Nothing! Yet somehow I got caught up in wedding bells … again.

I blame Google. It has a newish wedding planning feature. Being ever the inquisitive soul I had to check it out. Mistake number one. I should have been reading one of the million books in my house. Instead I’ve been making up a bridal party list, researching wedding etiquette and trying to pinpoint a budget.

I told my Fan Club Pres I was about to have a nervous breakdown because of all the wedding planning. His response was, “I thought it was something serious! I’m sitting here trying to figure out how to disown you and your planning a pretend wedding. Do better.”

There is so much to coordinate. It’s going to take me a good three years to make decent progress in the planning. If I start now, most of it will be done by the time I really get engaged. But will all my hard work get changed if I add a fiancé to the mix? What if he’s not feeling the story book/ newspaper theme? What if he wants to jump the broom? Will I have to compromise my big day?

Then again, isn’t marriage about compromise (along with communication, commitment and Christ)? And it shouldn’t just be about the bride. It will be OUR big day. We are joining together as one (tear). This much I know, I am having a DIY wedding. We are not spending a penny over $10,000. That includes everything: dress, food, and honeymoon. I want a celebration, not a trip to the poor house.

It remains to be seen if I indeed get married. Some days I’m all gung-ho for it. Most others I could care less. Perhaps I should hold off the wedding planning for now. The 50 million itemized checklist of things to do has turned me off the concept anyway. I think I just want to plan something small that includes cake, like a birthday celebration. Birthday parties are a whole lot less stressful.

May memories

Bring on the cake because it’s time to celebrate. At least it is for me. Big things happened this first week of May many years ago. It is only fitting and proper I share them with you.
My beloved granddaddy was born May 4, 1916. He would have been 95-years-old. Unfortunately he died Father’s Day in 1997, but I was able to enjoy him for a good 12 years.

Granddaddy introduced me to the joys of watching wrestling, eating honey suckles straight from the vines and being a member of the Bug Zappers Club (an elite society). I remember how he used to always make and eat carrot salad. Yuck! I love Granddaddy, but to this day I still hate that dish. Mayonnaise, raisins and carrots do not belong together.

Many a day after school I would hear him calling out my favorite nickname (10 points for knowing it). Daycare for me consisted of hanging with grandparents. No wonder I was spoiled rotten. I wasn’t his first grandchild (who is that?) or his last (my brother), but I was definitely in the Fave Five. Although I miss him dearly, his memory is always inside of me.

Also, yours truly (and the fantastic Cee) graduated from the wonderful University of Florida May 5, 2007. It’s great to be a Florida Gator and even greater to be a Gator grad.

College was an experience I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. How can I forget walking through McDonald’s drive-thru at 2 a.m. with three other random strangers? You can’t just make things like that up. You have to live it.

My history of journalism class introduced me to the work of one of my favorite authors, Carl Hiaasen. I learned how to grow tomatoes in world herbs and vegetables. If nothing else, college helped solidify my career ambitions. There’s nothing like working full-time as a newspaper intern, for free, to help you realize your calling.

Some days working and playing in the real world makes me nostalgic for those carefree college days. I really had it made back then. The only jobs I had to worry about were being a student full-time, working in the art museum gift shop part-time and taking care of my first betta fish, Vendy.

Let’s pop some ginger ale (not a champagne drinker here) and raise a toast for my May memories. Here’s to good times of the past.

Rules for survival

Watching horror movies is all well and good – until it becomes real. It seemed like I was a character straight out of Scream for a split second. I’m glad it wasn’t a scene from a movie because I would probably have died. Some friends and I went to see Scream 4 Saturday evening. It was thoroughly entertaining and kept me guessing about the killer. We parted ways after the movie and dinner, but that’s where the trouble began. Horror movie rule no. 1: Never split up.

The bathroom was my first stop during a detour to Walmart. It was in a secluded area of the store, but I didn’t think too much about it. Horror movie rule no. 2: Never go to a secluded area, especially if its dark and you’re alone. No one was in the restroom, but a store associate came in later. While washing my hands she completely bypassed the sinks and left. “Ewww, she didn’t wash her hands,” I thought. I scrubbed mine an extra 30 seconds to atone for her uncouth habit.

