What Ya Say Wednesday? ("To catch me is to catch a leprechaun"**)

If you're single and looking, you might want to check this out. Should we look at new ways to compliment young girls? I want to be a quitter, but BGLU says that does NOT mean I should quit my job. Shucks! Apparently, I'm not alone in my feelings about my job. As much as I love strawberry jam, I've never made it myself so this makes my mouth water.


(**Erykah Badu's "4 Leaf Clover")

Letters from the Darker Populace (#5 Postracial America has arrived!)

Dear Mr. President,

We had our company cookout, which is a result of the higher ups trying to create a friendlier work environment. Their efforts have resulted in a daily emailed newsletter, suggestion boxes placed everywhere and constant encouragement to buy raffle tickets. Do I sound unappreciative? Quite the contrary. We could’ve used this committee last year, when we had the cookout and ran out of food, or the year before, when we had so many layoffs that nobody showed up to what was then the company picnic.We could’ve especially used it in the heyday of ‘06, when the execs were so busy popping bottles that no one arranged for a designated driver for the receptionist or our 40-year-old intern who can’t get work anywhere else.

Anyway, we got an email that lunch would be ready at 12:30, so we piled out there at 12:15, with paper plates and empty hamburger buns in hand. I stood beside my road dog “Tracy,” a member of the Paler Populace and we exchanged workplace woes. I told her about how the company continues to discriminate against me. Yes, we now have a vending machine that supplies Sprite, thanks to my previous requests. Yet whenever I go over to said machine, it eats my money and I have to fill out a form to get a refund. I don’t need to remind you, Mr. President, how necessary Sprite is for the members of the Darker Populace. You know how the bubbles in the drink help sustain our melanin, how the lemon lime flavor gives our hair that necessary snap. I’ve seen your pimp walk. I know about your prowess on the basketball court. Think you could do that without Sprite? Think again.

I could understand if this happens on occasion, but no. Every time I go to the vending machine, I have to endure The Great Sprite Fight. Once I lose, I have to submit my refund form to the receptionist who becomes chattier and chattier. Thanks to this defective machine, I know all about the drunken night of passion she had with the intern, how they continue to hook up and how she hasn’t announced her latest pregnancy because she fears that her husband isn’t the father.

So it was with great pleasure that I went to this cookout, which was a tirade of tacky Hawaiian shirts and hefty thighs squished in hot pants. But none of that mattered, because I could have free Sprite with my meal. I noshed, I drank, I even laughed a little. When I was finished, I tossed my plate and returned to work.

And that’s when it happened, Mr. President. I was at my desk, when Tracy approached and handed me two cans of Sprite. The person behind her did the same, as well as the next person and the next person. Thanks to the Paler Populace, I stuffed 24 cans of free Sprite into my bottom drawer. I was so happy I could’ve wept. It was almost like that last scene in Beautiful Mind when the mathematics faculty left pens on John Nash’s (played by Russell Crowe) desk to signify respect. Well, I felt just like John Nash, minus the schizophrenia, genius, imaginary friends and shock therapy. So I’m writing to thank you, Mr. President. Because of your tireless efforts, I’m finally getting a tiny piece of postracial America. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s something waiting in my bottom drawer.

Best,
Strength

Photo from http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/3/31/Barack_Obama_basketball_at_Martha%27s_Vineyard.jpg/452px-Barack_Obama_basketball_at_Martha%27s_Vineyard.jpg

What Ya Say Wednesday? ("This is My Machismo"0

Father's Day has come and gone, but it's never too late to celebrate a great dad. But let's not forget mothers, particularly this Black breastfeeding mom. "Fighting is easier than dancing or making love." He's right, this is certainly a 'Diversion.' And here it is, a groove slightly transformed, just a bit of a break from the norm.

What Ya Say Wednesday? "I am so hip, even my errors are correct . . . "

Good reads from around the blogosphere:

The Awkward Black Girl creator is just as cool as I'd imagined. I could use this to stomp out the bugs on my messy coworker's desk. "Never be afraid to embrace what you have naturally." I like you, do you like me? An upcoming documentary explores the challenges of dark skinned women, but that's no reason not to love your brown skin. Nikki Giovanni celebrated a birthday recently, which gives me one reason to watch this clip of my favorite Different World episode.

