I am officially off my diet. Corn tamales and chicken quesadillas with extra sour cream, and three margaritas from Pink Taco; a double-double, cheeseburger with fries from In-N-Out burger joint; chocolate chip cookies – the oven baked kind in the blue pack; Barq’s Rootbeer, Coca-cola, Snapple Raspberry and Lemon Iced Tea (with green and black tea leaves); Ms. Vickie’s BBQ chips; a #6 combo from McDonald’s hold the cheese, add pickles and ketchup; cheesesticks from Carl’s Jr.; Pizza Mia (which was not worth the calories); two glasses of red wine (which was definitely worth the calories); a Bacardi & Coke; and as of this morning, a blueberry muffin from the cafe inside my office building. Yes, I have been keeping stock of all the junk I’m eating. I always make mental notes when I’m sabotaging the business of watching my caloric intake and cleaning up my act. Call it years of ingrained Catholic guilt. Call it what you want. I’m systematically programmed to assess behavior contrary to the desired productivity and positive end result in my life. If you think I’m kidding, I’ve been assessing my un-wed pregnancy for a decade and a half plus two. Satisfied? While I am extremely forgiving of myself and others, I don’t ignore the damage.
I’m not sure what kicked it off this time. Could have been PMS. I blame lots of sh*t on PMS. You should try it sometimes. If you’re a girl, it totally works. If you’re a guy, it’s so preposterous, it works even better. I’m a maniac in the gym. And I have a pretty decent body (reference: previous post Hair/Azz combination). I love exercise. In every area of my life there is a quest for balance. Exercise is no exception. I’m what I like to call a 100 percenter. I’m either all in or all out. You will RARELY catch me giving something a half-effort. I’m passionate about everything I do. So, when I commit to exercise, it’s nothing for me to do 12.5 miles spread between the elliptical machine, the bike and the treadmill. I can go to the gym at 6 in the morning or at 10 at night. It doesn’t matter to me. Admittedly, I’ve found it increasingly difficult to walk through the gym doors any day this week after consuming an inordinate amount of ridiculousness since last Thursday evening. (Of course I know exactly when the tomfoolery began. Didn’t you read the first paragraph? I always know!) Thankfully, tomorrow it will all be over. I’ve repented; I’ve written; I’ve purged – through repentance and writing, I’m not bulimic. Tomorrow is a new day – a chance for a new beginning.
I’ve long since admitted to myself that I love food. Some people love drugs and alcohol. I love good food. In life I believe we make justifications for those things we desire which contain some form of guilt. As I was driving yesterday, I thought about that justification intently. I could be thinner. I could be fanatical about the food I consume and the sized clothing I wear. I’m not. At the end of the day, I’m a good person. I mean a really good person. I give strangers directions. I walk old people across the street. I give random kids ABC flashcards. I know all the cashiers at the local grocery store by name. I once found a cell phone on Santa Monica beach, called the last out-going number, located the owner and returned the phone. He said, “No one does this.” I laughed and retorted, “Of course people do. I just did.” Yes, I’m tooting my own horn damnit! Can’t you hear it? It sounds wonderful! My retribution for overindulgence is this: There are lots of skinny, mean-ass people in this world. I’m not one of them.
So, I fell off the wagon and picked up three pounds in the process. It’s not the end of the world. I’ll pick myself up, dust myself off, grab a bag of carrots, and start over again. Carrots are good for eyesight, good for digestion, and good for the soul. Carrots: the new source of salvation! Just kidding. The last thing I need after a week of unhealthy food choices is to be negligent in the one area that keeps me grounded – my faith. My faith allows me the power to forgive myself for bad choices. It allows me the power to forgive others even when I’d rather stand in judgment of them. It allows me to have my cake and eat it too, as long as I keep myself in check. It encourages introspection, adjustment, and realignment. It helps keep me balanced. In a world filled with burger joints, refined sugar and chocolate, I relish balance. Salut!
Persnickety Self-Adjustment: Even when you think it’s bad, it’s not so bad.