Before leaving the bathroom, I grabbed a paper towel to open the door (because the associate didn’t wash her hands). Strangely the door wouldn’t open. That couldn’t be right, so I tried opening it again. Nothing! A closer look revealed the door was locked. The panic began. “Oh no! Ghostface is going to get me,” I said. Horror movie rule no. 3: Don’t panic because it will impact your thinking in a negative way.

There had to be a place to hide safely or a window to escape through. No such luck. Walmart wanted me to die. I panicked again and started pulling on the door with a passion. Dying was not on the agenda for the night. Finally the door started to open, but I froze. What if Ghostface was on the other side of the door waiting to slice open my neck and cut my guts out? I almost scampered away before noticing it was a manager at the door. The associate told her no one else was in the bathroom. Apparently the sinks and I were invisible. I was saved. Or was I? Horror movie rule no. 4: Don’t relax because that’s when you’re in the most danger.

Actually nothing else happened after that. I survived! Granted, I am still a little traumatized. I will never look at a Walmart bathroom the same again. Hopefully there isn’t a sequel to “Supermarket Lock-in.” But I’m ready just in case. Horror movie rule no. 5: Make sure you know the rules to survive a horror movie.

An introduction to Hambone

Coming soon to a bookstore near you is the one and only Hambone Fisher, age 5. Hambone is my child-like alter ego. He emerged at McAlister’s Deli during its Christmas coloring contest last year. I wanted to enter, but the store discriminated against adults. Thus Hambone Fisher was born. He’s sort of taken a life of his own.

Hambone colored a beautiful picture but unfortunately did not win the contest. However, he didn’t let that get him down. Instead he colored an assortment of pictures for random people to hone his skills. That led to him entering a coloring contest this week sponsored by the Lake City Reporter. He was actually a contender for that one (until someone revealed his origins). That’s OK. He’ll just find another contest to enter. Eventually Hambone is going to win.

I plan on keeping Hambone around for awhile, mainly to turn him into a children’s book series: “The Misadventures of Hambone Fisher, Age 5.” Easier said than done. Clearly some character development is required for Hambone to make this a legitimate project. So far I know Hambone is a precocious, talkative 5-year-old. He likes to color, is very imaginative (sometimes he exaggerates) and can be strong-willed at times.

No his real name isn’t Hambone. It’s Henry James Fisher, but he is southern bred and born. Everyone goes by a nickname in these parts. His family consists of his older brother, Pork Chop Fisher, and his parents, Mommie and Daddy (real names coming for them later). His misadventures will include everything from coloring contests capers to dealing with a crush on an older woman (the babysitter). Each misadventure will have an important lesson to learn. But I have to finish crafting the character before I start writing story plots.

Working on Hambone made me realize it requires a lot of thought to create a fictional character. I can write a news article with no problems. Fiction writing, on the other hand, is quite challenging. It’s all from my imagination instead of just the facts. No matter what, I will make Hambone happen. Right now his series is a work in process, but he’s always available to supply anyone with a picture.

A new battle raging

Not too long ago Ma Dukes and I began an epic battle. We were at war – a cook war. There have been many discrepancies over the years about my culinary skills. She thinks I lack skill. Just because I don’t like to cook, doesn’t mean I can’t cook. Mother Dear said she is quite the mistress of the kitchen. She hardly ever cooks. I wanted to know what evidence she based that idea on.
Clearly, I am the better chef (or so I’d like to think). Mommy Dearest seemed to think otherwise (sometimes she’s a bit delusional). A cook war was proposed to settle our disagreements. We would vie for the title of top chef in the family. At least for the women. My father and brother are really good cooks. Really. Really. Good. At any rate this shouldn’t have been much of a contest. The food would determine the truth.

It was on like Donkey Kong from that point on. Each week we crafted one culinary masterpiece after the other. We talked smack, took photos and even occasionally had taste testers. Both sides boasted of making the best dish for a week. However, it was all quite arbitrary. I had my camp, and Ma Dukes had hers. The only way to really determine a winner was to have unbiased judging. We would cook a dish for a big family event. The best dish would win the cook war.

