Happy New Year!
Well, 2008 is drawing to a close. What a year it was!
Barack Obama – who knew? A skinny kid with a funny name will become our 44th POTUS. I voted for him to be president of the Harvard Law Review. Who knew I would be voting for him for President of the United States? God is good, all the time!
On a sadder note, 2008 might be known as the Year the Laughter Died. We lost George Carlin and Bernie Mac. We also lost Isaac Hayes, too, even though he had stopped playing the role of “Chef” on Southpark a long time ago. Those Chef love songs used to make me so laugh so hard that I’d fall off my sofa.
We also lost all that was good and sexy from the 40’s and 50’s when we lost Eartha Kitt. My single girlfriends in Oakland would purr her famous line from “Boomerang” to our single guy friends just to mess with them: “Marrrrcuhhhhssss, I’m not wearing any pahhhhnnn—tieeees . . . .” And she’ll always be Catwoman to me, no apologies to Julie Newmar.
Although I wasn’t a Tim Russert acolyte, I did so miss his reporting during this election. He would have had a ball reporting on this one. Gone too soon, that one.
The economy is in the toilet, banks are getting bailed out while working folks are getting put out, and we’re a capitalist nation running largely on debt borrowed from a communist one. Who’da thunk it? And despite all the gloom and doom, I have the audacity to hope for better times ahead (nice tie-in, wouldn’t you say?).
On a personal note, I helped some kids in my family, I bought a house with BMNB and am FINALLY settled – my sister, the Writing Diva, declared it so – and I hope to finish either my novel or my self-help book in progress, run the Bay to Breakers, lose 40 pounds, and, if all goes well, adopt a child. Right now, I’ll settle for getting my garage cleaned out and my hair permed.
What do you have the audacity to hope for in the coming year? Whatever it is, I wish it for you as well as all the peace, prosperity and joy you can stand!
Happy 2009, y’all. In the words of those great philosophers, Earth, Wind and Fire, “Keep your head to the sky . . . . .”
Trusting My Instincts: No More Fire Turkeys
I'm more of a cookbook cook than a real cook. As the saying goes, "Good cooks never measure." I'm an okay cook. I measure.
But most recipes are, at best, a blueprint for your own creativity. And when that blueprint seems all "cattywhampus," as they say down South, I often fail to trust my instincts and just ignore the recipe.
For example, I'm always looking for a better turkey recipe. I didn't realize that there were many ways to make a turkey until my 30's. Then again, I never had to make a turkey until my 30's. I had been faithful to the Silver Palate Cookbook's recipe for roasting a turkey because it had delivered faithfully -- a succulent, if slightly bland, turkey. I then came to expect that no matter what you did to it, turkey was just plain bland.
Then I found an interesting recipe in Real Simple magazine for a turkey with molasses, butter, salt and pepper blended together and stuffed under the turkey's skin. What a cool idea! The problem was, the recipe called for 1/4 cup of salt and 1/4 cup of pepper. Yes -- 1/4 CUP of pepper. I knew it had to be a typo. I searched and searched on Real Simple's website, and I think I even e-mailed someone there, but I could not find anything to confirm that it was a typo.
And so I made the turkey as called for. I didn't trust my instincts. I think even the heartiest Cajun or Creole would have puckered their cheeks upon tasting that uber-spicy turkey. The one-quarter cup of pepper had to be a typo. It just HAD to be.
And I tried it again, thinking maybe I'd done something wrong. Again, I ended up with yet another fire turkey by not trusting my instincts. I had to go out and buy prepared turkey to bring to a family Thanksgiving dinner. To make matters worse, my mother-in-law had given me the turkey in the first place, trusting that I knew what I was doing. I sounded like an idiot trying to explain how I had bombed yet another turkey.
This year, I decided to trust my instincts and combine the best of both recipes: I combined 1/4 cup unsalted butter, 1/4 cup molasses, salt, pepper, sage and thyme to taste and, carefully separating the skin from the meat without tearing it, smeared the butter/molasses mixture all under the skin of the turkey. I then smeared the rest of the stick of unsalted butter on the outside of the turkey and seasoned it with salt, pepper, Mrs. Dash, and paprika to taste. I chopped up celery, onion, carrots and parsley and put it in the cavity and around the turkey, added a glass of water to promote broth production, put cheesecloth across the top of the turkey, placed it on a roasting rack in a roasting pan, and covered it with foil. It went in the oven at 325 degrees.
Then, using the basting technique from the Silver Palate recipe, I combined 1/4 cup corn oil with 1/4 melted unsalted butter and basted the turkey every half hour on the dot with the mixture until the turkey produced enough of its own juices to baste with. I continued basting every half hour on the dot, using a timer to remind me to get up.
I was amply rewarded with a turkey that was not only juicy, but flavorful. Why? Because I trusted my instincts. One-quarter cup of pepper? I don't think so. My instincts say otherwise, and I'm going to be better about trusting them in the future.
But most recipes are, at best, a blueprint for your own creativity. And when that blueprint seems all "cattywhampus," as they say down South, I often fail to trust my instincts and just ignore the recipe.
For example, I'm always looking for a better turkey recipe. I didn't realize that there were many ways to make a turkey until my 30's. Then again, I never had to make a turkey until my 30's. I had been faithful to the Silver Palate Cookbook's recipe for roasting a turkey because it had delivered faithfully -- a succulent, if slightly bland, turkey. I then came to expect that no matter what you did to it, turkey was just plain bland.
Then I found an interesting recipe in Real Simple magazine for a turkey with molasses, butter, salt and pepper blended together and stuffed under the turkey's skin. What a cool idea! The problem was, the recipe called for 1/4 cup of salt and 1/4 cup of pepper. Yes -- 1/4 CUP of pepper. I knew it had to be a typo. I searched and searched on Real Simple's website, and I think I even e-mailed someone there, but I could not find anything to confirm that it was a typo.
And so I made the turkey as called for. I didn't trust my instincts. I think even the heartiest Cajun or Creole would have puckered their cheeks upon tasting that uber-spicy turkey. The one-quarter cup of pepper had to be a typo. It just HAD to be.
And I tried it again, thinking maybe I'd done something wrong. Again, I ended up with yet another fire turkey by not trusting my instincts. I had to go out and buy prepared turkey to bring to a family Thanksgiving dinner. To make matters worse, my mother-in-law had given me the turkey in the first place, trusting that I knew what I was doing. I sounded like an idiot trying to explain how I had bombed yet another turkey.
This year, I decided to trust my instincts and combine the best of both recipes: I combined 1/4 cup unsalted butter, 1/4 cup molasses, salt, pepper, sage and thyme to taste and, carefully separating the skin from the meat without tearing it, smeared the butter/molasses mixture all under the skin of the turkey. I then smeared the rest of the stick of unsalted butter on the outside of the turkey and seasoned it with salt, pepper, Mrs. Dash, and paprika to taste. I chopped up celery, onion, carrots and parsley and put it in the cavity and around the turkey, added a glass of water to promote broth production, put cheesecloth across the top of the turkey, placed it on a roasting rack in a roasting pan, and covered it with foil. It went in the oven at 325 degrees.
Then, using the basting technique from the Silver Palate recipe, I combined 1/4 cup corn oil with 1/4 melted unsalted butter and basted the turkey every half hour on the dot with the mixture until the turkey produced enough of its own juices to baste with. I continued basting every half hour on the dot, using a timer to remind me to get up.
I was amply rewarded with a turkey that was not only juicy, but flavorful. Why? Because I trusted my instincts. One-quarter cup of pepper? I don't think so. My instincts say otherwise, and I'm going to be better about trusting them in the future.
Wishing You A Cozy Christmas
There aren’t a lot of Wal-Mart commercials that tug at my heartstrings. This year, they got me.
You’ve probably seen the commercial with the three small kids sneaking out of bed in an attempt to catch Santa while their mom comments that she bought all of them new pajamas – for sleeping, that is.
Yeah, they got me.
When I was a kid, my mom would buy each of us six kids a robe, slippers, and pajamas for Christmas. As a small child, this gift was a predictable part of Christmas and not the most exciting. What five year-old gets excited about clothes for Christmas?
But as I got older, I came to appreciate the robe, slippers and pajamas because they represented coziness and warmth. Like a hug from my mom. As a older child, I would get ready for bed early just so I could put on my new nighttime togs and wiggle my toes in my new fuzzy slippers (hey, it was the 70’s – the slippers were always fuzzy). While I was in college, I would return to my drafty dorm room or apartment with my warm and cozy Christmas contraband.
