There was a time when I was terribly young and terribly cute, which meant I wanted to be neither. My mother liked to put me in frilly dresses, despite the fact that I lived in an all boy environment, which meant that I needed to dig up worms and play with GIJoes in order to get any street cred. She fought as hard as she could, putting me in ballet, tap and even baton lessons, while I was content to sit in my Wranglers and watch Dukes of Hazzard with my cousins.
In one of these battles for girlishness, I became a flower girl. The Bride and Groom were were more like a surrogate aunt and uncle. She was a petite, perky professional cheerleader with gorgeous high cheekbones. He was a handsome weatherman and we all liked to brag that we knew him whenever he was on television. I wasn’t happy on their wedding day, because I was suffocating in layers and layers of flowers and frilly misery. The only thing I remember about the wedding was the Bride telling me I looked nice. When I frowned, she said “you might as well get used to it, because people are gonna tell you that all day.”
Fast forward many decades and mom and I moved away. I grew up and even though I was not a so-called Girly Girl, I was not the militant tomboy I once was. I decided to attend college in another state and dabble in journalism. I liked my first class, but I was concerned about my professor and the way I’d catch him eyeing me. Then he’d interrupt my class questions with inquiries of his own, like “where are you from, originally?” Eventually, he stopped me before class and revealed himself as The Weatherman aka The Groom that I’d known so many years before. He and The Bride were doing well, had two young boys and lived in a suburb near the college.
I transferred to another college, but The Groom and his family became active participants in my life. We both were involved in the same professional organization, and I’d see the Bride and Groom at various summer getaways that the organization hosted. And if I didn’t run into them, they were sure to find me. I was young and naïve back then, so I was grateful to have The Groom’s career advice and The Bride’s efforts to steer me away from the Dirty Old Men that tended to dwell at these affairs.
Life went on, and my pockets started to thin. I could no longer afford these getaways around the country, but I’d always drop a note to the Bride and Groom come summertime. There was an event in California that I couldn’t attend, and neither could they. The Groom explained that it was because the Bride had been diagnosed with breast cancer and was undergoing treatments. He mentioned this in his normal upbeat way and I said I’d keep them in my prayers.
That was the last time we spoke. The organization’s summer event seems like it could be in my financial future this year, so I looked forward to catching up to the Bride and Groom and their kids. I was on Facebook the other night and saw that an aunt seemed to be thinking about them as well and posted several 1980s era pictures of the happy couple. I clicked on a particularly stunning picture of The Bride, one where her cheekbones were at their finest, and saw several comments of “rest in peace” and “my deepest condolences.” Online investigator that I am, I learned that The Bride was undergoing brain surgery to remove tumors that were a result of the cancer when she suddenly died.
To say that I am sad about it would be the understatement of the year. But sometime soon I’ll get it together enough to send my own condolences and figure out the funeral arrangements. Then maybe, just maybe, I will go to the summertime getaway and remember the good ole days.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Monday, January 24, 2011
Friday, January 14, 2011
The DNA Detective
Growing up I always looked forward to those times when Grandpop would visit. He always watched the Muppets with me and enjoyed playing with my pet parakeets. He often told me about the parakeet he once had – Pretty Boy – and how he was so well trained that he was allowed to roam freely around the house. His life was a mystery. I knew he was an amazing piano player, but I didn’t know why nobody in the family took up lessons from him. He and my grandma married and had five kids together, but I didn’t know why he lived on one end of town and he on another, and both had significant others.
Of course, kids can’t ask these kinds of things without being brushed off or being told to stop being grown. So I just relied on my instincts to piece things together. Grandma never cracked a smile when he was around. My mom treated him as politely as she would any guest. My aunts and uncle smirked whenever he told one of his stories. And then my older cousin – who often played the role of Evil Older Brother in my life – told me that no one liked Grandpop and that half of the stories he told were lies. I told him to shut up, which was pretty much all I had to say to him in those days.
Years went by and I saw Grandpop less and less. When I did see him, he was the same happy man, just smaller and older. It was easier to distinguish his tall tales from the truth. The whisperings among my mom’s siblings got louder. I concluded that Grandpop had a way with the ladies. He left a trail of broken hearts, and in some cases, he also left babies.
So, I wasn’t surprised when my aunt got a phone call alerting her to an adult brother who lives down south. She confronted Grandpop, who admitted this guy was his son. Then auntie noticed a picture of a young woman with our trademark nose. Grandpop reluctantly admitted that was her sister. She stormed off. Another cousin visited Grandpop and he was in full confession mode, with his version of the truth. From that, we learned that there is another daughter in the Midwest.
And now the plot thickens. There are three camps. Camp A is through with Grandpa and his rollin’ stone ways. Camp B doesn’t see how this is different from anything else he’s done and learning about these other siblings doesn’t take them by surprise. And then there’s me and the next generation who are in Camp C. We’d like to know how many other children there are, their ages (new uncle is only four years older than me) and their current location. I’m tempted to go over to Grandpop’s with a map and have him tell me all the places he visited. I will dispatch all of my cousins to each location and have them be on the lookout for anyone who could be family. I’m trying to prevent incest before it happens. That is not a good look for the 21st century.
Of course, kids can’t ask these kinds of things without being brushed off or being told to stop being grown. So I just relied on my instincts to piece things together. Grandma never cracked a smile when he was around. My mom treated him as politely as she would any guest. My aunts and uncle smirked whenever he told one of his stories. And then my older cousin – who often played the role of Evil Older Brother in my life – told me that no one liked Grandpop and that half of the stories he told were lies. I told him to shut up, which was pretty much all I had to say to him in those days.
Years went by and I saw Grandpop less and less. When I did see him, he was the same happy man, just smaller and older. It was easier to distinguish his tall tales from the truth. The whisperings among my mom’s siblings got louder. I concluded that Grandpop had a way with the ladies. He left a trail of broken hearts, and in some cases, he also left babies.
So, I wasn’t surprised when my aunt got a phone call alerting her to an adult brother who lives down south. She confronted Grandpop, who admitted this guy was his son. Then auntie noticed a picture of a young woman with our trademark nose. Grandpop reluctantly admitted that was her sister. She stormed off. Another cousin visited Grandpop and he was in full confession mode, with his version of the truth. From that, we learned that there is another daughter in the Midwest.
And now the plot thickens. There are three camps. Camp A is through with Grandpa and his rollin’ stone ways. Camp B doesn’t see how this is different from anything else he’s done and learning about these other siblings doesn’t take them by surprise. And then there’s me and the next generation who are in Camp C. We’d like to know how many other children there are, their ages (new uncle is only four years older than me) and their current location. I’m tempted to go over to Grandpop’s with a map and have him tell me all the places he visited. I will dispatch all of my cousins to each location and have them be on the lookout for anyone who could be family. I’m trying to prevent incest before it happens. That is not a good look for the 21st century.
Saturday, December 04, 2010
Standing on top of the mountain
I've been thinking about my grandmother alot lately. She died when I was in seventh grade, but my family often talks about her whenever we get together. I've spent the last month constantly visiting my aunt/hairdresser/therapist as I began my journey of getting my dreadlocks out. (Yeah, I did it, more on that in another post) We shared lots of stories about my grandmom. She was a sweet woman who didn't like to hug and kiss. If you tried to offer either one to her, she'd laugh and say "Go'on girl!"
Through my aforementioned AHT, I learned some stories about her that I didn't know. Grandmom was a woman who had simple needs, like listening to the Phillies' play on her very old decrepit radio. Around Christmas or birthday time, she'd tell you what she wanted. If you got her something not on the list -- say a nicer radio -- she would scream "Oh girl, What'd you get me this stupid thing for?? I don't need this!" But there were some gifts she treasured, like when she got her first nice winter coat from another aunt, or that time she cried (a rare occasion) when she was given her first rocking chair, one that I'll always picture her in. My AHT told me about a time when she was a teenager and learned that one of her friends had been murdered. She plopped her big ole self in Grandmom's lap and cried and cried as Grandmom just held her and rocked her in that chair.
So I was at TJ Maxx awhile ago searching for Christmas gifts. I reached for a book about being thrifty at the same time as an older black woman. I mentioned that this would be perfect for my stepdad, since he's the cheapest person I know. The woman perked up and told me that she was cheap too, and that she learned all of her money saving skills from her mother in law, who she is in the process of writing a book about.
We stood in that aisle, and she told me that everyone calls her Mama Bee. She is a cancer survivor, lost her job a few years ago and had to start all over. She's in her 70s now and is studying all kinds of things, including martial arts. I gave her my business card and she was in shock, because she realized my last name is very similar to her maiden name. She was filled with great one liners, I wish I had a pen and paper to write down everything she said during our conversation. She mentioned how her husband lives with his girlfriend now, and was having children with his girlfriend at the same time as she was giving birth to his kids. She said she's moved past it, and has a good relationship with her husband's other children. When I asked her if this scenario doesn't bother her, she gave me this ancient proverb: "Sit by a river long enough, and eventually you'll see your enemies floating by."