Last week I got hit on by a clown. I’m not sure if I should be insulted or flattered. Should I consider it the ultimate high or did I reach a new low? Let me share the circumstances of the compliment. I was wearing a form-fitting sundress and a pair of oversized sunglasses. My hair was flowing free with bouncy curls and my black woman ass-ets were in full effect. He started with, “Excuse me…”. I thought it was a good enough opening line, especially since he said it from behind. I swear I’m not trying to rhyme. He followed up with, “I just have to tell you that I think you’re beautiful.” I turned and saw that he was dressed in full clown regalia complete with hair and nose. Wow. WOW. I thought for a moment. Then, the words came. “Thank you,” I replied. “You look really nice as a clown.” WHAT ELSE WAS I SUPPOSED TO SAY??? He shoved his business card my way. “I look nice underneath this clown suit too.” Me: A nervous laugh. Shudder. Breathe. Take the card and leave. I thanked him and moved on. My girlfriend, translation: friend who is a girl, could not stop laughin. “Was that a clown?” she said. I couldn’t answer. I kept walking and laughing to myself. When I stopped to contemplate the Pheromone exchange, I realized the clown couldn’t possibly have seen my face. So, then what part of “beautiful” had warranted me the forthright response? I determined it must have been the Hair/Azz combination.
I submit to you Exhibit A: the post-baby derriere. Opposed to the pre-baby derriere, the post-baby derriere is wider, plumper and sags with a certain umph. It is characterized by such terms as phat dunk, round mound… you get the point. It’s much more than most men can handle publicly. Usually met with a wince, deep breath, or a conscious effort to resist erection, the post-baby derriere is highly praised for ending slavery, solving the Cuban Missile Crisis (single-cheekedly), and preemptively nominating the first-lady to Maxim’s Top Ten Hot List. Seriously. Don’t underestimate the post-baby derriere’s power. You’ll lose every time.
Exhibit B: The long and flowy non-weave. Blame it on the potential “pullability” factor in a heightened climatic environment. Blame it on the endless Pantene commercials and Cindy Crawford ads of the 90’s. Blame it on the adverse affect of Pink and Rhianna’s boyishly mod haircuts. The sex appeal of long, natural locks in a summer breeze is undeniable. Its importance is comparable to the ebb and flow of the tide to a seaman, and the star and crescent moon to a muslim. Oh yeah, it is that deep. If you don’t think so, ask the Koreans who have capitalized on the unbeweavable trend of merchandising pre-packaged synthetic and human hair to the African-American community. What’s that you say? Yes, I do know that white women wear weave. Right now, that’s not the subject. When you write your blog, you can talk about Taylor Swift’s extensions. Right now, sistas are the topic. At least the clown that day dubbed it that way.
I am a black woman. I celebrate black women in all their beauty - cafe au lait and creamy caramel to deep, dark, velvety cacao bean. I’ve worn my hair near bald, natural, pressed and permed. I love it all. This is not an exploitation of the features of black women or any other race of women for that matter. This is merely my observation of a series of isolated incidents, a simple cause and effect scenario if you will. I am here to testify about the case of one clown who accosted me with flattery not once but twice. (He also found me at the street fair 45 minutes later and said, “I see you!”) I’m here to testify about men everywhere from Waikiki to Washington D.C., California to the Cayman Islands, and Illinois to Italy, who have gawked, leered and incited riots on my behalf. The Hair/Azz combination is to be respected and feared. Many times they have stood alone and are a marvel to behold. Together they present overwhelming evidence in support of one hell of a case of merriment and wonderment. If you don’t believe me, ask the clown.
Persnickets Self-Adjustment: Be prepared for anything and expect the unexpected.
You’ve seen The Shawshank Redemption, a screenplay adapted from Stephen King’s short novel of a similar title. Maybe you haven’t. It’s worth renting, purchasing, downloading, or boot… nah, nothing’s worth bootlegging. Piracy is a crime. I watched it last night again for the umpteenth time. Fine specimen of a film. I’m not sure how many people can say their favorite movie is set in a prison. Mine is. The Shawshank Institution happens to be as fine a backdrop as any for a story that is timeless: Man finds hope in the face of adversity. Yep. That’s it. You thought I was gonna say something deep and profound, didn’t you? Actually, the premise in its base form is extremely deep and profound. Hope in the face of adversity. I remember many instances in my life when the darkness seemed to envelope me, when there seemed to be an endless string of events destined to choke me into desperation and despair. Yes, me. Happy, frickin go-lucky, bouncing through life like a beach ball on a summer’s day, me. We none escape this life without trials. Ask Michael. Shoot, ask Moses. Those Israelites were no joke. So, the main character in this movie is a guy accused of shooting his wife (and her lover) and sentenced to two consecutive life sentences. (I never have really understood how that works… are they going to catch you once you’ve reincarnated and make you serve time all over again?) Anywho, in a pretty hopeless situation he finds hope – the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel that keeps you moving on.