As with all good things, the cozy Christmas gifts came to an end with my mom’s advancing illnesses and subsequent passing. I don’t think I’ve had anyone give me a new robe, slippers and nightgown for Christmas for more than fifteen or more years. And as much as I miss it, I think it should stay that way.
Because those gifts were a special thing from my mom to us. Receiving them from someone else would feel somewhat contrived. I’ve even given them to my sisters, and I don’t think it felt the same for me or for them. But it got me thinking – maybe next year, I should give a new robe, slippers and pajamas to a child for Christmas. A child of my own.
Details to follow.
Wishing you a cozy Christmas,
Black Woman Blogging
You’ve probably seen the commercial with the three small kids sneaking out of bed in an attempt to catch Santa while their mom comments that she bought all of them new pajamas – for sleeping, that is.
Yeah, they got me.
When I was a kid, my mom would buy each of us six kids a robe, slippers, and pajamas for Christmas. As a small child, this gift was a predictable part of Christmas and not the most exciting. What five year-old gets excited about clothes for Christmas?
But as I got older, I came to appreciate the robe, slippers and pajamas because they represented coziness and warmth. Like a hug from my mom. As a older child, I would get ready for bed early just so I could put on my new nighttime togs and wiggle my toes in my new fuzzy slippers (hey, it was the 70’s – the slippers were always fuzzy). While I was in college, I would return to my drafty dorm room or apartment with my warm and cozy Christmas contraband.
As with all good things, the cozy Christmas gifts came to an end with my mom’s advancing illnesses and subsequent passing. I don’t think I’ve had anyone give me a new robe, slippers and nightgown for Christmas for more than fifteen or more years. And as much as I miss it, I think it should stay that way.
Because those gifts were a special thing from my mom to us. Receiving them from someone else would feel somewhat contrived. I’ve even given them to my sisters, and I don’t think it felt the same for me or for them. But it got me thinking – maybe next year, I should give a new robe, slippers and pajamas to a child for Christmas. A child of my own.
Details to follow.
Wishing you a cozy Christmas,
Black Woman Blogging
Well, Hell, I've Got Some Shoes To Throw
An Iraqi journalist throws two shoes at the President as an insult, one of the highest insults in his culture. And the mainstream American press brands him "crazy."
The hell he is. If he's crazy, so am I.
First, what kind of punk-ass Secret Service do we have that anyone could get close enough to throw not one, but two shoes at the Leader of the Free World? I don't know who was on duty that day, but they need to be furloughed before the REAL President, Barack Obama, takes office. Those kinds of mistakes are not acceptable. Not at all.
However, if I had known that it was that easy to roll up on POTUS and show my discontent by throwing shoes, I, too, would have hurled some shoes. And I don't part with my shoes easily. But if it got the point across that this president, more than any in my recent 45 year-old memory, was a complete and total failure, then, yes, I would have hurled some shoes, too. For example:
* A pair of stack-heeled black pumps to the side of the head for lying about WMD and getting us into the Iraq morass in the first place.
* A pair of stinky Nike Airmax's for having the temerity to argue before the U.S. Supreme Court that the government has the power to detain anyone indefinitely without trial, habeas corpus be damned.
* A pair of pink stilleto slingbacks in the ear for sanctioning torture at Abu Ghraib. Only cowards use torture.
* A pair of worn-out hiking boots for not getting rid of Donald Rumsfeld earlier.
* A pair of worn-out house slippers for having nothing more to say or do about the economy other than to say, "I'm sorry." Just shuffle on out of the White House in these house slippers so a real leader can take charge of the economy.
* A pair of navy blue pointy-toed Nine West pumps to Alberto Gonzalez and Harriet Meiers for firing U.S. Attorneys for their unwillingness to play politics with their prosecutorial power.
* A pair of cheap Payless running shoes for sanctioning rendition. That's just wrong on so many levels.
* A pair of faux suede pumps for a false effort to curry favor with the African American community through the faith-based initiatives.
* A pair of pointy-toed ankle boots to the head of Dick Cheney. Hell, any shoe to the head of Dick Cheney will do.
* A pair of worn-out sandals for setting up Guantanamo and trying to defend its purpose.
* A pair of peep-toe pumps for outing Valerie Plame, saying that anyone in the Administration who had anything to do with it would be punished, and then commuting the sentence of Lewis "Scooter" Libby.
* A pair of ballerina flats for the Administration's flat response to Hurricane Katrina and all those who were displaced by it.
* A pair of clear heels for the lack of transparency in creating energy policy and in trying to deny global warming. Well, I don't really own any clear heels, but I'd buy some just for this purpose.
I could go on, but I'm starting to run out of shoes . . .
The hell he is. If he's crazy, so am I.
First, what kind of punk-ass Secret Service do we have that anyone could get close enough to throw not one, but two shoes at the Leader of the Free World? I don't know who was on duty that day, but they need to be furloughed before the REAL President, Barack Obama, takes office. Those kinds of mistakes are not acceptable. Not at all.
However, if I had known that it was that easy to roll up on POTUS and show my discontent by throwing shoes, I, too, would have hurled some shoes. And I don't part with my shoes easily. But if it got the point across that this president, more than any in my recent 45 year-old memory, was a complete and total failure, then, yes, I would have hurled some shoes, too. For example:
* A pair of stack-heeled black pumps to the side of the head for lying about WMD and getting us into the Iraq morass in the first place.
* A pair of stinky Nike Airmax's for having the temerity to argue before the U.S. Supreme Court that the government has the power to detain anyone indefinitely without trial, habeas corpus be damned.
* A pair of pink stilleto slingbacks in the ear for sanctioning torture at Abu Ghraib. Only cowards use torture.
* A pair of worn-out hiking boots for not getting rid of Donald Rumsfeld earlier.
* A pair of worn-out house slippers for having nothing more to say or do about the economy other than to say, "I'm sorry." Just shuffle on out of the White House in these house slippers so a real leader can take charge of the economy.
* A pair of navy blue pointy-toed Nine West pumps to Alberto Gonzalez and Harriet Meiers for firing U.S. Attorneys for their unwillingness to play politics with their prosecutorial power.
* A pair of cheap Payless running shoes for sanctioning rendition. That's just wrong on so many levels.
* A pair of faux suede pumps for a false effort to curry favor with the African American community through the faith-based initiatives.
* A pair of pointy-toed ankle boots to the head of Dick Cheney. Hell, any shoe to the head of Dick Cheney will do.
* A pair of worn-out sandals for setting up Guantanamo and trying to defend its purpose.
* A pair of peep-toe pumps for outing Valerie Plame, saying that anyone in the Administration who had anything to do with it would be punished, and then commuting the sentence of Lewis "Scooter" Libby.
* A pair of ballerina flats for the Administration's flat response to Hurricane Katrina and all those who were displaced by it.
* A pair of clear heels for the lack of transparency in creating energy policy and in trying to deny global warming. Well, I don't really own any clear heels, but I'd buy some just for this purpose.
I could go on, but I'm starting to run out of shoes . . .
No Excuses: If You're a Woman, Buy A House
It represents a significant portion of my take-home pay, yet it’s a bill I couldn’t be happier to pay.
It’s my mortgage payment. My first.
I’m happy to pay it because I realize a lot of people can’t make their mortgage payments these days. I’m happy to pay it because it will relieve the tax burden BMNB and I face as DINKs. I’m happy to pay it because I love my house and my neighborhood.
If I had known I was going to love making a mortgage payment this much, I wouldn’t have waited until I was 45 years old to buy a house.
And so, this is my message to all the women who read my blog: Don’t wait until you are married to buy a house. And definitely don’t wait until you’re 45. Ideally, don’t wait past 30.
In the intervening years since I graduated law school, I’ve missed out on the wealth accumulation that appreciated home equity means. Even despite the last couple of wacky real estate market years, home ownership, although not a bullet-proof method of wealth acquisition, is a substantial one over the long haul. The mortgage interest tax deduction is one that shouldn’t be overlooked, especially if you are a high wage earner.
I think of a classmate of mine who bought a house in Oakland as a single woman in the early ‘90s. Even with the recent market declines, the equity she’s probably accumulated over the last 15 or more years has to count for something, especially in the Bay Area real estate market.
While she was buying a house, I was making excuses: “I can’t afford a house by myself;” “I want to wait until I know for certain where I will be long term;” “I want to wait until I’m married so we’ll have two incomes going toward a mortgage.”
All B.S.
First, for starters, you buy what you can afford. I may not have been able to afford a house in Oakland at the time, but I probably could have afforded a condo in San Leandro. Hey, some piece of real estate, within reason, is better than none at all.