We were talking forever, and when I told her it was time to go, she told me I was an inspiration. that was weird, since she was the one who had been doing all of the talking. I told her I was 33 when she asked and she said that it was clear I lived a good life. "Whatever you're going through, you're handling it well. You don't have any frown lines, or any worry lines. You're standing on top of the mountain, and I want you to keep doing that." I almost cried, because that was exactly what I needed to hear. Thanks, Mama Bee. And thanks, grandmom.
Through my aforementioned AHT, I learned some stories about her that I didn't know. Grandmom was a woman who had simple needs, like listening to the Phillies' play on her very old decrepit radio. Around Christmas or birthday time, she'd tell you what she wanted. If you got her something not on the list -- say a nicer radio -- she would scream "Oh girl, What'd you get me this stupid thing for?? I don't need this!" But there were some gifts she treasured, like when she got her first nice winter coat from another aunt, or that time she cried (a rare occasion) when she was given her first rocking chair, one that I'll always picture her in. My AHT told me about a time when she was a teenager and learned that one of her friends had been murdered. She plopped her big ole self in Grandmom's lap and cried and cried as Grandmom just held her and rocked her in that chair.
So I was at TJ Maxx awhile ago searching for Christmas gifts. I reached for a book about being thrifty at the same time as an older black woman. I mentioned that this would be perfect for my stepdad, since he's the cheapest person I know. The woman perked up and told me that she was cheap too, and that she learned all of her money saving skills from her mother in law, who she is in the process of writing a book about.
We stood in that aisle, and she told me that everyone calls her Mama Bee. She is a cancer survivor, lost her job a few years ago and had to start all over. She's in her 70s now and is studying all kinds of things, including martial arts. I gave her my business card and she was in shock, because she realized my last name is very similar to her maiden name. She was filled with great one liners, I wish I had a pen and paper to write down everything she said during our conversation. She mentioned how her husband lives with his girlfriend now, and was having children with his girlfriend at the same time as she was giving birth to his kids. She said she's moved past it, and has a good relationship with her husband's other children. When I asked her if this scenario doesn't bother her, she gave me this ancient proverb: "Sit by a river long enough, and eventually you'll see your enemies floating by."
We were talking forever, and when I told her it was time to go, she told me I was an inspiration. that was weird, since she was the one who had been doing all of the talking. I told her I was 33 when she asked and she said that it was clear I lived a good life. "Whatever you're going through, you're handling it well. You don't have any frown lines, or any worry lines. You're standing on top of the mountain, and I want you to keep doing that." I almost cried, because that was exactly what I needed to hear. Thanks, Mama Bee. And thanks, grandmom.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
For Colored Girls Who Considered Janet's Cough When The Credits Started To Roll
I mentioned previously that I saw For Colored Girls. And rather than join into the neverending debate about all things Tyler Perry, I thought I’d talk about one of the parts that stuck with me. Janet Jackson plays a woman with a … dare I say it??? ….. FOINE as all get out husband. Her character is a cold, wealthy careerwoman. Her husband also has a successful career, but it pales in comparison to the prestige and money of his wife’s. Oh, and by the way, her husband is on the Down Low, or gay, has sex with men, etc. This is later addressed by a cough, a low point in the movie.
The scenario had me thinking back to the past. There was a dude I was once involved in that I believe si gay. When our paths first crossed, we were volunteering for a similar organization. My immediate thoughts of him were -- “He’s cute. It’s a shame he’s gay.” I don’t know what it was … maybe the vibe he emitted or the slightly high tilt in his voice …. But something knocked at my conscience’s door. I didn’t listen.
Fast forward some time and that initial thought was erased. He asked me out, and I was on the moon. He held my hand and I had to tame my heartbeat. He kissed me and I danced a jig. (I did it later and privately, of course) Then he kissed me again. And again. And again. And again. And soon, I began to think: Well hell, is kissing all we’re gonna do?
I addressed all of this with him, and he said he was just waiting for the right time. He wanted things to happen naturally. I said I understood, but still I wondered. What’s more natural than the fact that I’ve slept beside you? But whatever, I put it out of my mind. For awhile, it was nice to be with someone who only wanted one thing. My nose was wide open. He could do no wrong.
We went out pretty regularly – dinners, plays, outdoor festivals, etc. There was a time I was at his parents’ house for a cookout and his childhood friend, D, showed up. I was eager to meet D, because I heard so much about him. But when dude introudced me to D, he did so rather reluctantly. I remember thinking – “awww, that’s sweet, he doesn’t want D to interrupt our time together.” Looking back, I think I may have been the interrupter.
Things ended and I was pretty broken up about it. But I moved on, cause ain’t nobody gonna walk away with all my stuff. (Again, a For Colored Girls reference) Once, after he became a distant memory, I had lunch with a friend who started a new job, the same place Dude worked. Without knowing much of our history, she told me she suspected he was gay. I changed the subject.
After I saw For Colored Girls, I wondered about Dude. I wondered if everything was alright in his world, and if he had gotten comfortable enough to live his life as a gay man. I found him online, and saw that he is still identifying himself as a heterosexual. Well, maybe he is. But the truth is for him to know, and for some other woman to find out.
The scenario had me thinking back to the past. There was a dude I was once involved in that I believe si gay. When our paths first crossed, we were volunteering for a similar organization. My immediate thoughts of him were -- “He’s cute. It’s a shame he’s gay.” I don’t know what it was … maybe the vibe he emitted or the slightly high tilt in his voice …. But something knocked at my conscience’s door. I didn’t listen.
Fast forward some time and that initial thought was erased. He asked me out, and I was on the moon. He held my hand and I had to tame my heartbeat. He kissed me and I danced a jig. (I did it later and privately, of course) Then he kissed me again. And again. And again. And again. And soon, I began to think: Well hell, is kissing all we’re gonna do?
I addressed all of this with him, and he said he was just waiting for the right time. He wanted things to happen naturally. I said I understood, but still I wondered. What’s more natural than the fact that I’ve slept beside you? But whatever, I put it out of my mind. For awhile, it was nice to be with someone who only wanted one thing. My nose was wide open. He could do no wrong.
We went out pretty regularly – dinners, plays, outdoor festivals, etc. There was a time I was at his parents’ house for a cookout and his childhood friend, D, showed up. I was eager to meet D, because I heard so much about him. But when dude introudced me to D, he did so rather reluctantly. I remember thinking – “awww, that’s sweet, he doesn’t want D to interrupt our time together.” Looking back, I think I may have been the interrupter.
Things ended and I was pretty broken up about it. But I moved on, cause ain’t nobody gonna walk away with all my stuff. (Again, a For Colored Girls reference) Once, after he became a distant memory, I had lunch with a friend who started a new job, the same place Dude worked. Without knowing much of our history, she told me she suspected he was gay. I changed the subject.
After I saw For Colored Girls, I wondered about Dude. I wondered if everything was alright in his world, and if he had gotten comfortable enough to live his life as a gay man. I found him online, and saw that he is still identifying himself as a heterosexual. Well, maybe he is. But the truth is for him to know, and for some other woman to find out.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
On Reunions, Teen Rebellions & Absolutely NOT Driving Drunk
I’m truly convinced Heather hates me.
Heather and I go way back, we’re cool peeps. I knew her back when folks were just starting to realize how much she resembled Winona Ryder. She knew me when I started my first act of rebellion – shaving my legs against my mother’s wishes. (Deep scandal, I know) We roamed that hallowed hell of high school together and we’re all the better for it.
Every once in awhile, I’ll hear from her. We’ll catch up through email on what we’ve been up to and how our lives have turned out. I’m satisfied with knowing that we’re both doing well, but she always has to push the convo one step further and ask the dreaded question – will I be available for the high school reunion? There’s one big convo ender for me.
I have nothing against high school reunions. I went to my five year and had a pretty decent time. I found that as much as things changed, they remained the same. No matter how much all of us tried to stretch beyond the barriers of our usual cliques, a lot of us simply evolved into the adult era of cliquedom: The Marrieds, The Singles, The Parents, The Screw Ups Who Became Somebody, The Somebodies Who Became Screw Ups, etc. It was that single event that helped me realize that I didn’t need any more high school people in my life. I didn’t want to be surrounded around people who knew me When. I wanted to be surrounded by people who know me Now. No more high school reunions for me.
The closest I got to a reunion was a few years ago when a close friend, It’s Always the Quiet Ones, got married to a new boyfriend after calling off her first wedding. A bunch of us got caught up on our lives, high-school reunion style, when the convo turned to our friend Bubbly, who wasn’t there. I’d been living out of state and had been out of touch with all that had been happening in Bubbly’s life – new career, marriage, kids … and the fact that her younger sister had been killed by a drunk driver the year before.
It shocked me because I’ll always remember Bubbly’s Sister as the cute babyfaced girl who followed her sister everywhere. The two of them were very close and I’ll never forget how hurt Bubbly’s Sister was when Bubbly started dating the Absolute Wrong Guy. Thankfully, she didn’t marry him, and their relationship survived.