There’s a saying in the movie that resonates in my soul – Get busy living or get busy dying. It is a well known fact that the day we are born we begin dying. I don’t know many people who dwell on that. I know I don’t! I’m barely trying to acknowledge this so-called monumental birthday looming over my head, let alone the fact that each day brings me closer to my grave. I focus on living and try to make the most of each minute. Sometimes it’s intentional and other times it’s not. Somedays it’s easy and other days it takes a conscious effort to turn my frown upside down. That’s life. I was driving down the road the other day and I thought about the person who coined the phrase, “Life sucks, then you die.” It’s hardly optimistic. But, at that exact moment, I knew how he or she felt when they said it. It’s an overall feeling of defeat. It’s the cold hard facts of your solitary life hitting you in the face and then posting the picture on TMZ. It’s Shawshank without the redemption. That’s when I pulled myself together, swerved around the car that was momentarily stopped in the middle of the street for no apparent reason, and remembered what a joy it is to live and drive in L.A. I always have a choice. A choice to negotiate the obstacle or be overcome by it. The choice is always there – half empty or half full – hope or despair. We choose.
It was with this optimistic attitude that I began my morning cleaning, writing and listening to Ledisi. I was fooling around on FB – “Facebook” for the novices – and checkin on my peeps. The thought hit me to search for a friend I’ve lost touch with over the years. No such luck. The Facebook phenomenon has yet to grab him. Then, another friend, a childhood friend with a very peculiar name, came to mind. I instantly typed it in. No profile surfaced. However, at the very bottom of the search results a link to an article appeared. The word “inmate” stood out like a pink elephant at a parade of geese. I was frozen, baffled, mystified, unbelieving. I clicked on the link and there was his picture next to a request for a pen pal. It was him - all 6′4″ 225 lbs, former college football star drafted to an NFL team but waived in the first year, him. This, of course, sent me into a spiral of viral research about the crime committed and subsequent conviction. Mortgage fraud. I mean, you were wondering, weren’t you? As I read the details of the crime, gross monetary figures leaped off the page – 4 million here, 750 thousand there – astonishing. I couldn’t help wondering what he looked like in his hay-day. BIG BALLIN, no doubt. But, in the face of his newly brandished federal prison pic, I saw the same guy I played touch football with on the neutral grounds in New Orleans. His youthful boyishness was there albeit buffeted by cornrows and a white tee – a ”Shawshank” facsimile revisited on my computer screen and remanded to pay restitution in the amount of 2 million and some change. That’s to deter any of you wonderful women who lusted over the stats I posted earlier and don’t mind dating jailbirds. A harmless search on facebook resulted in a penpal request from an inmate. Welcome to my world.
My heart tells me to write him, my childhood compadre found guilty of white collar crime. (After all, he may have had bank accounts in the Caymans. I could possibly pass for a “Juanita Sanchez” in a third world beachside community, if I learn more than my numbers 1 thru 10 in Spanish and keep a fresh perm in my hair.) My head tells me I’m too green to touch this with a ten foot pole. He may need more than I can offer at this time or ever. But maybe, just maybe, he could use a friend who knows a little something about hope in the face of adversity. And that, my dear readers, would be me.
In case you didn’t know, Wikipedia is god. Not like, in a literal or literary sense. But, in the sense of a QUICK reference – like a few suspect dudes walking your way in a dark alley or a rabid dog running rampant in your backyard, and you yell, “Oh Lord! Help me Jesus!” – well, like that. For your reference: Wikipedia: Dalai Lama: In religious terms, the Dalai Lama is believed by his devotees to be the rebirth of a long line of tulkus, who have chosen to be reborn in order to enlighten others. Also for your reference: Wikipedia: Baby Mama (I swear it’s in there!): A baby mama is generally defined as a mother who is not married to her child’s father. Now, put those two terms together. Deep right? One would assume that this “woman”, the mother of a certain child, has chosen to be reborn to enlighten other mothers who are not married to their child or children’s fathers. I like it. It is me.
