Here's a Personal Story: Bring Your Friends!

I mentioned before that I got a part-time job to help cope with the furloughs and other cutbacks my full-time gig had implemented. The second job is retail, so that means I would spend portions of my time going into this store and transforming myself into the bubbly aggressive salesperson that everyone ‘loves.’ Yes, this was very difficult for me.

I’d been leading the dual-job life for nearly three years now. We have secret shoppers who come in and evaluate us. It’s all very easy to get a 100 percent. And you’ll definitely get accolades if a customer complains that you were bothering them, because that just shows that we value customer service. So imagine my surprise when I got my secret shopper evaluation. My evaluator gave me a 91 percent. I didn’t get a perfect score because I didn’t tell her a personal story (i.e. “I love these pants because they make my butt look cute”) and I didn’t end our conversation with the company mantra: “Next time, bring your friends!” So here’s a personal story from me to her:

Dearest Secret Shopper:

Thank you so much for submitting your opinion about my customer service. Because we see hundreds (ok, dozens) of women a day, it is hard for me to remember exactly who you are. Could you be the shopper who came in pushing a stroller. I rushed over to give your child a sticker, only to realize you were not pushing a child, but a dog. Or could you be the shopper who came in wearing M-sized pants, but then only wanted to be fitted in XS? And after each pair of XS’s wouldn’t do, you’d look at yourself in the mirror and screech “MY LITTLE GIRL PARTS ARE SHOWING!”

So after struggles like that, you an imagine why I may have neglected to share a personal story with you. You don’t want to hear about the acrobatics I have to pull in my main job’s bathroom stall when it’s time to change into my job #2 uniform. Surely you don’t want to hear about those times I’ve hidden myself in the fitting room, closed the curtains and took a cat nap. Or maybe you’d like to know that working in a store full of women has made me ravenous for practically every man that walks by. (See UPS Man, water cooler man, light fixture man, shoppers’ husbands, etc etc etc)

See, I knew all of that would bore you. Never the less, you asked and I answered. And it is because of silly demands like that that today will be my last day at the store. I’m going to catch up on two things I value in life -- Sleep and Sanity. But don’t let that stop you from coming in the store. I’m sure my (former) coworkers would love to entertain you and your retail values. But as for me.... I’m gone.

Next time, bring your friends!

Best,

S/C/W

Dirty Dishes

I was running late for work yesterday morning when I was confronted with a severe case of D.D.G -- Dirty Dish Guilt. My sink was overflowing with used pots, bowls, silverware, plates and glasses. I was already running late … what could I do?

People judge you on your dirty dishes. Just like they judge you on your unmade bed. When I was a kid, Mom used to make a big fuss about my messy bedroom. I found that as long as I made my bed, she didn’t fuss as much. It’s the same with dirty dishes. Look at the media portrayal. You remember those movies where the police had to enter the home of a a drug addict/unfit mother/pedophile/hoarder/otherwise poor person? The first thing they do is zero in on the sink and the flies that swarm off of the tiny bits of crud that’s caked onto their dirty dishes. Think back to the 1980s and that movie, Lean On Me. Remember when Mista Clark had to visit Kaneesha’s home, because her mom didn’t want her anymore? When they went inside the apartment, the first thing they showed was the huge pile of dirty dishes in the mom’s sink. Ok, maybe not. But that’s how I remember it.

So the last thing I want is for some sort of a emergency arise, where maintenance has to get in and they see my dirty dishes. Or better yet, what if my apt is burglarized?? Criminals don’t need to know about the scrambled eggs, broccoli, cream of wheat, and turkey burgers that had been fortifying me. I am NOT Kaneesha’s Mother. I’m also not a drug addict/unfit mother/pedophile/hoarder/otherwise poor person.

I glanced at the clock, and I glanced at the dishes. I did what any sensible person would do. I stuffed my dishes inside my microwave, and my oven. I drove off to work with ‘Lean On Me’ theme song stuck in my head.

Photo from

http://tinyurl.com/3gtnf44

Where Ya Been?

Sorry I've been gone so long. Believe me, it wasn't intentional. I have just been so friggin busy that I began lacking the two things I value most: sleep and sanity. So I decided to quit my part time job in order to catch up on sleep. And the loss of that extra cash has given me a bit of a struggle with sanity, but I'll manage. It just means I'll have to adapt to a biweekly pay cycle once again. In the last two months, I survived an earthquake, endured Hurricane Irene, dodged Katia and soaked up remnants of Lee. In that same time frame, my family was hit with one wedding and three funerals. Two deaths were expected; one was not. I visited my hometown, where relatives filled me up with goodies that I can only get from that area. It was there that I met cousins who previously only existed as Facebook friends, listened to stories about my great grandmother and dethroned my favorite cousin after he displayed my tragic childhood pictures to strangers. I saw the house I was born in and resisted the urge to burst in and scream 'GET OUT' to the new owners. I assembled the critique team for my latest novel and am slowly moving toward the finish line of draft #7. I laughed more than I cried. I made new friends. Traveled to new places. Relaunched with my Sunday Beauty Ritual. Shared french fries with a 3 year old. Stole french fries from a 3 year old. Got a compliment that still has me grinning from ear to ear. with a few glitches, it was a pretty good summer. As usual, it was too short and I'm sad to see it go. I promise to have a more substantial post sometime soon.