Bubbly and I were able to catch up through Facebook recently and I was able to send my condolences, albeit they came about six years after the fact. Each year, she and her family participate in the MADD walk to celebrate her sister’s memory and raise money to get drunken drivers off of the streets. The event is being held next month and I signed up. It’s Always The Quiet Ones may attend, along with some other folks from our teenage circle. I’m looking forward to raising money for a good cause and catching up with old friends, sans the judgment and the cattiness.
So it looks like a mini high school reunion is being formed after all, one on our own terms. Don’t tell Heather.
Heather and I go way back, we’re cool peeps. I knew her back when folks were just starting to realize how much she resembled Winona Ryder. She knew me when I started my first act of rebellion – shaving my legs against my mother’s wishes. (Deep scandal, I know) We roamed that hallowed hell of high school together and we’re all the better for it.
Every once in awhile, I’ll hear from her. We’ll catch up through email on what we’ve been up to and how our lives have turned out. I’m satisfied with knowing that we’re both doing well, but she always has to push the convo one step further and ask the dreaded question – will I be available for the high school reunion? There’s one big convo ender for me.
I have nothing against high school reunions. I went to my five year and had a pretty decent time. I found that as much as things changed, they remained the same. No matter how much all of us tried to stretch beyond the barriers of our usual cliques, a lot of us simply evolved into the adult era of cliquedom: The Marrieds, The Singles, The Parents, The Screw Ups Who Became Somebody, The Somebodies Who Became Screw Ups, etc. It was that single event that helped me realize that I didn’t need any more high school people in my life. I didn’t want to be surrounded around people who knew me When. I wanted to be surrounded by people who know me Now. No more high school reunions for me.
The closest I got to a reunion was a few years ago when a close friend, It’s Always the Quiet Ones, got married to a new boyfriend after calling off her first wedding. A bunch of us got caught up on our lives, high-school reunion style, when the convo turned to our friend Bubbly, who wasn’t there. I’d been living out of state and had been out of touch with all that had been happening in Bubbly’s life – new career, marriage, kids … and the fact that her younger sister had been killed by a drunk driver the year before.
It shocked me because I’ll always remember Bubbly’s Sister as the cute babyfaced girl who followed her sister everywhere. The two of them were very close and I’ll never forget how hurt Bubbly’s Sister was when Bubbly started dating the Absolute Wrong Guy. Thankfully, she didn’t marry him, and their relationship survived.
Bubbly and I were able to catch up through Facebook recently and I was able to send my condolences, albeit they came about six years after the fact. Each year, she and her family participate in the MADD walk to celebrate her sister’s memory and raise money to get drunken drivers off of the streets. The event is being held next month and I signed up. It’s Always The Quiet Ones may attend, along with some other folks from our teenage circle. I’m looking forward to raising money for a good cause and catching up with old friends, sans the judgment and the cattiness.
So it looks like a mini high school reunion is being formed after all, one on our own terms. Don’t tell Heather.
Photo from http://www.cartoonstock.com/lowres/amc0300l.jpg
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The Return From Paradise
I'm back from the beach, and it was just as wonderful as I thought it would be. This particular locale is just a four-hour drive from my home, but four hours certainly makes the difference. The weather was WONDERFUL -- practically reaching 90 degrees on one day -- and the ocean air was seriously therapeutic. During my four days there, I ate and ate and ate and ATE, and slept and slept and slept, walked and walked and walked, and a did bit of shopping that led me to purchase my very first Christmas gift.
It was interesting visiting this beach in the off season. It wasn't crowded, but it wasn't a ghost town either. And most of the people who were there were white, but they didn't seem to look at my group sideways. So that was a good thing.
The last time I visited this beach I was a teenager, celebrating the sweet 16 of another friend. This friend was the daughter of one of my mom's friends, so you know how that goes -- "I have a daughter your age. Her name is M. You guys should hang out!" So over the years, I spent quite a bit of time with M, whether I liked it or not. (For the record, I did like M, who was about a year younger than me. We spent many an evening at her family's drunken gatherings trying to sip from the adult punch. Most times we succeeded)
For her 16th birthday, M's mother arranged it so that M could have a hotel room on the beach with three other friends. That wound up being me, M's best friend Erica, and an older girl I'll call Courage, since her first name was my middle name. We were all in awe of Courage -- she was 19, tall, shapely and beautiful. She had a daughter at home and was the only one among us who seemingly had a clue of what to do in that mysterious ritual of make up. We'd stay up all hours of the night, running to the beach, laughing on the streets and meeting strangers on the strip of road that ran right next to the beach. We'd sleep until 1 or 2 in the afternoon, and our only meals -- including breakfast -- came from Zero's, an excellent sub shop in town.
We did meet a couple of guys while we were there. The ones that stayed with us the longest were these older dudes that were in the Navy (they were 19 and 20, if I remember correctly). Most of the girls in my group were oohing and ahhing about this one guy, cause he looked like Prince. But I was more interested in his Cousin, who looked nothing like Prince, but was just as good looking. They hung out with us the rest of the time. The most memorable part of the week was when the seven of us -- they brought a friend along -- got together to play strip Uno. Now, anyone who knows me well, knows that my part in the game consisted of me taking off my watch, my earrings, and my shoes. And NOTHING else. But Prince had no shame, and got down to nothing in the end. Fun times.
We all promised to keep in touch after the vacation, but you know how that goes. My mom got a new job and eventually lost touch with M's mother. My mother was my main connection to M, so that fell away. Prince's Cousin and I wrote letters for awhile, but that didn't go anywhere. Through our exchanges, I learned that dear Cousin couldn't spell -- for example, "you're my Miss Wright", etc -- and a pet peeve developed. I went into my senior year of high school, met the first love and stopped answering Cousin's letters. Eventually, he stopped writing them.
So going back to this beach recently was truly a trip down memory lane. I'm an adult now and truly can't stomach the thought of eating a cheesesteak for breakfast, even though it crossed my mind often as I passed Zeroes. I crossed paths with quite a few cuties, but I wouldn't even dream of inviting them up to my place for strip Uno. (for two reasons: 1. I was with my parents and 2. I'm just not that crazy anymore) It was truly relaxing. Still, there was part of me that missed the traffic in the streets, the car horns, the "hey shawty"s and the illegible phone numbers scribbled on ketchup-stained napkins. Ahhh, youth.
Photo from http://www.youthblog.org/archives/teenagers%20hiphop%20cartoon.jpg
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The Facebook Fast
I am on the 22nd day of my self imposed Facebook fast. That means I have not been logging onto Facebook, at all. That’s right. My Lexulous games have fallen by the wayside. My status update is blank. Chatting has been unavailable. And I haven’t poked anyone in a very long time.
The reason for this change is that as lovely and wonderful as Facebook can be in the beginning, it can be a bit overwhelming. There was a time I was obsessed with it; I couldn’t start my day without logging in, checking folks’ status updates or updating my own. And the games, oh the games! Those were the best part. It was quite beautiful.
But as time went by, I realize that this website is nothing more than a 24-7 high school/family reunion. In the beginning, it seems like a good idea to invite everyone you’ve ever met to your space for a little get together. Yet it doesn’t take long to realize that might not have been a good idea. Do I really need to hear about High School Friend getting her tubes tied? Do I need to be tagged in photos of me playing in the sandbox with Mr. (Suspected) Serial Killer? Does dear Aunt Irene really want to know what Sex and the City character I am?
Yes, it can be that bad. I have just over 200 Facebook friends and quite a few of them are friends in Facebook only. Whenever someone sent me a friend request, I would accept if this was someone I knew. It got a bit dicey when people from high school, folks I didn’t particularly care for, sent me requests. I tried to move past being an immature teenager and holding on to grudges, so I’d accept the request and consider a new day. But the teenybopper inside me would rear her ugly head every so often, forcing me to examine their pages to make sure they were suffering for whatever wrong they may have inflicted on me back in the day.
On my friend list, there are a few types I’ve noticed:
The Oversharers: Status messages about their bathroom habits, arguments with significant others, etc. My particular favorite is an old supervisor who took a quiz that announced that she’d like to have sex at least three times a day and bragged about it in her status update. My brain will never recover from that image.
The Political Causer: I’m glad you feel some kind of way about Michael Vick, President Obama, Michael Jackson, health care reform, animal rights, abortion, etc etc etc, but please don’t try to pull me into your debates. In fact, your constant mentioning of your cause, or sending me invitations to your groups, is leading me closer and closer to eliminating you from my friends list. (See also News Analyst)
The reason for this change is that as lovely and wonderful as Facebook can be in the beginning, it can be a bit overwhelming. There was a time I was obsessed with it; I couldn’t start my day without logging in, checking folks’ status updates or updating my own. And the games, oh the games! Those were the best part. It was quite beautiful.
But as time went by, I realize that this website is nothing more than a 24-7 high school/family reunion. In the beginning, it seems like a good idea to invite everyone you’ve ever met to your space for a little get together. Yet it doesn’t take long to realize that might not have been a good idea. Do I really need to hear about High School Friend getting her tubes tied? Do I need to be tagged in photos of me playing in the sandbox with Mr. (Suspected) Serial Killer? Does dear Aunt Irene really want to know what Sex and the City character I am?