Back in a time when there was war in the world, I accepted a sperm donation in the literal sense from a donor with proficient swimmers. Nine months later, unto us a child was born in the city of Tacoma, Washington. Through the course of what I commonly refer to as “our personal bizness” we did a Brown v. Board of Education and decided to parent separate but equal. For the last 15 years I have been a single parent. Yes, of course, now you’re wondering whether I was young and promiscuous or old and responsible when I procreated. Neither. I will tell you this. Single parenting is hard. PARENTING is hard. I don’t doubt that God (with a big G) intended two people, if not a whole dang village, to raise a child. When my daughter was 4 years old she was the coolest kid. When she was 14, I didn’t think either of us would make it out alive. It is my testimony. Parenting has made me a better person, a stronger woman. I’d like to believe that parenting has made her father a better man. But, I’ll be damned if he doesn’t keep trying to prove me wrong.
A few days ago I placed a simple phone call. I practiced my ‘Becky and Susie’ responses several times in my head before I dialed the number. I recently completed an Effective Communications Class at my workplace. I use every opportunity to employ those tactics learned. I spoke in low tones and explained patiently and thoroughly that the purpose of my call was to inquire about my daughter’s sixteenth birthday party. Did he have any plans? Could he possibly get on board with my plans if he did not have any plans himself? Somewhere in the process of my inquiry, things went horribly awry. He began with the words, “See, you came at me all wrong!” Yep. That’s what he said. I was blindsided, especially since my docile woman was in full effect! He was yelling and screaming like I had asked him to scale the Great Wall of China and bring me back a panda bear. When he began using profanity, I simply closed the telephonic device. I had had enough. I have no idea how long he stood there ranting and raving before he noticed there was no connection. Lucky for me, I noticed there was no connection 15 and a half years ago.
Now, you are free to judge me as you will. However, I have never once said a harsh or condemning word to my daughter about her father. NOT EVER. There have been many instances when I could have laid his bizness out bare for the world to see his nekkid azz. I could have shaped and molded his image in my child’s eyes like the hunchback of Notre Dame. Yet, I adhere to a strict code of non-transference that was passed on to me from my mother. She said, “There’s no need to paint a picture for a child of their mother or father. When they grow up, they will view the person for themselves and paint their own picture.” ‘Nuff said. Sometimes withholding words was like repressing the Red Sea. But, it is not my job nor is it my duty, to tear down my daughter’s father in her sight. No matter his shortcomings, he was the product of my intelligent choice, not hers. He is the person I chose to procreate with. Yes, I know that one hurt.It is truth.
Many moons ago, I was slightly bitter about my plight. Who isn’t? But, I have chosen to be reborn as one baby mama with purpose and enlightenment. It is my responsibility to model productive behavior and unconditional love thus teaching my child to do the same. It is my responsibility to grow each day in my actions and reactions in order to bless those baby mamas who were not so fortunate as to have a mother like mine with a little knowledge and understanding. As ’the best baby mama a man could ever ask for’, I’ve chosen the high road on many occasions. (Don’t you dare laugh. That was verbatim and he meant it as a compliment.) I know that nothing lasts forever. In the meantime, I’m counting the days until her eighteenth birthday joyfully.
Persnickety Self-Adjustment: Never have a baby for a stupid muther… you get the point.
I have been pursued at just about any random establishment, professional function or social event you can imagine. I’ve heard some of the most creative “pick-up” lines ever created by men and women. Yet, I am always pleasantly surprised when I am picked up in a grocery store, a mega-store to be more specific. The most recent instance of adoration occurred at the friendly, neighborhood, Red Bulls-Eye. I was chillin in the car waiting for my daughter to return from grabbing a few must-haves (anything and everything a teenager thinks of at the spur of the moment is a “must have”). I realized that I could eliminate a trip to the grocer by running in and grabbing a few items myself. And there, on the baking and spices aisle, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him notice me. It was quick. The average eye would have missed it. Alas, I have trained optical sensory perception. The double-back was nearly instantaneous. (You know the “double-back”. Don’t play me like that. I’ve used quotations three times already, foolin around with you.) He strolled down the aisle, young and inviting, and proceeded to entice me with velvety words and sparkling eyes. I have no idea what he said. I was looking for cake mix. All I remember is that I initially looked at his attire – shirt and tie – and his walkie talkie, and then I mumbled something to him about security. That is not offensive! I did military intel for four years. Why else would he be dressed in a shirt and tie perusing the grocery aisle of a mega store at nine-thirty at night with time to talk to a curvaceous cutie? Anyway, I gave him the 10 (ten digits mayn… damn, you are slow tonight) and proceeded to pick out frosting.