What Ya Say Wednesday (**We have a coconut between us")

To even understand that quote above, you have to check out this video series. And if you think that is funny, just wait until you see the other ones. Sometimes, I don't know how I'd survive without some sort of dysfunction, whether it makes me laugh or cry. And did you know there's a list of black women bloggers you should know? Neither did I. So check them out here, here, and here.

What Ya Say Wednesday (**"Idris Elba 'mistakenly' twit pic'd a semi-naked pic of himself on Twitter..."**)

And thank God, this is a true story. Much thanks to BGLU to making me aware of it. I usually do my nails myself, so I wish there was a way I could do this at home. I'm not a big fantasy reader, but I am a fan of Acacia and writer David Anthony Durham so I'll be pleased when the last book in the trilogy comes out. There have been times in my life where I needed to recite the words in this poem repeatedly. (Thankfully, I got the hang of it) And, Lauryn Hill. Need I say more?

The Things I Carry

I decided to undertake a few reorganization projects this year. It's not that I'm terribly unorganized, but we all have some baggage that we need to get rid of from time to time. So I'm thanking Eminem and the TV show "Hoarders" for giving me the inpsiration to start Cleaning out My Closet.

I've gotten rid of quite a few things, but there are some objects that I'm going to hold onto:

My favorite tshirt:



Yes, that does say class of 2000. Yes, that shirt is that old. And yes, if you look closely, you can see holes dotting along the collar and the 'Class of 2000' section. And if you lift up the right arm, you'll see a giant hole right by my ribcage area. But I'm not letting it go. It's comfy. I only wear it on laundry day, and even then, I don't leave the house in it. And it's fun to look down and think back to those lazy college weekends.


Correspondence:

I've received lots of cards and letters over the years. I don't keep all of them, but there are some that hold special places in my heart. This pile mostly contains greeting cards from relatives and friends. There are also a few touching letters in there, like the one my mom sent me during my first year of college, or one another friend sent with the plea "TAKE YOUR BUTT BACK TO CHURCH" and a revamped Teletubbies birthday card from my college roomie, Bianca.



More tshirts:

Ok, it's true. I have a lot of tshirts. Most vacations and concerts, I pick up one. Sue me. Yes, that is a New Edition Reunion Tour shirt you see, along with a Lauryn Hill concert shirt, circa 1999. Hey, I'm keeping them. I found a new use for my N.E. shirt when I went to an '80s party this year and wore it with leggings and a scrunchy on my wrist. And as a die hard Lauryn Hill fan, I reserve the right to wear that shirt whenever I please. The other photo is of a shirt that I still have, never wear, but won't throw away. The last time I wore it was when my dad died.


Weapons of mass destruction:

It's been several years since I've taken karate lessons, but I do still have my uniform and my belts. (Yes, my black belt is in there) Somewhere along the way, my sparring equipment, nunchucks and sai were lost in the shuffle. However, my uniform and/or belts comes in handy around Halloween time. Or when I want to stress to the mailman the importance of putting my mail in the right slot. Ahh, memories.

Anyway, these are just a few things that I'm holding on to. I did get rid of a lot more. I'm not a hoarder, I'm not!

Now I DO Wanna Play

One of the things I miss about being a kid is how easy it was to make friends, girlfriends in particular. You show up to algebra class and are assigned to work with the chick next to you. Friend. You’re late to school and have to slip into math class unnoticed, when someone discretely opens the door for you. Friend. Your senile English teacher keeps confusing you with the Italian -- not the other black girl -- in class, simply because you both get good grades. Friend, Amico.

But it gets harder to make those connections when you’re an adult. My post college years were spent in a state where I knew absolutely no one. Everyone in my satellite office was older, married and too uninteresting for me to want to hang out with. So I went on the prowl for some friends, and wound up with a series of one night stand friends. You know those friends, the ones you only hang out with because you don’t want to go to that movie/concert/art exhibit/restaurant by yourself? Well I had quite a few. There was the Insecure one, who often needed to be told that there was nothing wrong with her outfit; the Alcoholic one, who peed in my car after a night of drinking; the Cheap one, who could never do anything because she always “only had $5”; and the Hypochondriac, who had to bail on several outings because she didn’t have her back acne medication. It took me quite a while before I found some good friends who fill the void.

So that brings me to today. See, I’ve met someone. *blushes* Rosie and I have had casual conversations as we wait for the gym doors open at 6 a.m. I’ve learned we have a lot in common. She’s around my age and appreciates fine literature and cinema as much as I do. That’s right, she’s a Harry Potter/True Blood/Lord of the Rings/Game of Thrones kinda gal. So when Alcide (True Blood) disrobed shortly before transforming into a werewolf, we swooned together all throughout spin class. When she and her boyfriend got tickets to the Harry Potter Theme Park, we became screaming teenage girls. When she bought the Game of Thrones book series, she promised I could borrow it since I was HBO-less when the series aired. But those 15 minutes we chat before class just doesn’t seem enough, and after class we’re both running to work. I’d like to take things to the next step -- dinner, a movie maybe -- but I’m not sure how to go about it without seeming like a weirdo. Yet there is something about Rosie that whenever I see her, the theme song to ‘Girlfriends’ rings out in my head.