Unfortunately, that didn’t quite ever happen. We just never really planned a date and time. There was talk of submitting a dish for a few family events, but nothing was set in stone. Eventually the fight and the fury over the cook war died down. Until now.

That’s right Mother. I am calling you out – again. The cook war is back on! The previous battles were just warm-ups. I am ready to finish this war once and for all. Name the time, the date and the place and I will smoke you like a turkey leg with a side of sweet potato soufflé, spinach berry salad and rum cake, topped off with my mock champagne. Now it’s time to bring it, because it has been brought.

a friend like me

You know how some guys are a man’s man? Women want him. Men want to be like or him and be his friend. I’d like to think I’m a woman’s woman. Ambitious much? Perhaps, but people seem to genuinely like me. I’m fairly charming and down-to-earth. For the most part I can get along with anyone, especially if they look like me. To me it’s not that hard to be friendly with people. It always confuses me when I hear someone say they aren’t friends with a certain group.

Recently I came across an article on Clutch Magazine and the author wrote she doesn’t have any black female friends. Some of it stems from instances of childhood bullies. Her statement is nothing new. Essence Magazine had a feature story a year or so ago about black women and how we can't get along with each other. While in college I often heard other women say. “Oh I can’t get along with other women,” or “I just click better with men. Women are too this, that and the other.” Aren’t you a woman too? So does that mean you can’t get along with yourself?

Many of my friendships just started with me randomly talking to a person, black or otherwise. I tend to like everyone unless they give me a reason to feel otherwise. Sure, I’ve had my share of not-so-friendly black girls during my childhood. That simply turned me off to those particular people, not black women as a whole. Every black woman is not catty, rude or untrustworthy. The writer of the Clutch article mentioned she felt threatened and overwhelmed around other black women. She does have friends, just not black ones.

It’s funny how I never really hear men saying they can’t get along with each other or feel threatened by another man. I’d like to think I’m a hot commodity in the friendship arena. Who wouldn’t want to be my friend? I have a lot to bring to the table, mainly my quirky personality. Maybe it’s me. I just attract people easily. Being a woman’s woman is not for everyone. However if you choose to avoid possible friendships due to insecurity, then maybe it’s you.

A time to assert

Sometimes I can be passive in addressing a situation. I’m not a doormat that allows people to walk all over me. Yet I often let people get away with saying or doing certain things that thoroughly irk me such as touching my hair, getting in my personal space or mispronouncing my name.

One of my biggest pet peeves is people insulting my job. It amazes me how people will insult where I work to my face while shaking my hand and smiling. Usually I let it slide, much like I do with everything else. Now I’m starting to see the power in asserting myself. I blame the heat. My irritable personality syndrome starts flaring up when it gets warm. Saturday was just too hot to put up with an insult, even if it was a joke.

A regular smack talker about my job saw me and said the usually jab. This time I called him out on it.

“Sir, I don’t insult where you work and would appreciate if you showed the same courtesy to me,” I said.

“Oh I’m just joking Miss Reporter lady,” he replied. “I’m not talking about you personally.”

“Yeah, well when you say things like that I take it personal, and it doesn’t help motivate me in my work.”

Apparently he felt really bad after our little exchange and thought I was upset (more like annoyed from the heat). He apologized for past insults and vowed to not say them to me anymore. I should have thrown a few tears in for good measures to make him feel even worse (just kidding).

It felt good to finally stand up for myself. Why is it so hard to do that all the time? Perhaps it’s because I think the issues might seem minor to most people. Why bother getting into a tizzy over something small? But what might seem minor to someone else could be major to you. Besides a person might not genuinely know they’re doing something wrong much. Ignorance is bliss but knowledge is power. It is my duty to speak up when things bother me. If I don’t stand up and assert myself for me, neither can anyone else.