Second, you don’t wait until you’re married. Yeah, it’s all nice and good if you are, but women have to make financial decisions independent of their marital status. Statistically speaking, most of us will outlive any husband we marry anyway, so you need to start accumulating wealth for the long haul that will support you in your waning days when, chances are, you'll be by yourself. This is the same whether you marry or don’t.
Third, even if you don’t know where you’ll end up geographically because of your career, you can always buy something, rent it out if you move, and then buy another house. FHA loans allow for this, and I would imagine that others do, too. BMNB has property in another state, but that didn’t stop him from buying this house with me. Now he has an interest in two properties because he was smart enough to buy something while he was single. He’s now renting out his other property, so someone else essentially (or mostly) pays that mortgage. Sweet. Equity accumulation on someone else’s dime. I wish I had been that financially confident.
So, if you’re a woman, young or otherwise, and using any of the above excuses to avoid buying a house, I call B.S.
If you have another excuse, like bad credit or low income, then I say to you, make a plan to address these issues and prepare to buy a house, especially if you have children. The equity in your home doesn’t just represent potential retirement savings; it represents college tuition payments or the downpayment on your child’s home. It is this intergenerational wealth transfer that makes the difference for generations to come. It is, IMHO, one of the reasons why black wealth is still outpaced by white wealth in this country – given that our forebears were redlined and discriminated out of the housing market during periods of substantial housing booms – the ‘50s and ‘60s – the accumulation and passing down of equity wealth hasn’t been as common in our race as in others.
You can improve credit over time. You can also get low downpayment loans through the FHA (3%). But the wealth accumulation you are missing out on over the long term while renting -- now, that's going to be harder to make up.
Remember, as a woman, either through choice, death, or otherwise, chances are you will be single in your older years and entirely dependent on the financial choices you make now for your income in the future. Choose wisely. Don’t do like I did.
To get help getting your credit together, go to creditboards.com.
For information on FHA loans, go to FHA.gov.
Okay, no excuses. Get ready and buy a house. You owe it to yourself as a woman.
It’s my mortgage payment. My first.
I’m happy to pay it because I realize a lot of people can’t make their mortgage payments these days. I’m happy to pay it because it will relieve the tax burden BMNB and I face as DINKs. I’m happy to pay it because I love my house and my neighborhood.
If I had known I was going to love making a mortgage payment this much, I wouldn’t have waited until I was 45 years old to buy a house.
And so, this is my message to all the women who read my blog: Don’t wait until you are married to buy a house. And definitely don’t wait until you’re 45. Ideally, don’t wait past 30.
In the intervening years since I graduated law school, I’ve missed out on the wealth accumulation that appreciated home equity means. Even despite the last couple of wacky real estate market years, home ownership, although not a bullet-proof method of wealth acquisition, is a substantial one over the long haul. The mortgage interest tax deduction is one that shouldn’t be overlooked, especially if you are a high wage earner.
I think of a classmate of mine who bought a house in Oakland as a single woman in the early ‘90s. Even with the recent market declines, the equity she’s probably accumulated over the last 15 or more years has to count for something, especially in the Bay Area real estate market.
While she was buying a house, I was making excuses: “I can’t afford a house by myself;” “I want to wait until I know for certain where I will be long term;” “I want to wait until I’m married so we’ll have two incomes going toward a mortgage.”
All B.S.
First, for starters, you buy what you can afford. I may not have been able to afford a house in Oakland at the time, but I probably could have afforded a condo in San Leandro. Hey, some piece of real estate, within reason, is better than none at all.
Second, you don’t wait until you’re married. Yeah, it’s all nice and good if you are, but women have to make financial decisions independent of their marital status. Statistically speaking, most of us will outlive any husband we marry anyway, so you need to start accumulating wealth for the long haul that will support you in your waning days when, chances are, you'll be by yourself. This is the same whether you marry or don’t.
Third, even if you don’t know where you’ll end up geographically because of your career, you can always buy something, rent it out if you move, and then buy another house. FHA loans allow for this, and I would imagine that others do, too. BMNB has property in another state, but that didn’t stop him from buying this house with me. Now he has an interest in two properties because he was smart enough to buy something while he was single. He’s now renting out his other property, so someone else essentially (or mostly) pays that mortgage. Sweet. Equity accumulation on someone else’s dime. I wish I had been that financially confident.
So, if you’re a woman, young or otherwise, and using any of the above excuses to avoid buying a house, I call B.S.
If you have another excuse, like bad credit or low income, then I say to you, make a plan to address these issues and prepare to buy a house, especially if you have children. The equity in your home doesn’t just represent potential retirement savings; it represents college tuition payments or the downpayment on your child’s home. It is this intergenerational wealth transfer that makes the difference for generations to come. It is, IMHO, one of the reasons why black wealth is still outpaced by white wealth in this country – given that our forebears were redlined and discriminated out of the housing market during periods of substantial housing booms – the ‘50s and ‘60s – the accumulation and passing down of equity wealth hasn’t been as common in our race as in others.
You can improve credit over time. You can also get low downpayment loans through the FHA (3%). But the wealth accumulation you are missing out on over the long term while renting -- now, that's going to be harder to make up.
Remember, as a woman, either through choice, death, or otherwise, chances are you will be single in your older years and entirely dependent on the financial choices you make now for your income in the future. Choose wisely. Don’t do like I did.
To get help getting your credit together, go to creditboards.com.
For information on FHA loans, go to FHA.gov.
Okay, no excuses. Get ready and buy a house. You owe it to yourself as a woman.
What I'm Thankful For . . .
. . . An Obama presidency. If Sarah Palin had been elected Vice President, I think I would have . . . well, now I don’t have to.
. . . My blog, which is now over a year old. Happy Anniversary to me!
. . . My husband. He never ceases to amaze me. He is the most sanguine, chill person I know who doesn’t smoke weed.
. . . My friends. They suffer my failure to keep in touch and still keep me within their circles. They are the most non-judgmental people I know, although they will check me when I need it.
. . . My new home, the purchase of which has been one of numerous recent distractions keeping me from my blog. Now I’m trying to decide whether I want to work on getting all my younger nieces and nephews into homes of their own, because the wealth transfer that home ownership represents is too enormous for young parents to ignore. Plus, it’s so nice to be able to actually attach contact paper to the shelves, put holes in the wall, and plant whatever I damn well please without having to account to anyone.
. . . My job. I’m not always thrilled by the confrontational aspect of being an attorney, but in these uncertain times, I’d rather be employed. I’ve been unemployed, and it ain’t no party, not by a long shot.
. . . My blessings. For some reason, God continues to bless me even when I don’t expect it and don’t have a clue that a blessing is on its way. I’ve been down to my last few dollars, only to have refund checks I wasn’t expecting arrive in the mail. I agonized about how we would afford to get in our new home, and God sent my husband and me a heavenly mortgage broker who not only got us in, but got us a 30 year-fixed at a great rate. Just when I think I’m on the ropes, He comes through. As my dad always says, He may not come when you call him, but He’s always right on time. Are atheists as blessed, and, if so, to what do they attribute their blessings?
. . . My parents. I look at today's youth, and even at some of my contemporaries, and I can tell that many of them didn't grow up in a two-parent loving home. That's not to say that our family wasn't dysfunctional, but we were lovingly dysfunctional. I think my mom put the "fun" in dysfunctional.
. . . My siblings. I’ve been blessed to have been surrounded by siblings who are smarter, more clever, bolder, and funnier than me. Just talking to them makes me step up my analytical game and teaches me more than I’ve ever taught them or can ever hope to.
. . . My dog. She recently survived cancer and a tail amputation, and although the late-night barking does get on my nerves, the prospect of losing her while moving into our new home was more than I could bear. Since she had been a shelter dog – twice -- I wanted her to have a home of her own, too, as much as I was getting my own home. So if she kills the backyard lawn with her urine, so what? It’s her lawn to kill.
. . . My gifts. For whatever reason, I still have some creativity left that wasn’t drained out of me in my quest to become a lawyer. And no matter how many of my ideas I give away or get stolen from me, I always seem to come up with new ones. And some of them are good, too.
. . . My credit. Quite frankly, I don’t know what my FICO score is, but it was good enough to get BMNB and me into a new house in times of tightened credit. Having good credit is not a substitute for savings, but it is a backstop in difficult times.
. . . Teddy Kennedy’s continued survival. I’m so glad he lived to see Obama elected president. His brother Robert predicted the possibility of an African American president 40 years ago, and if he couldn’t live to see it, at least Teddy did. I hope Senator Kennedy is front and center at the inauguration, along with Caroline Kennedy.