Well, my spidey senses must have taken a nap. I could not have foreseen what was coming next. He leaned in and kissed me. Not on the lips, but not exactly a peck on the cheek either. It was what I would call a side-swipe. He brushed his cheek flat against mine as he puckered and landed. THAT is a side-swipe, reserved only for revolving door exes and Idris Elba (should I ever be so lucky). I was taken aback and I smiled a nervous smile. You know the one where you squint one eye slightly wondering if you should check him, deck him or wreck him then sweep up the remains. I decided to blow it off. It was late and I had already given that fool my phone number. I rationalized that maybe he was excited an older woman had given him some play. Who knows? He turned and skipped along down the aisle before I could change my mind and cuss him out. The next day he called and left a message – the usual so-glad-to-have-met-you message. I returned the call later and got his voicemail. The next day he started texting. I engaged him for a few rounds until something quite odd occurred. He called me, “baby”. My reflexes kicked in simultaneously with my utter disbelief. I scratched the back of my head; eventhough I had just washed my hair the night before. I looked to the left and to the right. Then I asked myself, “Did he just call me ‘baby’?”. As fast as my thumbs could fly, I replied, “Please don’t call me ‘baby’. I’m not comfortable with terms of affection. I just met you a couple of days ago.” To which he responded, “Okay, honey. Whatever you say.” Blood/Boiling/Now. I’d like to tell you that even after I ignored the blatant stupidity that ensued and asked him to stop texting me altogether, he got the hint. I’d like to tell you that he stopped texting after I refused to respond to a string of texts on the days following. And, I’d like to tell you that he stopped calling after a week of nonresponse. The truth is, I don’t remember. I just remember the utter disbelief that washed over me each time he texted me with yet another term of endearment in a jokey-joke kinda way.
Tell me. What possesses someone, a would be suitor no less, to ignore the simplest request of a lady in waiting? It certainly gives me no comfort that you would honor a future request to remove the gag from my mouth and my bound body from railroad tracks with the impending approach of a train – a surefire end to a relationship that begins with ignorance on your part in such gross proportions. A younger me would have probably told myself, “Oh, he’s just messing around. Give him the benefit of the doubt.” Nah, that’s not exactly true. Those would have been the words of my college roommate. To whom I would have replied, “Hell no! I ain’t givin him nuthin but the dial tone.” My daughter says those are my two favorite words together – hell and no. LOL! (She says it with caution too.) Let it be known for the record that I like the word ‘baby’. Let it also be known that ’sweetie’, ‘darling’, ‘honey’, ‘brown sugar’ (did I let that one slip?), or any cutesy pet name that doesn’t make the man wooing me sound gay, is a winner. However, can that man at least be a steady fixture in my life as opposed to a ran-dumb stranger seeking my affections? Please? Pretty please? Lest, I mark DNA next to his name in my phone. Wait for it… Wait for it… Do Not Answer.
Some of you undoubtedly will peg this as my fault for sharing the 10. What can I say? I’m a risk taker. He could have been my next… my next… aw hell, you got me. I should have used more caution and better judgment. Hindsight is a blind lady with ESP. Next time, I’ll stay out the sandbox at Tahr-jay.
Persnickety Self-Adjustment: Follow your first mind and stay in the car next time.
(The term DNA is courtesy of my new, sassy friend, R.C.)