Rosie sent me an email recently, letting me know that a work project is interfering with her workouts, so she won’t be back to class until like mid August. Well, that sucks, and I told her so. Then we did our True Blood and Harry Potter gossip and that was that. But what now? Do I email her back with my opinions on last season’s True Blood (Can you believe what Bill did to Sookie? And OMG! That ALCIDE!!)? Do I ask if she’s finished Friday Night Lights yet, and how will we ever survive without Coach Taylor? Do I inquire about the Game of Thrones book? Or do I ....*sigh*.... wait till August? Anyway, it’s all under consideration. Thankfully, I do have a nice amount of good friends. It is rare that I want to open the circle for one more, but Rosie seems like she might have the qualifications.

And as a tribute to good Girlfriends everywhere, here’s a clip of the only web series I’m watching these days:

What Ya Say Wednesday? ("I'm anti-war but pro pie-fight"**)

I've been watching the News of the World scandal unfold, and I'm now obsessed with all things Wendi Deng, aka "The Smack Down Sister." Here is where I learned she's an Obama supporter and producer of 'Snow Flower and the Secret Fan" (loved the book, can't wait for it to come out in the U.S. of A!) And of course, I can't forget about the actions that led to her nickname. Anyway .... I'd like to think there is more diversity to the male population. I'm a big fan of soy sauce, so my pantry stays stocked with La Choy. I also need to go back to church, and I hope the Lord forgives me for not doing a Sunday Spin in such a long time. Blasphemous? Eh, maybe a little. =) I'll end this post with a great smile.



(**Quote from Emily Chang via Twitter on July 19)

What Ya Say Wednesday? ('Oh, you think I'm playin bitch?')

How bout I just realized today is Thursday, and not Wednesday? Ah well. I found a new rap song to channel my inner anger. I spent much of my childhood digging up worms, so I'm glad to know I'm not alone. The book/movie 'The Help' isn't the first to shed light on the plight of black domestic workers. Here's some natural hair care advice. And Big Daddy Kane gets the job done.

Soc(k)rates Saved My Life

A sock puppet saved my life

I’m sitting at work with a sock puppet on my neck and I am NOT ashamed. I have named the puppet Soc(k)rates, and it has saved my life.

Previously, I mentioned that I was out of town, on vacation. I mentioned the beautiful beaches, the wedding and the scenery. But I did not mention The Pain. You see, I am not as young as I once was. That means I can still hold a drank while dropping it like it’s hot, but I can’t do it as easily as I once did. So after a weekend of electric slidin’, wave ridin’, and old man hidin’, I was in PAIN. The left side of my neck felt like somebody had been beating it with a hammer. The only way I could get relief was by popping pills, applying hot compresses and cocking my head to the side in a not so sophisticated gangsta lean. I just hope I don't have this.

So I did what most people do. Go to the doctor? Nope. I googled my symptoms and whined about my pain until someone gave me a solution. A trusted friend suggested I take a sock, fill it with uncooked rice, warm it up in the microwave, and place it on my pained neck. I did it and by golly it worked. But then I’d go to sleep, and wake up in pain again. So I had to start breakfast with my new sock puppet on my neck, get dressed and drive to work that way. Heck, once I arrived at work, I warmed Socrates up again and placed him back on my neck. Most folks looked at me and just shook their heads. Of course, one person asked me about it and when I explained Socrates’ function, she said ‘don’t you know they sell real heating pads nowadays?’ Point taken, but I enjoy the level of comfort Socrates and I have reached.

In my crazier thoughts -- and my ongoing efforts to get sent home for Mental Health Day -- I’ve drawn eyes and a mouth on Soc(k)rates. I’ve propped him up right beside my morning cup of tea and asked him about his goals and aspirations. I’d gossip with him about coworkers, all within earshot. I’d dance with him in the middle of the day. But no, I didn’t do any of those things. I do keep Socrates perched on my neck. And I do warm him up in the microwave a few times a day. Whenever anyone inquires about him, I say “This is Soc(k)rates. And he makes me feel good.” Then they march away quietly.

Vacation -- The Afterglow

I just returned from a fabulous island/beach vacation. I was gone for seven whole days and Toni Braxton was right, that is way to long to go without getting in touch. So here's what I did while I was away.

I shot stuff with my new camera:







I drank stuff:

----- That's an Obamarita. It wasn't that great, but I drank it for vacation's sake

I ate stuff:

--- That's an apple fritter. According to the bakery, one is good enough to feed three people. I shared one with two friends, and it has taken me two days to finish the one I bought for just little ole me.

I beached, I read, I napped outdoors:

I watched other people exercise, without feeling guilty:




And most importantly, I was honored to see one of my oldest friends get married:





Tomorrow it is back to reality, and work. Playtime is over. Sigh.

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.