I Don't Wanna Play

I’ve matured over the years. I’m a woman, ok? I’m no longer that bespectacled little girl who screamed “I don’t wanna play!” whenever I was forced to join my Lego's with the Boy Who Eats Paste, or asked to make room in my sandbox for the Girl With the Orthodontic Headgear. You see, when you’re already uncool, there is nothing that knocks you further down the popularity scale than being teamed with someone who is even less cool.

Those years are long behind me, but I’ve found myself in an adult version of this scenario in the workplace. As an adult, how do you tell someone that you don’t want to be their friend? How do you tell someone that their good intentions are coming across as stalkerish and insane? This is my problem.

Several weeks ago, I met Pat while washing my hands in the restroom.(Red flag #1) She introduced herself and noted that we were among the .5 percent of black folks in the building. We shared a few “No, I don’t eat watermelon” and “Yes, the president is very articulate” stories and went our separate ways. I was fine with that, I’m always open to seeing a friendly face in the building, especially one of color.

But, I began to see Pat everywhere. And everywhere I see Pat, she wants to TALK. If I’m entering the building while she’s outside smoking, Pat will put out her cigarette to ask me about the weather. If I’m reading and eating in the lunchroom, Pat will come in to ask me what I’m reading. If Pat is on her cell phone when I walk by, she’ll end her conversation to ask me about something on television. Or to gossip about another coworker. Or a popular song.

She leaves books on my desk, with promises of sending more. She interrupts my conversations with other people to ask if I’ve read said book. Once, I found Pat in the restroom and I swear she was waiting by the sink for me to finish up in the stall. I had to fake a bowel movement – lots of grunting, ya’ll – to get her to leave.

Pat is making me a prisoner at my own job. I have no desire to go to the vending machine, to my car, or even to the bathroom. I’m tired of being caught up in the web of her one-sided conversations that go nowhere. Yes, she may be a lonely person who is just hungry for a friend. But she needs to realize that I’m a loud, ticking time bomb of an introvert with raging bouts of pms and my dance card is full, thank you very much. So the next time she comes at me with some of her gibberish, I may just throw my hands up and shout: I DON'T WANNA PLAY!

Photo from http://witchnextdoor.files.wordpress.com/2011/04/sandbox_boy1.gif

The C.R.E.A.M. Update

I finally got my money, an issue I agonized about in a previous post. I had great plans of how I was going to use my hard earned cash. I was going to save, pay off some debts, and have some fun. But because I’m trying to explore my financial literacy, I’m going to do more saving than I originally planned.

Now that it’s getting warm, the No Goods are making their presence known in my neighborhood and that pushes me further and further toward my homeownership goal. But as much as I’ve been saving, I fear that have not saved enough. So I toss a chunk of the cash into my Dream Home Fund, lock it up and throw away the key.

My new car came about with a great deal of help from my parents. I don’t like to owe anybody anything, so I took another chunk of dough and hoped to pay them back the rest of the money I owed them. However, they threw me for a loop when they told me they didn’t want it, that I should use it to save for the Dream Home. So I took their chunk and placed it in a CD, money that I can’t touch until fall 2012 after it ears a good interest rate.

That leaves a little bit leftover for me. What shall I do? My early plan was to place some into my Sharebuilder stock account and then another chunk in my Vacation account (I’ll be in Martha’s Vineyard soon, there’s nothing cheap about that!) However, there are the Wants, like a new television, a new iPod, a new guitar. Hell, maybe even a new wardrobe. But I’ll tread lightly, because I know that my list of Wants could get pretty extensive.

(Photo from http://theshirtjunkie.com/files/Creambox.jpg

The Sunday Spin ("Life is short. Call somebody today and tell them you love them."**)

1. I'm trying desperately to get into a regular blogging schedule once again

2. I learned that I've been bored, so I did some redecorating to help motivate me

3. The new design and the addition of Twitter has given me some additional motivation, so bear with me as I think of some worthwhile stuff to say

4. I did finally get my money, after mentioning the battle I went through previously

5. I did earn my master's degree, and Hemorrhoid is no longer my problem

6. I've developed mad love for Cee Lo Green, after receiving the Lady Killer cd as a bday gift

7. And I can't wait to tell you all about the web series that is eerily similar to my own life

I'd say that gives me posts to last me through the week, right?? Anyway, have a great week everybody!!