. . .Michelle Obama. Finally, an African American woman who doesn’t fit the stereotype, won’t allow herself to be defined by others, and who has to be taken seriously be virtue of the position she holds. The office of First Lady is never, ever going to be the same.
. . . That I’m not cooking Thanksgiving Dinner. In a just world, women everywhere would sit on their collective behinds and watch Oprah reruns while men slave over hot stoves and ovens stuffing seasoned bread up a turkey’s ass and fretting over the flakiness of their pie crusts . . .
Happy Thanksgiving. And if you’re going to have a Happy Thanksgiving, remember those who aren’t and do a little something for them, too.
. . . My blog, which is now over a year old. Happy Anniversary to me!
. . . My husband. He never ceases to amaze me. He is the most sanguine, chill person I know who doesn’t smoke weed.
. . . My friends. They suffer my failure to keep in touch and still keep me within their circles. They are the most non-judgmental people I know, although they will check me when I need it.
. . . My new home, the purchase of which has been one of numerous recent distractions keeping me from my blog. Now I’m trying to decide whether I want to work on getting all my younger nieces and nephews into homes of their own, because the wealth transfer that home ownership represents is too enormous for young parents to ignore. Plus, it’s so nice to be able to actually attach contact paper to the shelves, put holes in the wall, and plant whatever I damn well please without having to account to anyone.
. . . My job. I’m not always thrilled by the confrontational aspect of being an attorney, but in these uncertain times, I’d rather be employed. I’ve been unemployed, and it ain’t no party, not by a long shot.
. . . My blessings. For some reason, God continues to bless me even when I don’t expect it and don’t have a clue that a blessing is on its way. I’ve been down to my last few dollars, only to have refund checks I wasn’t expecting arrive in the mail. I agonized about how we would afford to get in our new home, and God sent my husband and me a heavenly mortgage broker who not only got us in, but got us a 30 year-fixed at a great rate. Just when I think I’m on the ropes, He comes through. As my dad always says, He may not come when you call him, but He’s always right on time. Are atheists as blessed, and, if so, to what do they attribute their blessings?
. . . My parents. I look at today's youth, and even at some of my contemporaries, and I can tell that many of them didn't grow up in a two-parent loving home. That's not to say that our family wasn't dysfunctional, but we were lovingly dysfunctional. I think my mom put the "fun" in dysfunctional.
. . . My siblings. I’ve been blessed to have been surrounded by siblings who are smarter, more clever, bolder, and funnier than me. Just talking to them makes me step up my analytical game and teaches me more than I’ve ever taught them or can ever hope to.
. . . My dog. She recently survived cancer and a tail amputation, and although the late-night barking does get on my nerves, the prospect of losing her while moving into our new home was more than I could bear. Since she had been a shelter dog – twice -- I wanted her to have a home of her own, too, as much as I was getting my own home. So if she kills the backyard lawn with her urine, so what? It’s her lawn to kill.
. . . My gifts. For whatever reason, I still have some creativity left that wasn’t drained out of me in my quest to become a lawyer. And no matter how many of my ideas I give away or get stolen from me, I always seem to come up with new ones. And some of them are good, too.
. . . My credit. Quite frankly, I don’t know what my FICO score is, but it was good enough to get BMNB and me into a new house in times of tightened credit. Having good credit is not a substitute for savings, but it is a backstop in difficult times.
. . . Teddy Kennedy’s continued survival. I’m so glad he lived to see Obama elected president. His brother Robert predicted the possibility of an African American president 40 years ago, and if he couldn’t live to see it, at least Teddy did. I hope Senator Kennedy is front and center at the inauguration, along with Caroline Kennedy.
. . .Michelle Obama. Finally, an African American woman who doesn’t fit the stereotype, won’t allow herself to be defined by others, and who has to be taken seriously be virtue of the position she holds. The office of First Lady is never, ever going to be the same.
. . . That I’m not cooking Thanksgiving Dinner. In a just world, women everywhere would sit on their collective behinds and watch Oprah reruns while men slave over hot stoves and ovens stuffing seasoned bread up a turkey’s ass and fretting over the flakiness of their pie crusts . . .
Happy Thanksgiving. And if you’re going to have a Happy Thanksgiving, remember those who aren’t and do a little something for them, too.
This Is It: VOTE
For any African Americans who haven’t voted yet, I have only these words from the song “This Is It” by Kenny Loggins. Mind you, they’re out of context – they deal with Loggins’ dad’s failure to fight a debilitating illness head-on – but they do apply in this context:
For once in your life, here's your miracle
Stand up and fight
This is it
Make no mistake where you are
This is it
You're going no further
This is it
Until it's over and done
Vote. As African Americans, we are accountable for today’s presidential outcome – not only to our ancestors, but to the generations to come.
Vote.
For once in your life, here's your miracle
Stand up and fight
This is it
Make no mistake where you are
This is it
You're going no further
This is it
Until it's over and done
Vote. As African Americans, we are accountable for today’s presidential outcome – not only to our ancestors, but to the generations to come.
Vote.
Girl, Put Your Records On (Do It For SWIE)
Girl, put your records on
Tell me your favourite song
You go ahead, let your hair down . . . .
from Corinne Bailey Rae's "Put Your Records On"
You don't need me to tell you that times are hard. The Dow fell over 700 points today. Folks are losing their jobs and their homes. Those who aren't are trying to make the same stagnant wages cover higher costs. It's tough all over.
Yet, it could be worse. It could always be worse. Ten years ago today I was experiencing one of the darkest days of my life: Making funeral arrangements for my mom, whom I refer to on this blog as SWIE (She Who Is Exalted). Mind you, my mother wasn't dead. But she was terminally ill with both cancer and Alzheimer's, and I was scheduled to return to my teaching duties in Mississippi. There wasn't much I could do for her but make funeral arrangements.
And even though this day ten years ago was one of my darkest, it doesn't color how I remember my mother. I don't remember her as she was before she died; I remember how she was when she lived.
My mother was a Dancing Queen.
Which leads me to ask all of you mothers out there:
When was the last time you danced with your child?
When was the last time you played board games or cards with your child and put your favorite records on? (or your CDs or MP3s -- you get my drift.)
We're all going to die, and if you're lucky, your kids will bury you and not the other way around. But do you want the most indelible memory they have of you to be picking out your casket instead of remembering you dancing to your favorite songs?
You see, SWIE loved music. Loved it! On the weekends my mother would clean her house or cook to the sounds of Aretha, Dionne, Etta, Whitney, Angela, Roberta, Stephanie, and Patti (Austin and LaBelle), among others. There was something about Aretha's "Don't Play That Song (You Lied) that would get my mom singing at the top of her lungs, "You LIED . . . baby, baby you LIED. . . ," as if she'd been cheated on just yesterday and Aretha was telling HER story. I heard that she cried like a baby when my father got saved and broke all her Dinah Washington records because he considered them "devil music." (Quite frankly, I think the devil gets a bit too much credit for some things, music being one of them).
And then there were her "boyfriends" -- the male singers whom she would swear up and down were singing just to her. My mother's "boyfriends" included Teddy Pendergrass, Smokey Robinson, Freddy Jackson, Billy Ocean (whom I referred to as "Billy Goat Ocean" because, well, he looked like a goat) and Lou Rawls, among others. Her first "boyfriend" was Sam Cooke. I'm told that although my mother cried when President Kennedy got shot, she had really cried when Sam Cooke died. He was, after all, her "first."
But her number one boyfriend? You guessed it: Luther Vandross. Or rather, "Lutha." Lutha could do no wrong in her eyes. Mom cha-cha'd to "A Better Love," and took long drags on her Virginia Slims while listening to "A House Is Not A Home," all the while listening as if he were singing just for her and just to her. She would routinely command us to "put on my boyfriend Lutha," while we were sitting around the dinner table playing gin rummy or some board game, and we'd go plowing through the vinyl records in boxes to find just the right "Lutha" record.
And she wasn't trying to hear anything about Lutha's sexuality, period.
As much as she loved music, she loved to dance as much, if not more. Mom would put on records just to dance with us. When we were little, she would scoop us up in her arms and twirl us around with her to her favorite Motown songs. As we became teens, she would try to learn our dances and she would in turn teach us hers. We taught her the bump; she taught us the cha-cha. We taught her the rock; she taught us the stroll. But after a certain point, she'd get tired of our dances and do her own dance that I affectionately call the "Mom Dance": Think Chubby Checker's twist, but slowed down, and instead of twisting in a horizontal plane, you twist in a vertical plane, side to side, with your hip movements more staccato. And when she got going good, she'd lift one foot, then the next. As she got older, I think she just got more comfortable in her own skin and did her own dance, no longer feeling the need to learn our dances. (Plus, I think the freak and the dog were a little bit too nasty for her tastes . . . .)