Yes, it can be that bad. I have just over 200 Facebook friends and quite a few of them are friends in Facebook only. Whenever someone sent me a friend request, I would accept if this was someone I knew. It got a bit dicey when people from high school, folks I didn’t particularly care for, sent me requests. I tried to move past being an immature teenager and holding on to grudges, so I’d accept the request and consider a new day. But the teenybopper inside me would rear her ugly head every so often, forcing me to examine their pages to make sure they were suffering for whatever wrong they may have inflicted on me back in the day.
On my friend list, there are a few types I’ve noticed:
The Oversharers: Status messages about their bathroom habits, arguments with significant others, etc. My particular favorite is an old supervisor who took a quiz that announced that she’d like to have sex at least three times a day and bragged about it in her status update. My brain will never recover from that image.
The Political Causer: I’m glad you feel some kind of way about Michael Vick, President Obama, Michael Jackson, health care reform, animal rights, abortion, etc etc etc, but please don’t try to pull me into your debates. In fact, your constant mentioning of your cause, or sending me invitations to your groups, is leading me closer and closer to eliminating you from my friends list. (See also News Analyst)
The News Analyst: I read a newspaper daily, but what’s missing from this consumption is your opinion on whatever article I read. Thanks for providing this missing link in my life! Double thanks for doing it 57485748573 times a day!
The Non Speller: I mentioned before that I can be quite anal about spelling and grammar. That being said, I’d be pretty embarrassed if I told everyone on my friend’s list that I was “trying to help my son deal with his great grandmother’s deaf.” Same thing if I realized “their aren't enough hours in the day.”
The Throwback: “Hi, Strength! Remember me? We were best friends in third grade! What have you been up to since then? Are you still collecting Garbage Pail Kids? I am!”
I could go on and on, but I’ll stop there. These are just a few of the problems I’ve run into with the infamous Facebook. My diet will end on August 27, at which time I’ll see what kind of tomfoolery I may have missed while I was gone. Probably nothing. And if I did miss anything, it is probably for the best.
I’m not saying my entire Facebook experience has been bad, it just can be a bit much. And what can you expect when you have a list that’s a mix of family, friends and past/current coworkers? Drama. From the outside looking in, I’ve seen relationships both start and end on this teeny little site. (At the risk of being even more longwinded, here's a funny video of the site's impact on relationships)
In the end, Facebook has left me with one important lesson: Sometimes, it’s okay to lose touch with folks.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
The MJ Coma Continues
So yes, I've been listening to my MJ tunes at a constant rate. I'm singing at the top of my lungs at home and in the car. And don't let 'Dirty Diana' come on. Cuz that is when I completely LOSE IT. I loved all of Michael's music, but if I had to pick a couple of favorites -- notice I said 'couple', cuz I can't pick just one -- 'Dirty Diana' would easily make my top four list.
I started thinking about Michael's music videos and how amazing they were. Nobody did music videos like Michael did. Folks always talk about how he changed the game with the vids for 'Smooth Criminal', 'Remember the Time', 'Scream,' 'Black or White' and with 'Thriller', which I count as a movie. But the video for 'The Way You Make Me Feel' is one that I also appreciate. It's so raw, so real. I mean, it's MJ seriously flexing his mack daddy vibe. It is also a stalker's wet dream. I can't even count the number of aggressive pelvic thrusts he did in this video. Let's take a look, shall we:
If this were to happen in real life, can you imagine the 911 call that came afterward? Or how ole girl described the situation to the cops? I can!
Girl: I was coming home from the club, and these guys started yelling at me. This one guy was really aggressive and he shouted out, 'HEY!'
Cop: Yeah? So what'd you do?
Girl: I was shocked. Scared to death. So I just stood there and he said something about me knocking him off his feet. Then he started screaming.
Cop: Screaming?
Girl: He was screaming, then he was singing. And he and his friends started following me. Umm, why are you looking at me like that?
Cop: I'm sorry, but you look a little like Mariah Carey.
Girl: Who?
Cop: Mariah! You know her. She's got that song, 'Vision of Love'. It was a big hit in the 90s.
Girl: Sir, it's 1987.
Cop: Oh, right. Forgot about that. So he's singing, screaming and chasing you, then what?
Girl: He and his boys corner me at one point, and then ... and then ... and then ...
Cop: WHAT??
Girl: They start humping the ground! The fire hydrant broke and there was water flying everywhere. He ripped off his shirt and the water fell all over his body. And uhh .... You stopped writing.
Cop: It's your hair! That's what makes me think of Mariah. I'm trying to remember the last time I saw it curly. Why do you think she started straightening it?
Girl: Look, I'm trying to report a crime here! Keep up with me.
Cop: Ok, ok. There was humping. There was water. What next?
Girl: The main guy -- the ringleader -- he kept yelling "GO'ON GIRL!! EEEE-HEEE-EEE! OW!" But there was something about him, something so spectacular, that I suddenly felt myself drawn to him. So I let him hug me and he disappeared.
Cop: Did you want him to touch your body?
Girl: WHAT?
Cop: Never mind. I've got to wrap this up. We've got a disturbance at the cemetery, then I have to get to my bodyguard detail.
Girl: You're a bodyguard?
Cop: Somebody's gotta make sure Annie's okay. So did you have anything else to say about your floor humping, screaming, singing attacker?
Girl: No, that's it.
Cop: According to the description you gave our artist, your attacker looks alot like Michael Jackson! Was it him?
Girl: Well, yeah. But I didn't say want to rat him out. He kept saying 'ain't nobody's business.'
Cop: Oh Mariah. I do believe you're a looney tune. I suggest you get your mental illness in check. It can only hurt you down the line.
Girl: I AM NOT THIS MARIAH PERSON!
Cop: Sure thing, honey. How 'bout you sign this autograph and I won't charge you for filing a false police report?
Girl: (sighs) Fine.
I started thinking about Michael's music videos and how amazing they were. Nobody did music videos like Michael did. Folks always talk about how he changed the game with the vids for 'Smooth Criminal', 'Remember the Time', 'Scream,' 'Black or White' and with 'Thriller', which I count as a movie. But the video for 'The Way You Make Me Feel' is one that I also appreciate. It's so raw, so real. I mean, it's MJ seriously flexing his mack daddy vibe. It is also a stalker's wet dream. I can't even count the number of aggressive pelvic thrusts he did in this video. Let's take a look, shall we:
If this were to happen in real life, can you imagine the 911 call that came afterward? Or how ole girl described the situation to the cops? I can!
Girl: I was coming home from the club, and these guys started yelling at me. This one guy was really aggressive and he shouted out, 'HEY!'
Cop: Yeah? So what'd you do?
Girl: I was shocked. Scared to death. So I just stood there and he said something about me knocking him off his feet. Then he started screaming.
Cop: Screaming?
Girl: He was screaming, then he was singing. And he and his friends started following me. Umm, why are you looking at me like that?
Cop: I'm sorry, but you look a little like Mariah Carey.
Girl: Who?
Cop: Mariah! You know her. She's got that song, 'Vision of Love'. It was a big hit in the 90s.
Girl: Sir, it's 1987.
Cop: Oh, right. Forgot about that. So he's singing, screaming and chasing you, then what?
Girl: He and his boys corner me at one point, and then ... and then ... and then ...
Cop: WHAT??
Girl: They start humping the ground! The fire hydrant broke and there was water flying everywhere. He ripped off his shirt and the water fell all over his body. And uhh .... You stopped writing.
Cop: It's your hair! That's what makes me think of Mariah. I'm trying to remember the last time I saw it curly. Why do you think she started straightening it?
Girl: Look, I'm trying to report a crime here! Keep up with me.
Cop: Ok, ok. There was humping. There was water. What next?
Girl: The main guy -- the ringleader -- he kept yelling "GO'ON GIRL!! EEEE-HEEE-EEE! OW!" But there was something about him, something so spectacular, that I suddenly felt myself drawn to him. So I let him hug me and he disappeared.
Cop: Did you want him to touch your body?
Girl: WHAT?
Cop: Never mind. I've got to wrap this up. We've got a disturbance at the cemetery, then I have to get to my bodyguard detail.
Girl: You're a bodyguard?
Cop: Somebody's gotta make sure Annie's okay. So did you have anything else to say about your floor humping, screaming, singing attacker?
Girl: No, that's it.
Cop: According to the description you gave our artist, your attacker looks alot like Michael Jackson! Was it him?
Girl: Well, yeah. But I didn't say want to rat him out. He kept saying 'ain't nobody's business.'
Cop: Oh Mariah. I do believe you're a looney tune. I suggest you get your mental illness in check. It can only hurt you down the line.
Girl: I AM NOT THIS MARIAH PERSON!
Cop: Sure thing, honey. How 'bout you sign this autograph and I won't charge you for filing a false police report?