(**Tweet from Malcolm Jamal Warner, May 29, 2011)

'The Help' highlights a familiar hair battle

At the recommendation of a friend, I picked up a book that a white lady wrote about black maids. I had reservations about reading it -- I tend to havea bias against white writers using black characters -- but I enjoyed the book. The book is set in the 1960s, so there's lots of talk about the civil rights movment, the power struggle between blacks and whites, black domestics battling against their white employers, etc etc etc. All that is fine and good, but the thing that struck me was The Hair.




One of the main characters is a woman named Skeeter and she often battles her mother over her clothes and hairstyles. Apparently, her hair is too frizzy for her mother's tastes, so she always sends her to the salon or fusses at her when it's not done right. At one point, Skeeter goes through some kind of excessive hair regimen -- It was foreign to me, so I can't offer details -- that temporarily gives her the hair her mother desires. Sounded a bit like a relaxer for white people. But here is how Skeeter sums up her looks:



My own mother is looking at me as if I completely baffle her mind with my looks, my height, my hair. To say I have frizzy hair is an understatement. It is kinky, more pubic than cranial, and whitish blond, breaking off easily, like hay. (Pg. 65-66)



Her hair struggle is one that speaks volumes to me. I've been natural for about five years, so that has meant that I also baffle my mother with my looks -- this thick head of kinky hair in particular. I often get compliments on my locks, twists, 'fro, etc, but Mom has never been on the natural hair team. She hasn't been as vocal as Skeeter's mother, yet she has made it clear that she would like me to have a relaxer. It's become a bit of a joke in the family. I'll ask if I can borrow something, she'll joke that I can, only if I have a relaxer. She nearly had a heart attack the few times she saw my 'fro. Of course, she had nothing to say when I pointed out that I look eerily similar to her high school graduation picture, the one where she could barely fit her cap over her huge 'fro.



We laugh about it, and I'm still hoping Mom will come around. (I've given up on some other members of my family) I found this online and I know I'm not alone in the mother-daughter hair conflict. Maybe we can all start a support group, and invite Skeeter.


Photo from http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTDvLzuUkdhPGbS4Jd67FS0Bsm9hqpg9DMcdo_FDhP1oljJqOIf

On Tears

It surprises many people to know that I am a big crier. Beyond this wise cracking facade, I can be, as my mother likes to put it, an Emotional Wreck. While I cry at movies quite often, The Passion of Christ, Joy Luck Club, and Marley & Me, are a trifecta that brings about The Ugly Cry. Throughout my life, I’ve shed tears when I’m about to get punished and when I’ve gotten away with murder, when some boy told me he didn’t love me and when another told me he did, at my grandmother’s funeral and pretty much whenever anyone talks about her, when the goddaughter runs toward me with a hug, and when she’s not in the mood. I cry when I’m happy, sad, mad, glad, etc.

So yes,I have a bad case of the waterworks. It is my handicap, and I hate it. Growing up, my mom always said, “Don’t ever get a boyfriend. Because you will be crying for the rest of your life.” No one else in my immediate family has this issue. I only saw my Dad cry once, and with Mom, it is a rare occasion. Just the other day, she watched ‘The Notebook’ for the first time and didn’t shed a single tear. The only movie that gets to her is the funeral scene in ‘Imitation of Life.’

Recently, we learned that my grandpa is dealing with a terminal lung disease. There is not much doctors can do, other than keep him comfortable. He doesn’t have the best of relationships with his children, since he abandoned the family years ago and recent news of other children hasn’t helped much, but we grandkids check in from time to time. He’s in good spirits, despite everything.

Somebody thought it would be a good idea to ask him why he bailed out on grandma all those years ago. Somebody also thought it would be a good idea to have a person ask him a series of questions and record the response. Guess who was nominated? I was never asked directly, but I heard through the grapevine that my aunt wants me to do it. “I’d do it myself, but I’d get too emotional.” My mom outed me as the Emotional Wreck that I am, and volunteered to do the task. She offered to get straight Barbara Walters with it: “The day you left your family, and we had no food to eat, and barely any clothes on our backs, how did you feel?” Sigh. Nothing good can come from this.

Cash Rules Everything Around Me (CREAM)

Now, I'm not a blog jacker, let me say that up front. But if I see that one of my blog peeps is going through a tribulation similar to mine, well darnit, I'm gonna write about it. First, read here about how folks are trying to be shady with The L's money. Crazy scenario, right? Now allow me to piggy back on her plight.