On weekends, Mom would put on her records and play cards and board games with us. Gin rummy, Monopoly, Clue, you name it. When she was flush, we'd have Coke, Ruffles, and French Onion dip. You couldn't tell us we weren't living the high life. When she wasn't, it was more like Lipton's Instant Iced Tea and Ritz crackers. Either way, it didn't make a difference. Like her, we learned to make the best of what we had to the point that each of us had our own iced tea "style" or "technique" (my technique : Combine the instant tea with the sugar first; add the fresh lemon juice and stir thoroughly into a syrup; then add the water slowly, making sure the instant tea and the sugar dissolve). Our tea styles were so distinct that we could tell who had made the iced tea just by tasting it. No matter. We're were just sitting around, playing cards or a board game, and hanging out with our mom, listening to her favorite songs.
And, true to form, my mom would sometimes cheat in cards by distracting us with a fart. Silent but deadly, she would let one fly and then blame it on one of us and snicker. By the time you got over the shock of the smell, you'd probably already shown her your hand. Game over.
These are the indelible memories I have of my mom. Not her illness, but her joy. Not her suffering, but the fact that she actually liked hanging out with her kids.
So, what kinds of memories will your children have of you?
I know that times are hard and people are stressed, but do you really want your child to have far more vivid memories of your struggles than your joy? Of picking out your casket instead of picking up cards and smiling across the table from you in a game of gin rummy?
Your kids need to see you happy, period. And you need them to see you happy, even if you don't know it yet.
So, do me and SWIE a favor: Put your favorite music on and dance with your kids. Break out the chips and Coke and Monopoly and spend the evening with them seeing you having fun and enjoying them. There are always going to be bad times; the key is to create the good times for you and your kids in the midst of the storm.
Girl, put your records on . . . . .
As for me, I'll just think of my mom doing the cha-cha with Lutha up in heaven while he sings "A Better Love" just for her.
Tell me your favourite song
You go ahead, let your hair down . . . .
from Corinne Bailey Rae's "Put Your Records On"
You don't need me to tell you that times are hard. The Dow fell over 700 points today. Folks are losing their jobs and their homes. Those who aren't are trying to make the same stagnant wages cover higher costs. It's tough all over.
Yet, it could be worse. It could always be worse. Ten years ago today I was experiencing one of the darkest days of my life: Making funeral arrangements for my mom, whom I refer to on this blog as SWIE (She Who Is Exalted). Mind you, my mother wasn't dead. But she was terminally ill with both cancer and Alzheimer's, and I was scheduled to return to my teaching duties in Mississippi. There wasn't much I could do for her but make funeral arrangements.
And even though this day ten years ago was one of my darkest, it doesn't color how I remember my mother. I don't remember her as she was before she died; I remember how she was when she lived.
My mother was a Dancing Queen.
Which leads me to ask all of you mothers out there:
When was the last time you danced with your child?
When was the last time you played board games or cards with your child and put your favorite records on? (or your CDs or MP3s -- you get my drift.)
We're all going to die, and if you're lucky, your kids will bury you and not the other way around. But do you want the most indelible memory they have of you to be picking out your casket instead of remembering you dancing to your favorite songs?
You see, SWIE loved music. Loved it! On the weekends my mother would clean her house or cook to the sounds of Aretha, Dionne, Etta, Whitney, Angela, Roberta, Stephanie, and Patti (Austin and LaBelle), among others. There was something about Aretha's "Don't Play That Song (You Lied) that would get my mom singing at the top of her lungs, "You LIED . . . baby, baby you LIED. . . ," as if she'd been cheated on just yesterday and Aretha was telling HER story. I heard that she cried like a baby when my father got saved and broke all her Dinah Washington records because he considered them "devil music." (Quite frankly, I think the devil gets a bit too much credit for some things, music being one of them).
And then there were her "boyfriends" -- the male singers whom she would swear up and down were singing just to her. My mother's "boyfriends" included Teddy Pendergrass, Smokey Robinson, Freddy Jackson, Billy Ocean (whom I referred to as "Billy Goat Ocean" because, well, he looked like a goat) and Lou Rawls, among others. Her first "boyfriend" was Sam Cooke. I'm told that although my mother cried when President Kennedy got shot, she had really cried when Sam Cooke died. He was, after all, her "first."
But her number one boyfriend? You guessed it: Luther Vandross. Or rather, "Lutha." Lutha could do no wrong in her eyes. Mom cha-cha'd to "A Better Love," and took long drags on her Virginia Slims while listening to "A House Is Not A Home," all the while listening as if he were singing just for her and just to her. She would routinely command us to "put on my boyfriend Lutha," while we were sitting around the dinner table playing gin rummy or some board game, and we'd go plowing through the vinyl records in boxes to find just the right "Lutha" record.
And she wasn't trying to hear anything about Lutha's sexuality, period.
As much as she loved music, she loved to dance as much, if not more. Mom would put on records just to dance with us. When we were little, she would scoop us up in her arms and twirl us around with her to her favorite Motown songs. As we became teens, she would try to learn our dances and she would in turn teach us hers. We taught her the bump; she taught us the cha-cha. We taught her the rock; she taught us the stroll. But after a certain point, she'd get tired of our dances and do her own dance that I affectionately call the "Mom Dance": Think Chubby Checker's twist, but slowed down, and instead of twisting in a horizontal plane, you twist in a vertical plane, side to side, with your hip movements more staccato. And when she got going good, she'd lift one foot, then the next. As she got older, I think she just got more comfortable in her own skin and did her own dance, no longer feeling the need to learn our dances. (Plus, I think the freak and the dog were a little bit too nasty for her tastes . . . .)
On weekends, Mom would put on her records and play cards and board games with us. Gin rummy, Monopoly, Clue, you name it. When she was flush, we'd have Coke, Ruffles, and French Onion dip. You couldn't tell us we weren't living the high life. When she wasn't, it was more like Lipton's Instant Iced Tea and Ritz crackers. Either way, it didn't make a difference. Like her, we learned to make the best of what we had to the point that each of us had our own iced tea "style" or "technique" (my technique : Combine the instant tea with the sugar first; add the fresh lemon juice and stir thoroughly into a syrup; then add the water slowly, making sure the instant tea and the sugar dissolve). Our tea styles were so distinct that we could tell who had made the iced tea just by tasting it. No matter. We're were just sitting around, playing cards or a board game, and hanging out with our mom, listening to her favorite songs.
And, true to form, my mom would sometimes cheat in cards by distracting us with a fart. Silent but deadly, she would let one fly and then blame it on one of us and snicker. By the time you got over the shock of the smell, you'd probably already shown her your hand. Game over.
These are the indelible memories I have of my mom. Not her illness, but her joy. Not her suffering, but the fact that she actually liked hanging out with her kids.
So, what kinds of memories will your children have of you?
I know that times are hard and people are stressed, but do you really want your child to have far more vivid memories of your struggles than your joy? Of picking out your casket instead of picking up cards and smiling across the table from you in a game of gin rummy?
Your kids need to see you happy, period. And you need them to see you happy, even if you don't know it yet.
So, do me and SWIE a favor: Put your favorite music on and dance with your kids. Break out the chips and Coke and Monopoly and spend the evening with them seeing you having fun and enjoying them. There are always going to be bad times; the key is to create the good times for you and your kids in the midst of the storm.
Girl, put your records on . . . . .
As for me, I'll just think of my mom doing the cha-cha with Lutha up in heaven while he sings "A Better Love" just for her.
Burn, M*****f*****, Burn
The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire
We don’t need no water
Let the m***** f***** burn.
Burn, m*****f*****, burn.
Anyone who partied during the 70’s and 80’s remembers this old school chant, which would usually get started at the height of a really good party. Some DJ worth his or her salt would seamlessly mix a slower groove like “Genius of Love” along with “Funkin’ for Jamaica”, and “Word Up”, ending in a crescendo topped off by “Got To Give It Up, ” “Thighs High,” and “One Nation Under A Groove,” and somebody would start off:
The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire . . .
You couldn’t have paid anyone to get off the dance floor at that point. We don’t need no water, let the m*****f***** burn. People of my generation often forgot the last part of the chant: Burn, m*****f*****, burn.