Girl: (sighs) Fine.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Back in the days when I was young I'm not a kid anymore, but somedays, I wish I was a kid again
Once my relatives started friending me on Facebook, I knew the inevitable would happen. I would somehow be reunited with HP -- the boy next door, my first boyfriend and the very first dude to break my heart.
Now, when I say first boyfriend, I mean FIRST first boyfriend. I'm talking about being 6 years old playing in the sandbox kind of first. As I look back now, it's clear he wasn't good for me. First of all, he was abusive. He always pulled my ponytails or asked me to get on the seasaw with him, only to run away and cause my butt to slam to the bottom. (Luckily, my older cousin was the biggest bully in the neighborhood and he put a stop to all of that.) He was also a clear commitment phobe. I mean, he never properly asked for my hand. The only thing that solidified our relatonship was that time I put my foot down and told him that he needed to give me a commitment or I was gone. The conversation went a bit like this ...
Me: Who's your girlfriend?
HP: Ummmm... you?
Me: Oh. Ok!
HP and I did have our good times. Our dates were spent either playing kickball at my grandma's house or at his grandparents' place, watching Fraggle Rock. We spent the best days of our relationship digging up earthworms and keeping them in jars, thinking of them as our pets. I was fascinated when HP showed me that I could cut a worm in half and it would keep moving in opposite directions. He'd even use those glass jars to capture bees or lightning bugs for me. Then he'd fill the jar with water and we'd watch them drown. He was so romantic.
This was not to say we didn't have our problems. We had severe ideological differences. He loved Hide N Go Seek, while I was more of a Freeze Tag kind of girl. I went to private school; he was public. By the time I got off the bus, he was already running around the neighborhood. By the time I did my homework and changed clothes, he was inside eating dinner. He soon got new friends -- older kids who actually enjoyed Hide N Go Seek -- and I also had a new crew that actually wanted to play Barbies with me. HP and I still had our rendezvous, but things were changing and we both knew it.
When I learned I'd be moving to another state, I was disappointed in HP's actions. He didn't jump in front of the moving van, stow away in my luggage or offer to let me live with his family. Nope, he just let me run off to parts unknown without a care in his cold heart. Grrr.
Over the years, my cousins kept me updated on HP's life -- his girlfriends, his marriage, his kid, his divorce, his other marriage, etc. I came upon his Facebook profile recently when he left a comment on my cousin's page. I must say, he doesn't look at all like I remember. I mean, he's got hair on his face and everything! Imagine that! I'll bet he's still a Hide N Seek aficionado.
Photo from http://thumbs.dreamstime.com/thumb_155/11815712275B8dG6.jpg
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
!!!It's My Birthday!!!!
There was a time I got so excited about my birthday that I couldn't even sleep. The words March 24th just seemed to have that special flow to the, a flow that would get me all riled up. Sometimes, I'd look at my watch at 3:24 and make a mental note that it was my birthday. Of course, this was back when I was a kid. (Yes, I know I have issues)
The birthday excitement dwindled over the years. The one thing I do like to do every year is flip through the papers and find out which celebrities have my birthday (Mr. Roper and/or Mr. Furly from 'Three's Company', Star Jones, Peyton Manning, Allison Hanigan, Mase, Annabella Sciorra, Harry Houdini) and that's a list that grows every year.
For whatever reason, I was particularly excited about my birthday this year. I don't know why, there's nothing really special about being 32, other than being older than all the days on any given calendar month. But whatever, I checked my watch at 3:24 each day and told folks it was my birthday. Naturally, they looked at me like I was crazy. I went to New York for the weekend and had an AWESOME time seeing The Lion King and catching up with old friends. I took the entire week off and I'm spending it doing whatever the heck I want.
Today, I took myself out for sushi and went to the mall. While I was at the mall, I ran into this woman who was looking at me strangely. Then she came up to me and said I had beautiful eyes. She was a Mary Kay consultant and wanted to know if I'd be interested in modeling for one of her lines.
I paused because this brought me back to a painful college memory. A female friend and I were singing Mint Condition's "Pretty Brown Eyes" and she said the song was about her. I told her it was about me also, but she said that it wasn't about me. She proceeded to say that the song couldn't be about me, because I don't have the "pretty brown eyes" that she does. Her eyes are light, mine are dark. Even though this happened years ago, I still think of that whenever I hear this song.
Anyway, I said yes and gave the lady my telephone number. Maybe she'll call, maybe she won't. Either way, it was a good birthday gift for my self esteem. Hooray! Now all I need is a new wardrobe, and shoes, and a massage, etc etc etc.
(Photo from http://images9.cafepress.com/product/119695959v2_350x350_Front.jpg)
Saturday, December 20, 2008
The Insomnia Diaries #2 (aka First & Second Grade)
(Blogger's note: Whenever I can't sleep, I try to identify all of my teachers from kindergarten on up. This has led to a series of memories, like the one listed here):I spent the first three days of my life in private school. My first teacher's name was not Ms. Mack, so that's what I'll call her. I had her for both first and second grade, which were taught in the same room. Unlike Ms. S. , there were no leg massages in this class and she didn't flirt with my father. She wasn't as hard as me as my kindergarten teacher, but Ms. Mack took me aside on several occasions to say, "Principal H. and I think the world of you. You're our favorite student." I'm sure that was the same level of bull they were feeding to all the other kids, but I believe it. And now, I also believe she and Principal H. were having an affair, but that's another story.
Ms. Mack taught me at a time when anything, I mean ANYTHING, came out of my mouth. Madonna's song "Like A Virgin" came out while she was my teacher. I once asked a relative what a virgin was and I was told that a virgin was someone who didn't have any kids. So I sat around and thought of all the people who didn't have children and put them in the virgin category. Ms. Mack did not have any kids, so I asked her if she was a virgin. She turned bright red, then quickly changed the subject. Ms. Mack also liked to share her personal life with us kids, constantly mentioning her boyfriend, Fred. I asked her if she loved Fred and again, she turned bright red.
I credit Ms. Mack for being the teacher that gave me real insight on that peculiar species that is the male. My best friend at the time was a boy named Danny. But once, I got mad at him because he decided to sit next to another girl during while we watched 'Sesame Street' or some other kid show. I got so mad at them that Ms. Mack had to take me out in the hallway. When I told her what was wrong, she said "So what?" She proceeded to tell me that if Danny didn't want to sit next to me, then it was he who was losing in the end. Somehow, this made me feel better.
Ms. Mack moved to her hometown of Nebraska the following year, and we were all upset. She took all of our addresses and she was my first pen pal for awhile. She took the writing thing very seriously, because whenever I missed sending her a letter, she'd call my house and ask why I hadn't been in touch. I moved several times since then and I lost several things, including her address and old letters. Looking back, she was probably one of my favorite teachers, if not the favorite.
(Photo from http://www.healblog.net/wp-content/uploads/2008/03/insomnia.jpg)
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Becoming Aunt Pam
Back in the day when I learned to read, I never had a shortage of books. My Mom made the mistake of telling Aunt Pam (who is not my 'real' aunt, but a close friend of the family) that I loved to read. So, Aunt Pam made it a point to fill my bookshelves with classic books whenever there was a special occasion. From second grade on, I was getting classic, hardback editions of books like "Little Women," "Pride & Prejudice," "Jane Eyre", "Black Beauty", "Gulliver's Travels" and many more. Each book was special because they all had a personal inscription from Aunt Pam. "Jane Eyre" was dated Christmas '89 with the note: "Wishing you a very merry Christmas and a happy new year with more adventures in reading. Enjoy! Love, Aunt Pam."
I was overwhelmed initially, since each book was at least 200 pages long. I'd usually flip through the pictures first and then decide if I was going to read the book. "Black Beauty" and "Little Women" being the first books I read from that collection and I loved them both. In fact, those are probably the only ones I read beginning to end. I struggled to get through "Gulliver's Travels" many times and I think that is probably the first book I disliked. And I don't care what anyone says about Jane Austen, I just can't get into her. (I can watch the movies, just can't read the books)
As I did my Christmas shopping this year, I realized a bit of Aunt Pam had crept into me. There are two little boys in my life -- my younger cousins -- who we all dote on during the holidays and birthdays. They're getting older (ages 15 and 12), so they mostly get money and gift cards as presents. But I always make it a point to give them a book with whatever else I may give them. I will say that it is extremely difficult trying to find contemporary books targeted to a young male audience, particularly young black males. Last year, I got one of them a Walter Dean Myers book and this year, I got them both books by Carl Deuker. Each of Deuker's books deals with a sports theme, so I think I'll stick with him for awhile. The boys don't really like to read, so I hope this will break them out of that.
I've lost touch with Aunt Pam over the years. But one day, I hope to catch up with her and thank her for all the books she bought into my life. I only hope I can have the same influence on those boys. I have to take an exam in a few months that'll determine whether or not I can get my master's degree. I got a reading list of novels we should review for the exam. Guess what's on there? "Jane Eyre." I've reached page 130 in my copy and I have 400+ pages to go. It's actually pretty good. Maybe once I'm done, I'll get through all those other classic books in my collection.