I've been CRAZY busy. Good busy, but busy just the same. I learned in April that I won a creative writing award from my university. Awesome news. I play a little midday hooky to get down to the university where the grad and undergrad students were given certificates and checks. But my antenna was raised when I was given a certificate and a promise that I would get my check "soon." *side eye* (there will be an upcoming post about my years at this university)

I'm an optimistic person. When you tell me I'm going to win money, I make plans. I was going to repay my parents the money I owe, get a new camera, upgrade my guitar, and do my saving/investing hussle. Everyday I checked my mailbox, only to be greeted with nothing.

So I sent a polite email to my professor that if you read closely, spelled out WHY YOU TRYIN TO STICK ME FOR MY PAPERS? She told me that the university is now having "an issue" with the foundation that administers the awards. This foundation had wanted me to apply again (side eye/head roll/two snaps in a circle), but the university is trying to get it resolved on their own. I'm supposed to be given a check within the month. Let's hope I do. You can't imagine how violent I get when I think about the money that hasn't been sent my way. It's enough to make me wanna cut somebody's face off.

4 o’clock in the morning, where you gonna be?

I know where I’ll be.

Awake, but still in my pj’s, scarf and glasses, with my eyes glued to the screen. Yep, I’m going to watch THAT WEDDNG, a portion of it anyway. My first alarm clock is usually set for 4:30 a.m. for the gym, so I figured there was nothing wrong with getting up a half hour earlier so I can watch Billy and Kate walk down the aisle. But since I have to be at my spin class by 6:15 (coverage starts at 4, wedding starts at 6), I’ll likely only see images of Matt, Meredith, Al and Ann prancing around London in their weddng finery.

Why would I subject myself to this, you may ask? Why am I attending a wedding with bleary eyes and morning breath? One reason is simple. THE DRESS. I.want.to.see.the.dress!!!! And the other is because I’m intrigued by the drama of it all. Diana’s first born is marrying a commoner, and that means the royals are going to have to endure a variety of things, like Kate’s sister who wants to hang disco balls at the ceremony, her drug dealing uncle who is going to the wedding and her exotic dancing second cousin who is not. How will The Queen hande this madness?

Like Her Majesty, I’ve been subjected to joinings of Royals and Commoners. When Cousin Tina married Tyrone From Down Da Street, I was front and center. I wish I had popcorn for a variety of scenes, like when the caterer (his sister) got drunk and peed herself, or when his dad demonstrated how he could carry on long conversations with a mouth full of chicken. When Second Cousin Annettte married Yo, Yo, Yo, James In The House!, I was there. How was I to know that the dance floor would become a battleground for his sisters who wanted to do the electric slide vs his cousins who wanted to do the booty call, all while Frankie Beverly sang ‘Before I Let You Go’? But I was grateful to be there, with my camera in tow. If these heffas ever make me mad, I shall post this evidence right on Facebook and I will tag EVERYBODY.

So as you can see, this royal wedding has potential to be a royal mess. Unfortunately, us viewers won’t be able to see how the blue bloods handle it when Kate’s crew starts droppin it like it’s hot. But we can only imagine. And boy, will I imagine.

Photo from

http://www.royalweddinglive.com/wp-content/uploads/prince-william-and-kate-middleton-pic-reuters-134052115.jpg

The Sunday Spin (**"I'm gonna make me love me.")

1. Ugh, the weekends just keep getting shorter and shorter, don't they? 2. I did manage to have a good time. I hung out with my literary peeps and we went to a festival where writer Danielle Evans signed our copies of her book, 'Before You Strangle Your Own Fool Self" 3. I watched Toy Story 3, which made me happy and sad 4. But I need to call my granddad. I've been meaning to do it for weeks, I just haven't. 5. My professor emailed me his suggestions for some minor changes to my thesis 6. They were minor formatting requirements, but it was enough to frustrate me 7. But I'll get that straightened out today, press Send and be free of it all. Have an awesome week everybody! (**Overheard, stolen from a friend)

My Birthday!!