Well, quite frankly, the last part of the chant has been forgotten by the barons of Wall Street who are pimping Secretary Paulson and Fed Chair Bernanke for a bailout. Wall Street players like Goldman Sachs, Merrill Lynch, AIG, and the like not only partied, they threw the party. Now, after they made some money, drank the liquor, and screwed the women, so to speak, they want someone else to pay for the hall rental and the DJ.
As an American taxpayer who gets taxed out the behind, as a homebuyer who got priced out of the housing market during the run-up in the housing bubble, and as a plain ol’ citizen, I say, “Hell, no.” Or, to borrow from my Southern roots, “HAY-YELL, NAW!”
I oppose a bailout for Wall Street AND for Main Street, with the possible exception of providing assistance to homeowners who actually lived in their homes and were defrauded by mortgage brokers. Everybody else – from the Donald Trump wannabes and the Barons of High Finance -- can pound sand, IMHO. But if anyone’s going to get bailed out, it should be homeowners, not Wall Street.
The whole housing bubble and its aftermath can be analogized to a very, very bad college fraternity party.
Let’s say that a broke college fraternity, perhaps named Alpha Sigma Kappa (ASK), decides that it wants to hold a party to accomplish three goals: Make money, get drunk, and get laid. In other words, have a great time. But they have no money. So, they offer to pay for the hall rental from their university and the DJ with a percentage of the party proceeds. Their strategy to make the party a success: Let women in for free before 9:00 pm. Women attract men, men pay to get in, the fraternity makes money. Sounds like a plan, eh?
Well, what happens if something gets lost in the execution? Let’s say that a savvy party person – shall we call her Smart Girl? – knows how to play the party game better than the brothers of ASK. You get in early and for free, get guys to buy you drinks, and leave while the party is at its height to go to the next, better party. You’ve essentially had a good time off of someone else’s money. So when Smart Girl arrives at 8:59 with her crew of good looking women, the men of ASK let them in for free, thinking: 1) They’ll attract other paying men; and 2) They might sleep with us for free.
Smart Girl and her crew, knowing how the men of ASK think, get in the party for free, get the party going, and get the men of ASK to buy them drinks because the men of ASK think that if they get Smart Girl and her crew drunk enough, they’ll get laid. Just when the DJ mixes “Word Up” into “Got To Give It Up,” Smart Girl gives the signal to her crew that it’s time to leave. Liquored up for free, courtesy of the men of ASK, they excuse themselves just in time to avoid getting dry humped and to move on to a better party. When asked by the men of ASK if they’ll be back, they lie. “Of course we’ll be back. We just promised the Omegas that we’d come to their set.” And off they go into the night, having had a good time on someone else’s money.
At the other end of the spectrum is Easy Girl. She and her crew had to pool their work study money to put gas in a friend’s hooptie to get to the party. They arrive at 11:00 pm knowing damn well the party is more than half over, and expect to get in free. Because they look easy, the men of ASK let them in for free, thinking that the more women, the more money, and that perhaps they’ll still get laid. Before you know it, Easy Girl is drunk off her ass, getting dry humped on the dance floor by fraternity men and non-fraternity men, dancing with her cheap shoes off and in her stocking feet, her perm pretty much sweated out, chanting along with ASK:
The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire
We don’t need no water
Let the m*****f***** burn . . . .
Before she knows it, the lights go up, and her crew is nowhere to be found. Easy Girl’s crew begged her to leave with them, but no, she was enjoying her newfound popularity and said she’d find a ride home with her “new” friends, the men of ASK. And, sure, they’ll give you a ride home, but it’ll cost you. . . .
The folks from the Student Affairs Office arrive to inspect the hall and collect payment. But ASK comes up short. Why? Because they let too many people in the party for free – people who couldn’t have afforded to come in the first place. People like Easy Girl.
Next thing you know, the men of ASK are asking the remaining partygoers who got in for free like Easy Girl to pay up, but Easy Girl and folks like her didn’t have much if any money to begin with. They came to the party expecting to get in free and have a good time on someone else’s money. They just got there too late and stayed too long.
In case you don’t get the metaphor, here goes:
ASK represents Wall Street.
Smart Girl represents the real estate investors who got in early, used other people’s money, and got out before the party got too good.
Easy Girl represents the zero-down homebuyers and wannabe flippers who came in late with no money, expected to have a good time on someone else’s money, and when the bill came due, had nothing to pay it with.
And the DJ? Some would say he was Alan Greenspan. Because a party can only last as long as the DJ keeps it going.
Now, imagine ASK going to the Dean of Student Affairs of their university to plead their case: They didn’t make the money they thought they would off of the party, despite the fact that they threw the party, and now they want a bailout. Could the university spot them the rental fee?
Here are the lessons:
Wall Street: A party must always, always pay for itself. Preferably, it makes a profit, too. But don't expect a bailout.
Easy Girl: If a fraternity lets you into a party for free, they're gonna wanna screw you.
And if I were the Dean of Student Affairs in this hypothetical, I would lean across my desk and whisper to the men of ASK:
The roof, the roof, the roof was on fire
You didn’t want no water, let the m*****f***** burn.
Burn, m*****f*****, burn.
And that’s what the American people need to say to Wall Street.
Don’t forget the last part of the chant:
Burn, m*****f*****, burn.
We don’t need no water
Let the m***** f***** burn.
Burn, m*****f*****, burn.
Anyone who partied during the 70’s and 80’s remembers this old school chant, which would usually get started at the height of a really good party. Some DJ worth his or her salt would seamlessly mix a slower groove like “Genius of Love” along with “Funkin’ for Jamaica”, and “Word Up”, ending in a crescendo topped off by “Got To Give It Up, ” “Thighs High,” and “One Nation Under A Groove,” and somebody would start off:
The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire . . .
You couldn’t have paid anyone to get off the dance floor at that point. We don’t need no water, let the m*****f***** burn. People of my generation often forgot the last part of the chant: Burn, m*****f*****, burn.
Well, quite frankly, the last part of the chant has been forgotten by the barons of Wall Street who are pimping Secretary Paulson and Fed Chair Bernanke for a bailout. Wall Street players like Goldman Sachs, Merrill Lynch, AIG, and the like not only partied, they threw the party. Now, after they made some money, drank the liquor, and screwed the women, so to speak, they want someone else to pay for the hall rental and the DJ.
As an American taxpayer who gets taxed out the behind, as a homebuyer who got priced out of the housing market during the run-up in the housing bubble, and as a plain ol’ citizen, I say, “Hell, no.” Or, to borrow from my Southern roots, “HAY-YELL, NAW!”
I oppose a bailout for Wall Street AND for Main Street, with the possible exception of providing assistance to homeowners who actually lived in their homes and were defrauded by mortgage brokers. Everybody else – from the Donald Trump wannabes and the Barons of High Finance -- can pound sand, IMHO. But if anyone’s going to get bailed out, it should be homeowners, not Wall Street.
The whole housing bubble and its aftermath can be analogized to a very, very bad college fraternity party.
Let’s say that a broke college fraternity, perhaps named Alpha Sigma Kappa (ASK), decides that it wants to hold a party to accomplish three goals: Make money, get drunk, and get laid. In other words, have a great time. But they have no money. So, they offer to pay for the hall rental from their university and the DJ with a percentage of the party proceeds. Their strategy to make the party a success: Let women in for free before 9:00 pm. Women attract men, men pay to get in, the fraternity makes money. Sounds like a plan, eh?
Well, what happens if something gets lost in the execution? Let’s say that a savvy party person – shall we call her Smart Girl? – knows how to play the party game better than the brothers of ASK. You get in early and for free, get guys to buy you drinks, and leave while the party is at its height to go to the next, better party. You’ve essentially had a good time off of someone else’s money. So when Smart Girl arrives at 8:59 with her crew of good looking women, the men of ASK let them in for free, thinking: 1) They’ll attract other paying men; and 2) They might sleep with us for free.
Smart Girl and her crew, knowing how the men of ASK think, get in the party for free, get the party going, and get the men of ASK to buy them drinks because the men of ASK think that if they get Smart Girl and her crew drunk enough, they’ll get laid. Just when the DJ mixes “Word Up” into “Got To Give It Up,” Smart Girl gives the signal to her crew that it’s time to leave. Liquored up for free, courtesy of the men of ASK, they excuse themselves just in time to avoid getting dry humped and to move on to a better party. When asked by the men of ASK if they’ll be back, they lie. “Of course we’ll be back. We just promised the Omegas that we’d come to their set.” And off they go into the night, having had a good time on someone else’s money.