Photo from http://www.barnstable.k12.ma.us/bhs/Library/images/ReadingManiacs.gif
I was overwhelmed initially, since each book was at least 200 pages long. I'd usually flip through the pictures first and then decide if I was going to read the book. "Black Beauty" and "Little Women" being the first books I read from that collection and I loved them both. In fact, those are probably the only ones I read beginning to end. I struggled to get through "Gulliver's Travels" many times and I think that is probably the first book I disliked. And I don't care what anyone says about Jane Austen, I just can't get into her. (I can watch the movies, just can't read the books)
As I did my Christmas shopping this year, I realized a bit of Aunt Pam had crept into me. There are two little boys in my life -- my younger cousins -- who we all dote on during the holidays and birthdays. They're getting older (ages 15 and 12), so they mostly get money and gift cards as presents. But I always make it a point to give them a book with whatever else I may give them. I will say that it is extremely difficult trying to find contemporary books targeted to a young male audience, particularly young black males. Last year, I got one of them a Walter Dean Myers book and this year, I got them both books by Carl Deuker. Each of Deuker's books deals with a sports theme, so I think I'll stick with him for awhile. The boys don't really like to read, so I hope this will break them out of that.
I've lost touch with Aunt Pam over the years. But one day, I hope to catch up with her and thank her for all the books she bought into my life. I only hope I can have the same influence on those boys. I have to take an exam in a few months that'll determine whether or not I can get my master's degree. I got a reading list of novels we should review for the exam. Guess what's on there? "Jane Eyre." I've reached page 130 in my copy and I have 400+ pages to go. It's actually pretty good. Maybe once I'm done, I'll get through all those other classic books in my collection.
Photo from http://www.barnstable.k12.ma.us/bhs/Library/images/ReadingManiacs.gif
Saturday, December 13, 2008
The Insomnia Diaries #1 (a.k.a. Kindergarten)
I don’t think I’m alone when I say that I go through phases where I can’t sleep. I’ll toss and I’ll turn, but I can’t take myself to dreamland. My mind will be clouded with things I need to do the next day, things that happened the previous day or I’m just bundled up with all kinds of stress.
Over the years, I’ve found ways to cure my insomnia. It used to be that I’d close my eyes and think of a movie that I know by heart (usually favorites like ‘The Last Dragon,’ or ‘The Color Purple’). I’d replay it in my mind until I fell asleep. Most of the time, it worked. Now I decided to try something new, like a memory game. So I’ve been closing my eyes and seeing if I can rename each one of my teachers, all the way back to kindergarten. Each time I do it, it leads me to a memory I thought I’d forgotten.
In kindergarten, my teacher was Ms. S. She was probably in her thirties and had dark hair, pale white skin, and chubby rosy cheeks. She was fairly tall, or at least that’s what I thought since I was a miniature person back then. She wore a dress every day. We’d sit in a circle while she’d read us stories, and she’d allow the kids sitting in the front row to massage her legs through the panty hose she wore. It seemed perfectly normal then, but it’s actually kind of weird to look back on it.
Anyway, even my five year old self could pick up on the fact that Ms. S. had a crush on my dad. Whenever he would come pick me up, she always had to touch him or move her body really close to his. You’d think her having the hots for my dad would make me her favorite student. Not so! I’d venture to say Ms. S. was harder than me than on anyone else. She even told my mom some lies about my behavior that wound up getting me in trouble at home. I don’t recall the details, but I do know I didn’t do it. Ms. S. must’ve gotten me confused with another black girl in class, something I’d have to deal with the rest of my life.
I believe that was the year I decided that I hated milk, because Ms. S. would never let me leave the lunch table until I finished drinking that entire yucky glass of it. (I still despise milk, unless it’s in my cereal) In fact, my last conversation with her at my kindergarten graduation revolved around me needing to drink my milk. * Shrug *
It’s crazy all of the stuff you can remember in your dreams. I wonder what Ms. S is doing now. If she’s still teaching, I imagine they don’t allow all the lil kiddies sit around and touch her legs. Times have changed!
Over the years, I’ve found ways to cure my insomnia. It used to be that I’d close my eyes and think of a movie that I know by heart (usually favorites like ‘The Last Dragon,’ or ‘The Color Purple’). I’d replay it in my mind until I fell asleep. Most of the time, it worked. Now I decided to try something new, like a memory game. So I’ve been closing my eyes and seeing if I can rename each one of my teachers, all the way back to kindergarten. Each time I do it, it leads me to a memory I thought I’d forgotten.
In kindergarten, my teacher was Ms. S. She was probably in her thirties and had dark hair, pale white skin, and chubby rosy cheeks. She was fairly tall, or at least that’s what I thought since I was a miniature person back then. She wore a dress every day. We’d sit in a circle while she’d read us stories, and she’d allow the kids sitting in the front row to massage her legs through the panty hose she wore. It seemed perfectly normal then, but it’s actually kind of weird to look back on it.
Anyway, even my five year old self could pick up on the fact that Ms. S. had a crush on my dad. Whenever he would come pick me up, she always had to touch him or move her body really close to his. You’d think her having the hots for my dad would make me her favorite student. Not so! I’d venture to say Ms. S. was harder than me than on anyone else. She even told my mom some lies about my behavior that wound up getting me in trouble at home. I don’t recall the details, but I do know I didn’t do it. Ms. S. must’ve gotten me confused with another black girl in class, something I’d have to deal with the rest of my life.
I believe that was the year I decided that I hated milk, because Ms. S. would never let me leave the lunch table until I finished drinking that entire yucky glass of it. (I still despise milk, unless it’s in my cereal) In fact, my last conversation with her at my kindergarten graduation revolved around me needing to drink my milk. * Shrug *
It’s crazy all of the stuff you can remember in your dreams. I wonder what Ms. S is doing now. If she’s still teaching, I imagine they don’t allow all the lil kiddies sit around and touch her legs. Times have changed!
Monday, October 27, 2008
Baby, I Need Your Lovin
Most kids got bedtime stories, but I was treated to Four Tops songs. Actually, it was one song in particular.
Whenever it was bedtime and Mom gave me my story, she’d talk about how much she loved me and break into her rendition of “Baby I Need Your Lovin’” by the Four Tops. It became our song and we used to sing it together most nights. We only knew the chorus and to this day, neither one of us knows any of the verses. But, no matter where I am, when this song comes on, I think of my Mama. And she thinks of me.
So we were both upset to learn about Levi Stubbs’ death. So here’s a blast from the past.
Whenever it was bedtime and Mom gave me my story, she’d talk about how much she loved me and break into her rendition of “Baby I Need Your Lovin’” by the Four Tops. It became our song and we used to sing it together most nights. We only knew the chorus and to this day, neither one of us knows any of the verses. But, no matter where I am, when this song comes on, I think of my Mama. And she thinks of me.
So we were both upset to learn about Levi Stubbs’ death. So here’s a blast from the past.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Soap
In case anyone was wondering, Ultra Palmolive Oxy Plus dishwashing liquid certainly does the job. However, it does not taste good.
Recently, I learned this the hard way. I packed some yummy chicken noodle soup to eat with my lunch at work. It was so good, I ate it to the last drop. When I was finished, I dumped some dishwashing liquid in there, so I could take it to the sink and wash it. You can imagine where this goes.
I must've gotten sidetracked at work, because a few minutes later, I looked at my bowl and got excited about what looked like tiny droplets of leftover soup. I dipped my spoon in and gobbled it up. All I can say is, thank God I didn't swallow. I can't even describe what lingered on my tongue as I raced to the ladies' room to rinse it out. It tasted like a combination of Pine Sol mixed with coal mixed with Sour Patch Kids candy mixed with Nyquil. It's safe to say that I won't be returning for seconds.
My own dishwashing taste test led me to a memory, this one going back to high school. I had this media arts class and we met in the library. I think the goal of the class was to produce and edit video, but most of the time, all we did was sit back and wait for an easy A. This was a small class, with a combo of football players, cheerleaders, druggies, geeks, student gov folks and losers. I was none of the above. I guess I probably fell into the loser category back then, but I didn't know it.
Anywho, there was this kid in my class named Aaron. He was in special ed classes and the teachers said he was mentally slow. Of course, he was constantly teased about that. The worse part was that he didn't seem to know he was being teased. He thought he was friends with these two football players in our class -- guys that pushed him in the hallways and constantly played tricks on him.
Once, because class was so dull, Aaron fell asleep. With his mouth open. One of the football players found a bottle of dishwashing liquid and poured some into his mouth. He woke up with this shocked look on his face because there was something terrible in his mouth and he didn't know why. Everyone laughed -- including me. I felt bad for him, but I didn't think there was anything I could do so I joined in the crowd.
Aaron told the teacher and she investigated. Come to find out, the genius pranksters poured the dishwashing liquid in his mouth all in front of a videocamera that recorded their every move. They were suspended, the local paper and TV news stations did stories about it. I think Aaron was pulled out of that class or something, but I can't remember.