It's my birthday and I'm so happy to be 34 I could scream. The number 33 was so cruel to me. How cruel was it Strength? It was so cruel that if I'm walking down the street and I come across a 33-legged ant, I'm stepping on it and then urinating on its corpse. It was so cruel that if I'm watching Sesame Street and they do an ode to #33, I will throw my television out the window and hope it lands on the corpse of that mutilated 33-legged ant corpse. Once, a coworker was on the eve of this fair age, the so-called Jesus Year, and asked me how it was going. I promptly told him that it feels like you're spending 365 days nailed to the cross. But I'm getting off the cross today and celebrating. I took the day off (something I usually do, but didn't last year. perhaps that sealed my fate) and I'm getting a manicure and pedicure. Good friends will take me out to dinner where I will dine on cranberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausage, french fries, and birthday cake. My family is going to take me out for some hibachi food and even though I'm not a fan of red wine, I'm going to down my bottle of pinot noir like a champ and dare somebody to say something. I earned it. So I raise my glass to 34 and all the good things that I know will come with it. And I'll even raise a glass to you, 33, because you have only made me stronger.

The Sunday Spin ("My goal is to always come from a place of love, but sometimes I just have to break it down for a motherf*&%$ker'**)

1. Thanks for all your kind words of support on my thesis, I really needed it

2. There have been no developments since I turned it in, so I'll take that as good news, Shrug

3. I've spent the thesis afterglow discovering season 1 of 'Breaking Bad'. Good stuff

4. I finished reading my cavemen books, and I'm eager for the last installment to come out later this month

5. I've also been immersed in revising my latest work of fiction, which I hope to complete soon

6. This week, I have a three-day work week, so by Wednesday evening, I plan to be footloose and fancy free

7. I'm hoping my wallet can hang with these plans I'm beginning to develop. We shall see.

Have a great week, everyone!

(**Tweet from Rupaul on March 4)

Birth of a Thesis

I have recently given birth, and unlike many new mothers I can say unequivocally that I despise my child. Ok, it’s not a child, exactly, but a 170-page 36,000-word document that has caused me to exist on nothing but bananas and green tea for the last several weeks. Yes, I’m talking about my thesis, or as I affectionately call it, Hemorrhoid.

In the early stages of my Hemorrhoid pregnancy, I was excited. Yes, there were the usual bouts of morning sickness that comes with assembling my committee, making my topic as specific as possible, structuring my abstract and review of literature, but I knew it would all pay off in the end. I looked forward to the day little Hemorrhoid was in my arms, beaming up at me with my name in print.

Months passed and I realized this would be a difficult pregnancy. One member of my committee had gone MIA, another forgot all about Hemorrhoid and the committee chair put me on a diet that stretched my baby beyond anything I’d ever imagined. But again, I was excited. Thrilled even. How long is your typical pregnancy? Nine months? More specifically, 40 weeks? I could handle that.

Two years and some change later, I remained face up, legs spread as members of my committee used various instruments to pull, heave and even drag Hemorrhoid from my womb. A portion of Hemorrhoid’s bloody body was extricated in time for me to meet with The Big Man this week. The Big Man has the final say on all things thesis, and if he doesn’t like an aspect of your formatting – don’t come with a ‘…’ when you should come with a ‘. . . ‘—then it’s over. The two members of my committee and I hemmed and hawed over the measurement of page numbers at the bottom, the MIA member told me his middle intial on the signature page was incorrect, etc etc. Like all mothers in labor, I pushed and pushed and I pushed until it came out to the way it was supposed to be. I paid my $200 to have Hemorrhoid bound and copyrighted (a copy for me and a copy for the school) and I was on my way to the Big Man.

Well, what can I say about my meeting with The Big Man? A LOT, but I’ll keep it brief. The first thing he says is that my committee and I have been working off of an out of date checklist, which means that I didn’t have all the materials he needed and that my formatting was again, incorrect. And since said out of date checklist was created, the fees for the thesis have gone down, so in the amount I paid, I actually bought THREE copies of the thesis (Happy birthday, Mom) instead of my desired two. So I had to go back to work on my day off to do some hasty reformatting (took me six hours), switching to pdf, signing and faxing before I could send dear Hemorrhoid away.

But you know how they say never look back? Well I do, often. My dear pdf version of Hemorrhoid has blank pages in the file, a wrong completion date and page numbers with issues. I can’t make any corrections now, I just have to wait for the grad school to come back with their revisions and/or instructions for me to go straight to hell because Hemorrhoid is such a mess. It’s only fitting that everytime I turn on the radio, Cee Lo is screaming for me to … uh…. ‘forget’ everyone who has made my life a mess.

So I’ve been trying to listen to Cee Lo as I make mani/pedi plans for next week. World Tuberculosis Day is coming up and I hope to spend it with a tiara on my head, Hill Harper in my bed and Chaka Khan’s ‘I’m Every Woman’ in my soul. And no Hemorrhoid is getting in the way of that.