At the other end of the spectrum is Easy Girl. She and her crew had to pool their work study money to put gas in a friend’s hooptie to get to the party. They arrive at 11:00 pm knowing damn well the party is more than half over, and expect to get in free. Because they look easy, the men of ASK let them in for free, thinking that the more women, the more money, and that perhaps they’ll still get laid. Before you know it, Easy Girl is drunk off her ass, getting dry humped on the dance floor by fraternity men and non-fraternity men, dancing with her cheap shoes off and in her stocking feet, her perm pretty much sweated out, chanting along with ASK:
The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire
We don’t need no water
Let the m*****f***** burn . . . .
Before she knows it, the lights go up, and her crew is nowhere to be found. Easy Girl’s crew begged her to leave with them, but no, she was enjoying her newfound popularity and said she’d find a ride home with her “new” friends, the men of ASK. And, sure, they’ll give you a ride home, but it’ll cost you. . . .
The folks from the Student Affairs Office arrive to inspect the hall and collect payment. But ASK comes up short. Why? Because they let too many people in the party for free – people who couldn’t have afforded to come in the first place. People like Easy Girl.
Next thing you know, the men of ASK are asking the remaining partygoers who got in for free like Easy Girl to pay up, but Easy Girl and folks like her didn’t have much if any money to begin with. They came to the party expecting to get in free and have a good time on someone else’s money. They just got there too late and stayed too long.
In case you don’t get the metaphor, here goes:
ASK represents Wall Street.
Smart Girl represents the real estate investors who got in early, used other people’s money, and got out before the party got too good.
Easy Girl represents the zero-down homebuyers and wannabe flippers who came in late with no money, expected to have a good time on someone else’s money, and when the bill came due, had nothing to pay it with.
And the DJ? Some would say he was Alan Greenspan. Because a party can only last as long as the DJ keeps it going.
Now, imagine ASK going to the Dean of Student Affairs of their university to plead their case: They didn’t make the money they thought they would off of the party, despite the fact that they threw the party, and now they want a bailout. Could the university spot them the rental fee?
Here are the lessons:
Wall Street: A party must always, always pay for itself. Preferably, it makes a profit, too. But don't expect a bailout.
Easy Girl: If a fraternity lets you into a party for free, they're gonna wanna screw you.
And if I were the Dean of Student Affairs in this hypothetical, I would lean across my desk and whisper to the men of ASK:
The roof, the roof, the roof was on fire
You didn’t want no water, let the m*****f***** burn.
Burn, m*****f*****, burn.
And that’s what the American people need to say to Wall Street.
Don’t forget the last part of the chant:
Burn, m*****f*****, burn.
No Budget? No Taxes! No Problem! (Somebody's Gotta Feel This)
The California state budget stalement is allegedly coming to an end after more than 80 days, the longest the state has gone without a budget.
In the meantime, appointed officials and legislative staff have gone without pay. Retired annuitants, temporary employees, and student interns have been laid off from general fund agencies. Vendors have not been paid. Schools have not received funding. Health services programs that rely on state funding have suffered, as have the people who rely on those services.
To quote Kid Rock, "Somebody's Gotta Feel This."
So, here's my proposal to prevent this from happening again: A ballot measure enacting a constitutional amendment that would prohibit the state from collecting any taxes or fees without a budget. And I don't mean some stop-gap spending measure. I mean a budget, signed, sealed and delivered.
This measure would also prevent the state from collecting those taxes and fees retroactively, or from raising taxes and fees for a two-year period after a late budget in order to make up the difference.
So, while the lawmakers and the Governor fail to perform, the citizens of California would get a tax holiday.
Fees to enter Yosemite? Not collectible without a budget. Flash a peace sign to the bears on your way out from your free weekend up there.
Car registration due while there's no budget? No problem. You get free car registration. Roll on up to the DMV and demand your free tags. And give the public counter folks as much attitude as they give you when you do pay on time.
State income tax? Payroll tax? Not when there's no budget enacted. Consider it an early Christmas present to employees and employers alike.
Property taxes due? Not when there's no budget enacted. Pocket that money and go get that 52 inch flat screen. Think of it as a stimulus package from your lazy leaders.
Thinking of buying a car? Wait until after July 1. No budget, no sales tax. Go ahead and upgrade to the touring package on your new ride. Or put those rims on, courtesy of your legislature and the Governor. Doesn't the Governor's Hummers ride on rims? Well, hell, when a budget isn't on time, maybe your Yaris should, too. Courtesy of the State of California.
There is no excuse for the seventh largest economy in the world to be governed so poorly, with a structural deficit to boot.
Somebody's Gotta Feel This.
In the meantime, appointed officials and legislative staff have gone without pay. Retired annuitants, temporary employees, and student interns have been laid off from general fund agencies. Vendors have not been paid. Schools have not received funding. Health services programs that rely on state funding have suffered, as have the people who rely on those services.
To quote Kid Rock, "Somebody's Gotta Feel This."
So, here's my proposal to prevent this from happening again: A ballot measure enacting a constitutional amendment that would prohibit the state from collecting any taxes or fees without a budget. And I don't mean some stop-gap spending measure. I mean a budget, signed, sealed and delivered.
This measure would also prevent the state from collecting those taxes and fees retroactively, or from raising taxes and fees for a two-year period after a late budget in order to make up the difference.
So, while the lawmakers and the Governor fail to perform, the citizens of California would get a tax holiday.
Fees to enter Yosemite? Not collectible without a budget. Flash a peace sign to the bears on your way out from your free weekend up there.
Car registration due while there's no budget? No problem. You get free car registration. Roll on up to the DMV and demand your free tags. And give the public counter folks as much attitude as they give you when you do pay on time.
State income tax? Payroll tax? Not when there's no budget enacted. Consider it an early Christmas present to employees and employers alike.
Property taxes due? Not when there's no budget enacted. Pocket that money and go get that 52 inch flat screen. Think of it as a stimulus package from your lazy leaders.
Thinking of buying a car? Wait until after July 1. No budget, no sales tax. Go ahead and upgrade to the touring package on your new ride. Or put those rims on, courtesy of your legislature and the Governor. Doesn't the Governor's Hummers ride on rims? Well, hell, when a budget isn't on time, maybe your Yaris should, too. Courtesy of the State of California.
There is no excuse for the seventh largest economy in the world to be governed so poorly, with a structural deficit to boot.
Somebody's Gotta Feel This.
Memo to Obama Camp: Ask The Damn Question
So far, I haven't heard the Obama campaign ask The Damn Question.
You know the question: The one question politicians are afraid to ask when they're running because they're afraid it will be turned back on them when they're in office.
You know the question:
"Are you better off now than you were eight years ago?"
Or, in the case of this failed Bush administration, "Are you better off under W than you were under the Bill?"
Somehow, we've allowed the country to lose focus of what's at stake: Four more years of being on the wrong track.
The Bush administration has failed this country domestically, internationally, environmentally, you name it. And people forget that we're not just electing a president (or vice president, for that matter), we're also electing a party. The likelihood that McCain won't drag back into office more Republican ideologues? Not high. Not high at all. Idealogues who paint Democrats as tax-and-spend liberals and then run up deficits and national debt. Idealogues who don't want to leave until there's victory in Iraq, but haven't defined what victory is. Idealogues who are just now accepting that global warming is for real. Idealogues who would invade Iran at the drop of a hat, or rather, at the hint of weapons of mass destruction (Oh, by the way, where are those weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, anyway?)
And personally, I'm tired of our nation being governed by "likeable" but average/stupid people. Yep, W may be likeable enough, but that's not a qualification for the job. Intelligence is. Good judgment is. The ability to work with Congress is. Not whether you can thow back a few beers or dress a moose. Or, in the case of Cheney, shoot your friends on a hunting trip.
I don't think any C student should labor under the misperception that he or she can be President of the United States. It should be a job reserved for the most intelligent among us, not the most likeable. Too much is at stake. Did W know that Russia would eventually invade Georgia (Gov. Palin: That would be the former Soviet bloc country, not the state south of the Mason-Dixon line) when he "looked into Putin's soul?" I don't want a soul-looking president; I want a president who is sharp enought to assemble sharp enough staff to provide good intelligence briefings that are actually paid attention to (that means you, Condi Rice).
Average, likeable people don't belong in the White House. They belong in the shoe department at Macy's.
So, Obama Camp, you've brought us supporters too far to eff up now by being silent.
Ask the Damn Question.
You know the question: The one question politicians are afraid to ask when they're running because they're afraid it will be turned back on them when they're in office.