The California wildfires rage just above my house. The air smells of burning brush and soot. White ash covers most of the cars exposed to the elements. I should be scared. I am scared, but not panicked. I’m a rational thinker especially in the face of certain danger. I’m not sure whether it is my military training, single parenting prowess, the catastrophic course of a hurricane hurling toward my hometown, or my innate analytical skills honed through years of dating pathological liars, that have brought me to the great problem-solving skills I currently possess. I’m just grateful I am who I am. As I watched the flames flicker and dance through the sky, I was both horrified and mystified simultaneously. When the neighboring town was ordered to evacuate I thought, “What’s worth saving and what can perish?” Then, a familiar voice filled my head. It was my mother’s. Deceased 14 years yet ringing out loudly and clearly she reminded me, “If there’s ever a fire, grab the pictures and run. Everything else can be replaced.” I thought about that for a moment. Grab the pictures. Run. Everything else can be replaced.
Four years ago when my brother went into my home to evacuate our father, in the face of Hurricane Katrina barreling though the Gulf of Mexico, he asked me what he should grab that was mine. I spouted off a laundry list of papers, pictures, and mementos that for me represented memories. I was luckier than most. When I buried my father this year due to liver cancer, not as a victim of the tragedy that was and is Hurricane Katrina, I had a host of photos with which to recant his life. My mother was right. Those snapshots in time, those moments, could never have been recreated without photos. Last night, as I listened to the choppers overhead sweep through our neighborhood (looking for the trail of wildfires not the trail of criminals) I thought about the irony of evacuating my home due to wildfires on the 4th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. As a New Orleanian I felt the comedy and tragedy of it all. I chuckled to myself and thought, “Ain’t this some sh*t?” (That’s a good ole fashioned New Orleans phrase that seemed to fit the mood.) Life has a way of throwing you curve-balls just when you think you’ve mastered the fastball or the slider. It is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it. I’m down for the cause, up for the fight, and I’m not stoppin til I win. Yes, death is inevitable and obstacles in life are inescapable. Hurt and disappointment go hand in hand with triumph and success. Hills and valleys, yadda, yadda, yadda. C’mon y’all. This is not new. Sometimes you just have to remind yourself that without one there would not be the other. Like the ying and the yang tattooed on my lower back (watch it sucka with that ‘tramp stamp’ stuff…) there’s a balance in the earth that cannot be ignored.
With the deaths of Ted Kennedy, Michael Jackson, Tom Clarke** and my father, to name only a few this year, I am reminded that life is short. And my time to make a difference is even shorter. I must seize the day – take hold of the time that has been allotted to me and make the most of it. If I should dwell on those unmet expectations, be they self-imposed or incurred by others, it should only be for a short while. I should remind myself that I am bigger and greater than any circumstance; I am built to withstand more than I think I can. In the face of certain danger there is and will always be a way clearly to the other side. I must only remain steadfast until the fires subside and the waters recede to emerge victoriously and take hold of my destiny. Then, and only then, will I make a hero’s mark in this world and earn a eulogy fit for the same. Mark my gravestone: Here lies she who faced the inevitable with the fortitude and faith to persevere without blame. Then, mark my name.
Persnickety Self-Adjustment: Time waits for no one. Get movin.
**Tom Clarke is the brother of a dear friend who died suddenly and tragically due to injuries sustained in a car accident on August 14, 2009. He was loved and will be missed.
The loudest and most gratifying burps surface after gulping Coca-cola. I let one rip at the office today. Everyone was so busy, I think no one noticed. That’s a lie. Someone always notices. In small spaces that are occupied by many people who are seemingly preoccupied with their own menial tasks, someone always notices. As a matter of fact, on this floor, in this new building, with its exposed ceiling beams and artsy-fartsy deco walls that CARRY sounds even Helen Keller could hear, someone always notices. I declared from Day 1 that we moved here, “I hope no one ever has a fight with their significant other on the telephone or the “world” will hear it.” Am I psychic? Nope. Was I proven correct today? Yup.
It was sudden and unexpected like premature ejaculation. It made me so uncomfortable I squirmed in my seat. I tried to print something, anything, so that the sound of the wheels grinding and the paper rolling and the ink pressing inside my desktop printer would drown out the very sad occasion of relationship disappointment. I’ve been there. While I was initially embarassed and slightly flustered by the surprising, cataclysmic drama (and a few not-so-nice words to boot!), I was eventually overcome with empathy for both parties. Of course that was after the “OMG. OMG. OMG.” Insert: me panicking for people who aren’t remotely concerned about me. Then came the instant note to self: Lower your voice when you’re talking to your baby’s daddy on a day that he doesn’t quite get that the world is round. Have some patience and pick a tone conducive to office ears, so that the person who notices has empathy – or at the very least doesn’t discern the gritty details and blog about them should they be so inclined.