Photo from https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ60QyfWxZitR9zhyph4KPSv_1lDQ23kfNjwNE9sjo4UKEMuxI4lizkUmW8Ra0khlvVAVW-d35pUrZy6hqxniHB6RxFqeaF7JyPu4DL-XwzeHgQjzWjmHdPoHfGyK0TruiKrRmdw/s400/thesis+draft.jpeg

Firsts: To the Rock, the Alien & All the Pets I've Loved Before

I woke up the other day to a sneezing cat. He sneezed twice, then glared at me until I said ‘bless you.’ I did, then promptly fed and watered him. I stood there and watched till he told me I could go about my business. Days like this, I wonder how I reached this point in my life. Young Strength wasn’t always a slave to all things threatening and feline.

There was a time when I had a bit of a backbone, when I didn’t even care about furry creatures. And then there was another time when all I wanted was an animal – a dog, not a cat – but I was blocked at every turn by my animal-hating family. This isn’t a post about the guppies, the goldfish, and birds that all served as poor substitutes as a pet. No, this is about the pets they tried to pass of to me as pets. This is about the rock, and the alien in a jar.

The first time I approached Mom about a pet, I was a young little thing. We were living with my grandmom and my mom made all kinds of promises about how our lives would be different when she and Dad married and we'd move away. So I asked if I could have a dog. Her repsonse was to get me a pet rock. Yes, a rock. It even came in a carrying case and instructions on how to handle it. It was rather insulting, but I was enamored in a way that only a first grader can be. I gave my pet rock a bath. I took my pet rock to school for Show and Tell. I took my pet rock on walks. And then …. Well, I guess I lost interest in it (it never got a name). Either that or my cousin/nemesis found a way to break it/kill it (which is the way most things in my life went back then).

After the rock, there was the alien. I was a regular visitor to a nearby science geek store and after realizing Mom and Dad weren’t trying to get me a dog, or a chemistry set, I picked out a pet alien. Picture a can of chicken noodle soup. Now imagine pouring the soup out, putting a penny inside to make a noise and sealing the can again. And there you have my pet Alien in a Jar.

The instructions were simple. I had to keep it at room temperature, that was easy enough. For food, all I had to do was set it about 10 feet away from me and it would feed on my brain waves. There were two rules I needed to abide by – don’t shake the can too much (that would anger the alien) and never, ever, open the can (that would unleash an alien onto the earth!) . My last memory of that alien was my cousin/nemesis getting a hold of it and shaking it furiously as I chased him around the house, desperately trying to save my pet, and the universe. Perhaps that made the parentals worry about my psyche. Did I get a dog after that? Nope. Next came a tragic spiral of goldfish, guppies and parakeets.

About eight years ago, I was feeling the 'I'm Growns and decided to make some moves on what my life would be like with a dog. And after all that research, I opted for a cat instead. The animal and I have our ups and downs. I love him to death; he patiently tolerates me. I guess I owe my sanity to him, cuz I surely would've wound up in a straitjacket if I kept that pet Rock or Alien in a jar. I'm so glad things changed!

The Sunday Spin ("You're born naked, and the rest is drag"**)

1. Spent the weekend working on my thesis AGAIN

2. At this point, I just want to throw it on somebody's doorstep and walk away

3. Thankfully, my fellow grad students got together for a potluck Saturday, and there was moral support everywhere

4. Many folks gave me pats on the back after our professor told everyone that I had finished a novel, and was almost done with the program

5. It was cool to have so many people come up to me, and ask me how I did it

6. I spent most of this rainy day on my couch, reading through a pile of books. I'm almost finished book 6, so I eagerly await the publication of "The Land of the Painted Caves."

7. Now I'm watching Celebrity Apprentice (Lil John is on this season, wtf?) and preparing for what I hope will be a wonderful work week

Have a good week everyone!

(**Tweet from RuPaul on March 3)

Letters from the Darker Populace (#4 Protect my femininity)

Dear Mr. President --

First off, bravo for rectifying the racism that existed at my company. Now that I wrote a letter to you, we have new vending machines that supply hearty amounts of Sprite. I thank you, Mr. Prez, and so do the two other black people who signed my petition.