I scream

Do you like scary movies? I’m not normally a fan of them, but there is something about the upcoming “Scream 4” that is calling to me. Sure I didn’t see all of 2 and skipped 3 completely. I’ll play catch-up with the Cliff notes version (thank you Wikipedia).

I saw the trailer for “Scream 4” and immediately decided to see it. It’s been a while since I viewed a good old-fashion scary film. They just don’t make ‘em like that anymore. Just give me a deranged psychopath with a giant butcher knife. All my excitement for “Scream 4” made me think about some of my favorite scary movies.

Carrie
My daddy likes to occasionally imitate the crazy mother in Carrie and say, “They’re going to laugh at you.” I saw the movie and loved it. Read the book and loved it. Saw the movie again and screamed when the arm popped out of the grave.

Saw
Some crazy man is going around and making people solve impossibly hard puzzles. Not cool. I HATE puzzles. I would just die. Sort of like everyone else. My nerves are too bad to watch the sequels.

Tales From The Hood
The movie features several segments with strange happenings. There are killer dolls in one segment. KILLER. DOLLS! I didn’t trust any of my dolls for a while.

From Dusk ‘Til Dawn
It’s not as scary as the rest but still made me scream (not a hard task). It did have vampires. Also, I fell in love with George Clooney watching this movie.

The Ring
My first viewing was in broad daylight with my little brother. I still screamed during most of it. Children are already scary. Evil ones are 10 times scarier.

Bones
Snoop Dog. Pam Grier. A vengeful pimped out ghost. What’s not to love? I screamed more than once watching Bones.

Any of the Final Destinations
Every time I see one of these movies, I end up afraid to breathe. It’s not safe anywhere. I can only watch a Final Destination film with a group of people. And we all have to stay close.

Now who’s coming to see “Scream 4” with me? I don’t scream alone.

The END!

Well folks, it’s been real. All good things must come to an end. I’m done with the daily posting. The beginning of April completes my dry run of National Blog Posting Month. It’s been an interesting experience. I started a day late at the urgings of Cee but kept it up. I thought this would be a hard challenge to undertake but really got into it. Several times I posted after midnight, thus dating the entry for the next day. Also I skipped a few days for no real reason other than laziness.

Initially it seemed creating daily topics would be the hard part. Apparently my head is filled with random writing material. I also set a limit of how much to write. Using only about 365 words wasn’t always an easy task. There was so much more of my colorful commentary I wanted to incorporate. I felt some posts lacked my certain style due to the length. However, the limit also kept me from rambling. I got to the point quicker. There is hope for my quest to be a columnista after all.

I hope my fan club of four enjoyed my posts during this time. Every post was not award worthy, but I did enjoy writing each one. My favorites were “A lesson in limericks,” “Name that identity” and “The mum of all fears.”

The officially National Blog Post Month is November. I plan to participate and step-up my game a notch. The goal is to continue to stick with a word limit. Perhaps it will increase to 365-500. Also I want to post earlier. No more 11:59 p.m. postings. Blogger marks it as 12:00 a.m. by the time it uploads. And maybe, just maybe, I will write about something other than me. Then again this isn’t called the Antonia Chronicles just for kicks and giggles.

Posts will come a lot less frequently now, but don’t fret. I will write at least twice a week: One for Writing Wednesday and another random day. I still have a few topics my muse is ready to unleash. Inspiration is often loss if I delay writing. For now my journey in writing for NaBloPoMo is complete.

The age of lying

It always amazes me when people, women especially, don’t want to reveal their age. Ask some women their ages and they will nervously laugh and giggle your question away. Others will straight up say, “It’s none of your business.” If you don’t want to share it, well then fine by me. But I consider it even crazier to just lie about it. Why even bother to say anything?

I posted Thursday on Twitter about an exchange I had with a woman recently. She is older and someone I thought might be a good mentor. During the conversation I said I was 26. She responded, “I’m younger than you.” I had to ask, “You’re 25?” It wasn’t because I believed her. Not too many 25-year-olds have children that are sophomores in college or even in middle school. She must have popped out babies in pre-school. The woman then admitted she has been lying about her age for so long she doesn’t remember what it actually is. “I’m going to be 25 forever,” she said. I was at a loss for words. If you’re going to lie about your age, at least pick a number that’s a lot more believable.