Well, now I've become a form of Aaron all on my own. Except for me, no one saw me feed myself the dishwashing liquid, there was no camera in sight and no laughter, other than my own, a few days later. I guess the one thing I learned from all this is that I should watch where I toss my laughter. Because in the end, we all eat the soap.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Christmas in Hollis
I realized the other day that the holidays are not coming, but they are here.
This may not be news to most people, who have already sent out their holiday cards, done their shopping and decorated the house. But it is news to me. See, I’m that person who refuses to believe that the holidays are here until one of two things happen. I hear Run DMC’s “Christmas in Hollis” on the radio or the local networks start playing “Shaka Zulu.” Well, imagine my surprise when I turned on the radio the other day and heard Rev. Run rapping about chicken and collard greens. (Side note: One day during the holidays, I’m going to go up to New York’s Hollis Avenue and eat chicken and collard greens, just to make things interesting. Anybody with me?).
Most people consider films like “It’s A Wonderful Life,” “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” and “A Christmas Story” as true holiday flicks. But growing up, my holiday movie was “Shaka Zulu.” (And I’m talking about the original, not the remake with Grace Jones) Every December, the local networks would air the gazillion part miniseries detailing the life of the Zulu chief. I watched every year, even though I didn’t understand what was happening and the Witch Doctor gave me severe nightmares. It wasn’t until much later that I understood everything that was going on in this movie, from Shaka’s rise to power to his subsequent downfall. Unfortunately, the networks stopped airing it years ago. I’m tempted to get it on DVD, just to reminisce about old times. RIP to Henry Cele, who gave an amazing performance as Shaka.
Anyway, I decided to bust out with the holiday decorations the other night. This is a big deal for me, since I haven’t decorated in years. Back in the day, I used to distribute Christmas cards, trim my little fake Charlie Brown Christmas tree and have a miniature tree at my desk at work. But that was before I added my cat, Simba, into my life. He was so hyper that I was reluctant to put up anything that he might destroy. He has mellowed out in his old age, so I figured I’d bring the Christmas spirit into my home.
The decorations took me all of five minutes. Do you know what they consist of? My black Santa Claus, that gyrates his hips to “Jingle Bell Rock,” and an 18-inch faux tree that sits near my coffee table. Awwww yeah.
This may not be news to most people, who have already sent out their holiday cards, done their shopping and decorated the house. But it is news to me. See, I’m that person who refuses to believe that the holidays are here until one of two things happen. I hear Run DMC’s “Christmas in Hollis” on the radio or the local networks start playing “Shaka Zulu.” Well, imagine my surprise when I turned on the radio the other day and heard Rev. Run rapping about chicken and collard greens. (Side note: One day during the holidays, I’m going to go up to New York’s Hollis Avenue and eat chicken and collard greens, just to make things interesting. Anybody with me?).
Most people consider films like “It’s A Wonderful Life,” “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” and “A Christmas Story” as true holiday flicks. But growing up, my holiday movie was “Shaka Zulu.” (And I’m talking about the original, not the remake with Grace Jones) Every December, the local networks would air the gazillion part miniseries detailing the life of the Zulu chief. I watched every year, even though I didn’t understand what was happening and the Witch Doctor gave me severe nightmares. It wasn’t until much later that I understood everything that was going on in this movie, from Shaka’s rise to power to his subsequent downfall. Unfortunately, the networks stopped airing it years ago. I’m tempted to get it on DVD, just to reminisce about old times. RIP to Henry Cele, who gave an amazing performance as Shaka.
Anyway, I decided to bust out with the holiday decorations the other night. This is a big deal for me, since I haven’t decorated in years. Back in the day, I used to distribute Christmas cards, trim my little fake Charlie Brown Christmas tree and have a miniature tree at my desk at work. But that was before I added my cat, Simba, into my life. He was so hyper that I was reluctant to put up anything that he might destroy. He has mellowed out in his old age, so I figured I’d bring the Christmas spirit into my home.
The decorations took me all of five minutes. Do you know what they consist of? My black Santa Claus, that gyrates his hips to “Jingle Bell Rock,” and an 18-inch faux tree that sits near my coffee table. Awwww yeah.
I guess phase 2 of ringing in the holidays would be to buy some gifts and Christmas cards. Hmmm. Maybe I’ll wait to do all that when they start airing “Shaka Zulu” again. Hah!
Merry Christmahanukwanzakah everybody!
Merry Christmahanukwanzakah everybody!
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Parachute Pop
There was a time, years ago when I landed my first big internship in my line of work. It was out of state, so I lived with my aunt and took the train over to my job. I was so excited to be in this world of grownups, so filled with accomplishment. Everyday I’d look around at folks around me who actually wore real clothes to work instead of uniforms and hats and didn’t end their sentences with, "would you like fries with that?" I got a nice check every week and I had it made. During that time, a woman asked me if I liked my job and I, with no hesitation whatsoever, said “I LOVE IT” with such enthusiasm that I frightened her.
And my, how things have changed.
I don’t hate my job, but I don’t love it either and I'm having a general malaise toward the whole profession. I’m fed up with so much of the crap that goes into it. The internal politics, the nosey colleagues, watching everyone work in deference to the certain Powers That Be and lately, the constant worry about layoffs.
I won’t allow myself to be miserable with my working situation because a wise person once told me ‘positive thoughts lead to positive results.’ Still, I’m frustrated with my career choice. I wish I didn't have to wake up every morning and deal with The Man for 40 hours a week then come home and put whatever energy I have left into my own writing endeavors. On that end, I've reached the 50,000 word mark in the novel I'm writing. I celebrated for about five minutes, since I realize I have another 50,000 words and dozens of revisions to make before I can even imagine this as a published product. But I'll get there.
We have an intern who started and a few months ago and boy, is he eager. Not eager in the annoying sense, but eager in the ‘awww, isn’t he sweet’ kinda way. I made the mistake of taking Eager out for an Auntie Anne’s pretzel on his first day. I say it was a mistake because every day after that when he sees me rushing off, he wants to come with me and asks if I’m going to lunch. I make up some excuse about where I’m going because I want to be left alone. I’m very picky about my lunch break. I like to spend that hour in my secret hiding place (typically the library) reading a book or getting a new one. The last thing I need is someone tagging on my heels.
I'll probably take Eager to lunch again sometime before his internship is over. But I'll cut things short if he wants any career advice or asks me for any professional direction. That's when I will proceed to tell him that I am not a role model. I don't give career advice and if I did, I would advise him to get into another field altogether, one with more money and job security. I'd tell him to stay in school as long as he possibly can and to find the color of his parachute, before that bad boy pops.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Lt. Mayonnaise
About a year ago, I was forced to sit behind a guy I couldn't stand at work. For the most part, he was quiet. But when he did open his mouth, he was loud and obnoxious, often saying offensive things to the people who sat around us. He was also a big flirt. I'll never forget the day he asked an old woman in our department if she'd ever been spanked. I assumed she'd get offended, but she blushed and giggled as she walked away. That was the effect Dice had on everyone. He was the guy that you either loved to hate or hated to love.
Eventually, Dice (nicknamed after Andrew "Dice" Clay) became my sidekick. He was the only other person of color in our office so we became each other's 'go-to' person. He showed me around the city I worked in the way no one else did. Dice hipped me to Simmy's, a spot where I could get everything from chitterlings to moo goo gai pan. We made frequent runs to the dollar store and I allowed him to hide his goodies in the bottom drawer of my desk. He told me the true meaning of the word "skank" ('a skank is a broad who hooks up with all your friends, but won't give you the time of day') and I helped him clean up his language when referring from women. I got him to go from skank to broad and finally to chick. Unfortunately, that was as far as I could get him to go.
Dice lived a mysterious life so we were all caught by surprise when he quit and said he needed to go "find himself." He said his goodbyes, piled into his truck and drove off to some distant land. A woman was hired to take his place. Although she was very nice, I missed having someone who understood what CP Time meant and could accompany me to Simmy's.
Eventually, Dice returned to tell us of his adventures. He had been in Officer Candidates School and was now a lieutenant. Everyone congratulated him and then the 'An Officer & a Gentleman' jokes started. Someone even nicknamed him Lt. Mayonnaise after Richard Gere's character.
I talked to Dice about a week ago when he gave me the news: He's going to Iraq. He's set to leave sometime in June and he wasn't sure how long he would be over there. He sounded upbeat, about as upbeat as you can sound about a war. I told him I'd keep him in my prayers and made him promise to send me his information once he got settled. (Already at work, plans are underway to send him care packages). I also made him make an even more important promise. When Dice returns, he'll have to come to our office in full uniform. When he finds me, he'll pick me up and we'll march outside like Debra Winger and Richard Gere. Unlike the movie, I'll have to go back inside to work. And he'll have to run around town chasing "skanks."
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Twins
Growing up, I was always the girl with a twin. No matter where I went, there was always another skinny black girl with thick glasses. Whether I knew this girl or not, folks would always ask me if we were twins, sisters, cousins or whatever. Usually, my doppleganger and I would exchange frowns and say in unison, "I don't look like her!"