But today, I'd like to talk to you about those two other black people. They're new, and they are what I call SWISS -- Sistahs Who are Into SisterS (I know that's a stretch, but I needed an acronym that made sense). That means they are black women who are related and they just so happen to be lesbians. Let me just say that I welcome diversity in the workplace, Barry. I was sad when they fired the black guy, when the Hispanic dude quit, and when the Asian woman shouted "Get me outta this damn place" and was never heard from again. In terms of the Darker Populace, I've been the last one standing here for sometime.

And now the SWISS folks have arrived. Initially, I felt a little threatened. I'd reached a point when I enjoyed the white folks' reactions to my hair and it's various changes. But then the universe shifted, I cut my dreads and was rocking a press n curl that had me looking like a 1960s civil rights worker. Wouldn't you know this would be the day that SWISS arrived, in their long dreadlocked glory. The white folks oohed and ahhhed and hovered around their desks as if they were on the auction block. I smiled and welcomed them, then hightailed it to the hairdresser and abandoned the straight look for some two-strand twists. You may find it petty, but a girl's gotta do what a girls gotta do.

Let me also say that I love both of the SWISS gals. We talk often, they're hilarious. But my MAJOR problem with them is that each and every day they dress like they are on the pages of Vogue, the runway or Young Black & Fabulous. I have a decent wardrobe for work, but nothing to the extravagance of theirs. By working with them, my femininity is under attack. The lipstick lesbians are making me look like a butch!

Here's where you come in Barry, ole buddy ole pal. If you could get my company to set up a special wardrobe budget for me, I do believe I'd be on the right track. That would allow me to go shopping at least once a week so I can wear the clothing I'm entitled to wear. Either that, or you'll just have to make SWISS go shopping with me. I'll await your response.

Best,

Strength

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Chicken Soup for the Blogger's Soul

Recently I heard from a blogger that had disappeared from the scene for sometime. This was someone I had linked to, but after noticing the page hadn’t been updated for some months, I eliminated it from list of ‘Goodies’ that you see to the right. Thankfully, the blogger has returned and I’m offering a hearty ‘welcome back.’

This writer’s resurfacing on the blogosphere has caused me to peruse my blogging list a bit. It saddens me to learn that quite a few of my virtual peers have either eliminated their blogs, or not updated in so long that they might as well. I won’t mention any names, but I will say that I miss reading about their issues, whether it be paying off a car note, living frugally, balancing a fitness routine with motherhood , adventures in France, blurbs about Battlestar Galactica or any juicy tales they might want to share. (If any of this sounds familiar, I might be talking about you!)

Now, it is not my intention to criticize or embarass anyone, especially since it’s well known that I go through periods of blogger malaise. There have been times when the last thing I wanted to do was blog. There have been times where I’ve considered shutting the blog down completely. But, here are a few things that keep me blogging:

-Growth. I like to look back on some of my experiences and be thankful that I survived. And alot of my issues weren't that serious anyway.

-Outlet. Writing is a good target for my rage. Whether I’m writing on the blog or elsewhere, it is one thing that keeps me from killing someone.

-Discipline. Yes, I’ve had my absences from the blogosphere a time or two. But I’m glad to have great blogging friends who send me firm reminders when I haven’t posted in awhile.

-Humor. I’ve always wondered if there are other people out there aside from my mother who think I’m funny. Now I know that there are at least two of you. =)

-Anonymity. Some of you know me, but for those who don’t, I like to imagine I’m shielded behind an iron curtain that allows me to say whatever I want. That’s what I’d like to think anyway.

And for my absentee bloggers, please read this article and know that you are not alone. But you should also know that S/C/W is out here missing you.

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The Sunday Spin ('Whereever you go, no matter what the weather, always bring your own sunshine')**

1. It's been so long since I've written a Sunday Spin I've nearly forgotten how to do it

2. If I remember correctly, the purpose is to summarize my happenings in seven brief bullet points

3. And now that I've thrown away two items, I guess now I can mention what a nice relaxing weekend I had

4. I didn't have to work my second job, so that was a plus. I had dinner and drinks with a good friend.

5. We went to a pizza parlor we'd never heard of before and while the pizza was DELICIOUS, we suspect the waitresses were also part of a brothel.

6. But Bambi gave us free wine and free dessert, so who was gonna argue with that?

7. In my efforts to get back into a regular blogging routine, I realize how many blogging heads have done away with their blogs and that makes me sad. Be prepared for me to call you out soon in an upcoming post!

Have a great week everybody!

**Quote from Anthony J. D'Angelo, via Twitter