Several of my friends have expressed not wanting to ever grow old. I wonder if one day they will lie about their ages.  I could probably get away with saying I’m 21-25, but I am enjoying 26. But unlike Jay-Z, I don’t want to be forever young. Do you know how many stupid things I did during 25 and below? Age should bring wisdom. I feel a little wiser with each year.

Lying about your age might not seem serious things to some people, but it demonstrates insecurity to me. You feel lying is necessary for acceptance. Perhaps you didn’t accomplish certain goals in your younger years and finally did. Maybe you alter your age to get kudos from others. I tweeted, “Saying you are 25 when you are 35 is not going to turn back the hands of time.” Thirty is not the new 20. It’s still the same 30. A wise person knows you must embrace your age. At least I know that at 26.

The mum of all fears

There are just some things you don’t do to your parents. Talking back is a big no-no of course. It’s also against the child rules to not obey them. Perhaps the worst thing possible is hitting your parents. I read this report on AP News Tuesday:

FORT MYERS, Fla. — Authorities in southwest Florida say a 17-year-old girl pointed a gun at her mother, pistol-whipped her and forced her to drive to a dealership to buy her a used car.
The sheriff's office in Lee County said Monday that the teen has been charged with aggravated assault with a deadly weapon without intent to kill, among other counts, and was being held at a juvenile detention center. The Associated Press doesn't identify minors charged with juvenile crimes.
According to officials, the mother said she didn't want to press charges because her daughter had been accepted to several Ivy League schools.
Authorities said they decided to arrest the teenager after learning that the gun had been stolen last year. The teen was not charged in that crime.

Stop the presses! Who does that? Who pistol-whips their mama for a car? Better yet, what parents allow their children to even pistol-whip them? There is something extremely wrong with the children of today. They have no type of respect for their parents. Actually, forget respect. They don’t have the fear.

The fear makes me flinch if I even think about saying a curse word around my parents. The fear keeps me respectful to them. Furthermore the fear keeps me from rolling up on one of my parents like that girl. The fear hasn’t diminished in 26 years. It just gets stronger. I am still scared of what my parents might do to me, especially my mother. Whereas my daddy might yell about something, she would probably knock me out. I can picture it now. Ma Dukes says something I don’t like and I roll my eyes. The next thing you know, I’m being rolled into a hospital with no eyes.

That girl’s mother did not instill the fear. She might want to start now by pressing charges. Big Shirley in lockdown will definitely teach her the fear.

a list look

Sometimes lists can be a beneficial tool to help you discover things to experience before death. There’s a list of places to see, foods to eat and even things to do all before your name is called up yonder. It might seem a bit morbid, but imagine how much a person would miss out on without the guidance of these lists. Recently my friend Cee and I were talking about books. She mentioned the list of 1,001 books you must read before dying. The list is split up into time periods with the largest cluster from the 1900s.

At first thought it seemed like a decent list to follow. Quite a few of the books I can already check off from a combination of required readings from school and an overall interest in the written word. There are also several books I have yet to never but know the basic premise thanks to Wikipedia and Cliffnotes (I have a fondness for spoilers). That still leaves at least more than 900 books to go on the list.

Reading that many books before dying is quite a lofty goal. This is something I should have started the day I learned how to read. I’m not a spring chicken anymore. It would take me almost 20 years to finish that list if I read one book a week. Somewhere in there I would have to find the time to read other books not on the list.

I’m not too sure I will complete the list. Most of those books don’t even appeal to me. Perhaps I am narrow-minded, but I read what I like. There are only two books out of 69 on the list from the 2000s I am even remotely interested in reading, “Middlesex” and "The Human Stain." I feel like I know “Robinson Crusoe” so well that I’ll probably never pick it up. And I know “The 120 Days of Sodom” is not for me in the least. Life is too short to read books that don’t interest me. There are too many others to read. The same goes for trying things from those other lists. I’ll simply compile a list of books I want to read before dying.