About this blogging bizness. I was driving home yesterday and feeling really good about the accomplishment of my first blog. If you didn’t get the memo, sorry for ya. You betta aks somebody! Then, it hit me. I don’t really like reading blogs. Hmmh. Yeah, I know. That’s some uppity shtupity stuff, right? It’s truth. I’ve had several people send me notes, emails, hints and such, to encourage me to read their blogs. Didn’t happen. I follow one. One. It’s an entertainment journal with a political slant. It’s funny. Nope. It’s frickin hilarious. I emailed the guy who writes it to personally ask if I could facebook friend him. *Facebook Friending: Another topic for another day.* So, I found myself asking the hard questions. How do you expect people to read your blog if you don’t like reading blogs? Okay, the hard question – singular. I must admit that I didn’t get any further than the first one. I pondered the question and searched for an answer. I thought and I thought, ’til I thought… “I’ll make me a man!” Too much thinking. Actually, that’s James Weldon Johnson, and I’m not God. I digress. Count yourself lucky. On another day, I might have digressed and not finished this blog. F.B. friending of another sort. Whew! Anyway, I’m stalling. This was my answer to me. I’m a writer. I write. You’re a reader. You read. End of story.
Persnickety Self-Adjustment: Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.
Until about an hour ago I was having a half-azz kinda sh*tty day. I did all the obligatory self-talky talk encouragement stuff. I even shared the circumstances of my funk with a friend because I knew he would help me look on the bright side. Don’t you just love those friends? Get this. I even hugged a stranger. What are you ‘awwwing’ for? Hugging strangers was banned after the resurfacing of the H1N1 virus. That’s not cute. I sound desperate for a non-narcotic based pick-me-up. I finally zoned in on the source… wait, impetus (trying to get that new vocabulary in anyway I can) of my frustration. I’ve been sitting at the desk of a nine-to-five for almost two years now.
For those of you who don’t know me, that’s usually the life span of a nine-to-five in my world. Artists are antsy. Moody. Sentimental. Impulsive. Crazed. Deranged. Borderline psychotic. How do you think we keep the world in perspective? Those of us who are fortunate to keep psychosis at bay through various means *non-420-hater here* maneuver through life with one thought and one thought only: the big break. It’s the opportunity that thrusts you into the spotlight after working your azz off for years, months, days, hours, minutes, and seconds. Heck, microseconds. When you’re an artist, you can’t take your eyes off the prize or you’ll begin to resent your surroundings. Note: Rote and mundane were never my buddies. I’m pictured in the dictionary next to the words ”Barrel-of-Fun”! No matter how lovely your boss may be, if you’re an artist who happens to work (translation: you are currently stuck in) a nine-to-five, 5 o’clock is the burgeoning of a full moon and you’re a werewolf. Yes, it is that deep. Don’t criticize my analogy. It’s my first effin blog.
My point is that I was doing it. I was successfully turning my frown upside down today. And then it happened. I went to the snack cabinet to look for chocolate: a necessary part of the inversion-of-a-frown process. I pulled out a purple packet of M&Ms – the only colored packet of M&Ms available. Then, I proceeded to rip open the corner and shake a few into my hand. My initial reaction: “What the?” Then, “These taste like charbroiled chocolates. Who would do such a thing?!!” Don’t get me wrong. I like dark chocolate: Godiva and Dove. But an M&M is an M&M. It is milk chocolaty goodness with the option of a nut, or not. No frills. No surprises. Just milk chocolaty goodness with the option of a nut, or not. I like the predictability of something that is good. It’s like an old lover; you already know what you’re getting. Now, here I sit with a one-third eaten pack of purple M&M’s on my desk blogging to the universe about my preferential snack tastes. I’d much rather be stuffing my face with a yellow pack or a brown pack of candy-coated chocolatey goodness and smiling. It could be worse. I could have paid for them AND been disappointed. See? There is always a bright side! *wink*
Persnickety Self-Adjustment: Shut your trap and be grateful for a job that provides rent, lights, gas, and snacks, however imperfect they may be, until your big break comes.
Posted by persnicketysnit 
Posted by persnicketysnit 
Posted by persnicketysnit 