In sixth grade, my twin was "Penny". We were both in class H27, which meant we were part of a group that took all classes together. The first few days of school everyone made comparisons to us. Teachers would say Strength when they meant Penny and vice versa. We would both roll our eyes. I guess, like me, she had had her share of twins and was sick of it.
Unlike the others, Penny and I actually became friends. She was probably my best friend in school at that time, since I had another best friend in the neighborhood. The twins thing was still something everyone used to tease us about. One of our teachers -- drama, I think -- took it further and labeled us the Good Twin and the Bad Twin. Guess which one I was? I was very expressive (read: talkative, goofy) back then and the teachers just didn't understand me. Yet Penny was quiet and disciplined, always getting her work done perfectly. It was sickening.
For whatever reason, Penny and I had a falling out at the end of the year. I can't remember specifically what the problem was. I think she did something to piss me off, so I phased her out of my life. In true passive, aggressive fashion, we didn't speak for the rest of the school year. I got new friends and so did she. I went to another school the following year and we never spoke again.
In sixth grade, my twin was "Penny". We were both in class H27, which meant we were part of a group that took all classes together. The first few days of school everyone made comparisons to us. Teachers would say Strength when they meant Penny and vice versa. We would both roll our eyes. I guess, like me, she had had her share of twins and was sick of it.
Unlike the others, Penny and I actually became friends. She was probably my best friend in school at that time, since I had another best friend in the neighborhood. The twins thing was still something everyone used to tease us about. One of our teachers -- drama, I think -- took it further and labeled us the Good Twin and the Bad Twin. Guess which one I was? I was very expressive (read: talkative, goofy) back then and the teachers just didn't understand me. Yet Penny was quiet and disciplined, always getting her work done perfectly. It was sickening.
For whatever reason, Penny and I had a falling out at the end of the year. I can't remember specifically what the problem was. I think she did something to piss me off, so I phased her out of my life. In true passive, aggressive fashion, we didn't speak for the rest of the school year. I got new friends and so did she. I went to another school the following year and we never spoke again.
Until the advent of Myspace.
I was fooling around on the site one day when I stumbled upon her name. I wondered if she remembered me, so I sent her an email. Turns out, she did remember me and added me to her friends list. She lives in another state, where she is studying for a phd so she can do cancer research. It was weird because she briefly lived in the same Midwestern state that I did, but moved away once I got there.
It was cool reminiscing about old times with her. The online relationship with Penny led me into subsequent conversations with my Sixth Grade Crush, who doesn't live that far from me. From what I've learned, he has everything that I'm looking for in a man -- long locks, single status, NO KIDS, and a love of Harry Potter.
It's been weird looking at these adult photos of people I'll eternally remember as kids. No matter how long Crush's hair grows, I'll still remember him with a high top fade and a rat tail. No matter how many degrees Penny gets, I'll still remember the day she came running down the hall all excited because two boys tried to get her in a sandwich. I guess I'm still a 12-year-old girl at heart.
I was fooling around on the site one day when I stumbled upon her name. I wondered if she remembered me, so I sent her an email. Turns out, she did remember me and added me to her friends list. She lives in another state, where she is studying for a phd so she can do cancer research. It was weird because she briefly lived in the same Midwestern state that I did, but moved away once I got there.
It was cool reminiscing about old times with her. The online relationship with Penny led me into subsequent conversations with my Sixth Grade Crush, who doesn't live that far from me. From what I've learned, he has everything that I'm looking for in a man -- long locks, single status, NO KIDS, and a love of Harry Potter.
It's been weird looking at these adult photos of people I'll eternally remember as kids. No matter how long Crush's hair grows, I'll still remember him with a high top fade and a rat tail. No matter how many degrees Penny gets, I'll still remember the day she came running down the hall all excited because two boys tried to get her in a sandwich. I guess I'm still a 12-year-old girl at heart.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Nothing's certain except death, St. Patrick's Day and taxes
I'll start with the back story first, since that's where this issue began:
Fall, 1995. Somewhere on the East Coast ...
I began my freshman year at a large urban university. I was two hours away from home, but I was just a subway ride away from my dad's place and much of my extended family. That made it convenient for emergency money situations. Aside from missing my friends back home, I enjoyed this university. It was my first taste of true independence and I loved every minute of it. Other than the homeless problem in the city, there was only one other thing I could complain about.
The color green.
It seems that lime green became the latest fashion in that city around the time that I arrived. The first time I saw a pair of green Reebocks at the mall, I thought it was a cruel joke. Who in the world would wear green sneakers? Then a light bulb went off in my head. Everywhere I went, folks (mainly girls) were decked out in the latest lime green fashions. There was the sista with the bright green blouse, matching bag and headwrap. There was a girl on the subway wearing the green Reebocks, a green Polo top and a green bookbag. The biggest standout was the brotha in my math class. I thought he was cute until he strolled into class wearing a green hat, green cardigan and he carried a green notebook and pen. I wanted to scream.
All those images of green was enough to give me a headache. Actually, it did give me headaches. I could no longer eat green M&M's or the green clover in my Lucky Charms. Whenever I saw the color green, particularly lime green, I was taken back to my math class -- trying to ignore the Leprechaun sitting next to me. I began to eliminate all things green from my wardrobe.
St. Patrick's Day, 2007
Obviously, this is my least favorite time of the year. I dread it when it falls during the week, because I will be the one person in my office not wearing green. I'll wear some rebellious color -- like red, my favorite -- until some happy go lucky person will tell me how wrong I am. "Where's your green? Everyone's Irish today!" Then he or she will give me a tiny little pinch on my arm. Cute.
Luckily, the holiday fell on a Saturday this year. I slept in and rolled out of bed to go to the bank. I didn't think about St. Patrick's Day and simply threw on a black shirt and some jeans. When I get to the bank, the only available teller belonged to a women wearing a bright green "Kiss me, I'm Irish" shirt. Great. After I handed her my paperwork, she asked me if I was wearing any green. When I said no, she tsk tsked me. "Come on, hon! Everyone's Irish today!" Then she handed me a green lollipop and sent me on my way. I smiled with her, but waited until I got outside to toss the lollipop in the trash. Green, yuck! That color is my kryptonite.
I decided to spend the next couple of hours doing something where I wouldn't be persecuted for my color choices -- my taxes. After staring at IRS forms for hours, I've made a few other conclusions for the next tax season. I need to buy a house, have a baby or take someone else's so I can claim a dependent, since the IRS won't allow me to deduct for my cat. Heavy sigh.
In other news, I've got 7 days until the big 3-0. Current outlook: blah.
Fall, 1995. Somewhere on the East Coast ...
I began my freshman year at a large urban university. I was two hours away from home, but I was just a subway ride away from my dad's place and much of my extended family. That made it convenient for emergency money situations. Aside from missing my friends back home, I enjoyed this university. It was my first taste of true independence and I loved every minute of it. Other than the homeless problem in the city, there was only one other thing I could complain about.
The color green.
It seems that lime green became the latest fashion in that city around the time that I arrived. The first time I saw a pair of green Reebocks at the mall, I thought it was a cruel joke. Who in the world would wear green sneakers? Then a light bulb went off in my head. Everywhere I went, folks (mainly girls) were decked out in the latest lime green fashions. There was the sista with the bright green blouse, matching bag and headwrap. There was a girl on the subway wearing the green Reebocks, a green Polo top and a green bookbag. The biggest standout was the brotha in my math class. I thought he was cute until he strolled into class wearing a green hat, green cardigan and he carried a green notebook and pen. I wanted to scream.
All those images of green was enough to give me a headache. Actually, it did give me headaches. I could no longer eat green M&M's or the green clover in my Lucky Charms. Whenever I saw the color green, particularly lime green, I was taken back to my math class -- trying to ignore the Leprechaun sitting next to me. I began to eliminate all things green from my wardrobe.
St. Patrick's Day, 2007
Obviously, this is my least favorite time of the year. I dread it when it falls during the week, because I will be the one person in my office not wearing green. I'll wear some rebellious color -- like red, my favorite -- until some happy go lucky person will tell me how wrong I am. "Where's your green? Everyone's Irish today!" Then he or she will give me a tiny little pinch on my arm. Cute.
Luckily, the holiday fell on a Saturday this year. I slept in and rolled out of bed to go to the bank. I didn't think about St. Patrick's Day and simply threw on a black shirt and some jeans. When I get to the bank, the only available teller belonged to a women wearing a bright green "Kiss me, I'm Irish" shirt. Great. After I handed her my paperwork, she asked me if I was wearing any green. When I said no, she tsk tsked me. "Come on, hon! Everyone's Irish today!" Then she handed me a green lollipop and sent me on my way. I smiled with her, but waited until I got outside to toss the lollipop in the trash. Green, yuck! That color is my kryptonite.
I decided to spend the next couple of hours doing something where I wouldn't be persecuted for my color choices -- my taxes. After staring at IRS forms for hours, I've made a few other conclusions for the next tax season. I need to buy a house, have a baby or take someone else's so I can claim a dependent, since the IRS won't allow me to deduct for my cat. Heavy sigh.
In other news, I've got 7 days until the big 3-0. Current outlook: blah.
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