You know the question:
"Are you better off now than you were eight years ago?"
Or, in the case of this failed Bush administration, "Are you better off under W than you were under the Bill?"
Somehow, we've allowed the country to lose focus of what's at stake: Four more years of being on the wrong track.
The Bush administration has failed this country domestically, internationally, environmentally, you name it. And people forget that we're not just electing a president (or vice president, for that matter), we're also electing a party. The likelihood that McCain won't drag back into office more Republican ideologues? Not high. Not high at all. Idealogues who paint Democrats as tax-and-spend liberals and then run up deficits and national debt. Idealogues who don't want to leave until there's victory in Iraq, but haven't defined what victory is. Idealogues who are just now accepting that global warming is for real. Idealogues who would invade Iran at the drop of a hat, or rather, at the hint of weapons of mass destruction (Oh, by the way, where are those weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, anyway?)
And personally, I'm tired of our nation being governed by "likeable" but average/stupid people. Yep, W may be likeable enough, but that's not a qualification for the job. Intelligence is. Good judgment is. The ability to work with Congress is. Not whether you can thow back a few beers or dress a moose. Or, in the case of Cheney, shoot your friends on a hunting trip.
I don't think any C student should labor under the misperception that he or she can be President of the United States. It should be a job reserved for the most intelligent among us, not the most likeable. Too much is at stake. Did W know that Russia would eventually invade Georgia (Gov. Palin: That would be the former Soviet bloc country, not the state south of the Mason-Dixon line) when he "looked into Putin's soul?" I don't want a soul-looking president; I want a president who is sharp enought to assemble sharp enough staff to provide good intelligence briefings that are actually paid attention to (that means you, Condi Rice).
Average, likeable people don't belong in the White House. They belong in the shoe department at Macy's.
So, Obama Camp, you've brought us supporters too far to eff up now by being silent.
Ask the Damn Question.
The Council of Meat Bees
I don’t know whether Senator Obama or Senator McCain will be the next president, but I do know that what the next POTUS should have is a Council of Meat Bees.
What is a meat bee, you ask?
I found out a while back that I’m a meat bee. Or at least as persistent as one.
When I first started working for a state agency, I was in a meeting with a boss of mine who was meticulous to a fault, seemed to enjoy elevating form over substance, and was constantly correcting the work of others without regard to whether the corrections were needed. We were in a meeting, and in the meeting he glossed over something he had gotten wrong. In the spirit of tit-for-tat, I pointed it out.
“But you were wrong.”
My boss continued his schpiel as if he didn’t hear me. When there was a break, I said it again:
“But you were wrong.”
He eyed me dismissively and continued with his talk. When he ended, I turned to him, looked him directly in the eyes, and said, “Why do you have so much trouble admitting you were wrong?”
By that point, he had had it with me. His normally happy baby blue eyes turned cold and hardened:
“My God, you are as persistent as meat bee! Let it go!”
Meat bee? I had to ask.
“What’s a meat bee?”
He leaned in and looked harder, all the more to drive the point home that he was the boss and I was the subordinate:
“You know those pesky bees that buzz around your barbecue and don’t give up until you set aside a plate of meat just for them? Those are meat bees. You, my dear, are a meat bee.”
It wasn’t a compliment. But I take it as one.
What the next president needs is a council of women who are as persistent as meat bees, to wit, A Council of Meat Bees: Fifty women over fifty from all walks of life who have overcome extreme adversity because, well, they were as persistent as meat bees. I’m talking about women who have overcome cancer, were or are caregivers to ailing parents, have raised large families by themselves, survived domestic abuse, have overcome being widowed to head a family business, etc. You know – your everyday heroine. And I do mean all walks of life – regardless of political affiliation, religious affiliation, race, etc. The only qualifications would be that 1) They’re women over fifty; 2) they’ve overcome adversity; 3) they are willing to serve as advocates for women who are facing the same adversity they did; 4) they’ve never served in a political office; and, most importantly, 5) no matter what, they have to tell the President the truth about what they experienced and what they see other women like them going through, even if he doesn’t want to hear it. In other words, they have to be as persistent as meat bees.
What would a Council of Meat Bees do?
For starters, they would meet with the president every month and advise him on issues relating to women – work issues, family issues, health issues, you name it. They would be paid a nominal fee and would be flown in and put up by the president’s political party, not the federal government. I think both the DNC and the RNC can afford it.
Second, they would help the president shape his political agenda as it relates to women.
Third, once the president has shaped his political agenda, they would propose policies that could be implement by the federal government and legislation that would further the president’s political agenda as it relates to women.
Fourth, they would lobby Congress regarding their proposed legislation.
Mind you, I don’t expect the Meat Bees to agree. Strong, persistent survivor-women may not. What I would expect is that they reach common ground on problems common to women and put the concerns of women like them above any differences they may have.
Oh, and the Council would be chosen half by lottery, half by the First Lady.
Are you a Meat Bee?
What is a meat bee, you ask?
I found out a while back that I’m a meat bee. Or at least as persistent as one.
When I first started working for a state agency, I was in a meeting with a boss of mine who was meticulous to a fault, seemed to enjoy elevating form over substance, and was constantly correcting the work of others without regard to whether the corrections were needed. We were in a meeting, and in the meeting he glossed over something he had gotten wrong. In the spirit of tit-for-tat, I pointed it out.
“But you were wrong.”
My boss continued his schpiel as if he didn’t hear me. When there was a break, I said it again:
“But you were wrong.”
He eyed me dismissively and continued with his talk. When he ended, I turned to him, looked him directly in the eyes, and said, “Why do you have so much trouble admitting you were wrong?”
By that point, he had had it with me. His normally happy baby blue eyes turned cold and hardened:
“My God, you are as persistent as meat bee! Let it go!”
Meat bee? I had to ask.
“What’s a meat bee?”
He leaned in and looked harder, all the more to drive the point home that he was the boss and I was the subordinate:
“You know those pesky bees that buzz around your barbecue and don’t give up until you set aside a plate of meat just for them? Those are meat bees. You, my dear, are a meat bee.”
It wasn’t a compliment. But I take it as one.
What the next president needs is a council of women who are as persistent as meat bees, to wit, A Council of Meat Bees: Fifty women over fifty from all walks of life who have overcome extreme adversity because, well, they were as persistent as meat bees. I’m talking about women who have overcome cancer, were or are caregivers to ailing parents, have raised large families by themselves, survived domestic abuse, have overcome being widowed to head a family business, etc. You know – your everyday heroine. And I do mean all walks of life – regardless of political affiliation, religious affiliation, race, etc. The only qualifications would be that 1) They’re women over fifty; 2) they’ve overcome adversity; 3) they are willing to serve as advocates for women who are facing the same adversity they did; 4) they’ve never served in a political office; and, most importantly, 5) no matter what, they have to tell the President the truth about what they experienced and what they see other women like them going through, even if he doesn’t want to hear it. In other words, they have to be as persistent as meat bees.
What would a Council of Meat Bees do?
For starters, they would meet with the president every month and advise him on issues relating to women – work issues, family issues, health issues, you name it. They would be paid a nominal fee and would be flown in and put up by the president’s political party, not the federal government. I think both the DNC and the RNC can afford it.
Second, they would help the president shape his political agenda as it relates to women.
Third, once the president has shaped his political agenda, they would propose policies that could be implement by the federal government and legislation that would further the president’s political agenda as it relates to women.
Fourth, they would lobby Congress regarding their proposed legislation.
Mind you, I don’t expect the Meat Bees to agree. Strong, persistent survivor-women may not. What I would expect is that they reach common ground on problems common to women and put the concerns of women like them above any differences they may have.
Oh, and the Council would be chosen half by lottery, half by the First Lady.
Are you a Meat Bee?
Palin Comparison
If the Republican Party had any pride or shame, it would simply take a powder and sit out this presidential election. It would be refreshing to hear the chair of the RNC say to the American public, “You know, the last eight years? Our bad. We’re gonna sit this next one out and get our act together.”
But NOOOOOOOOO. . . . . . they had to try to make their case for another four years, including a canned hack speech from that blowhard windbag Fred Thompson, topping it off with Gov. Sarah Palin, clearly a benchwarmer even among Republican women politicians (What? Sen. Liddy Dole was unavailable? Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchinson had better things to do than be second-in-command to the Leader of the Free World? Condi Rice had a memorial oil tanker to get back to? Sen. Olympia Snowe can’t stand your behind?)
Watching the Republicans attempt to make their case for another four years is like watching a pimp put pigtails on an old crackwhore and make the case for her virginity. Yeah, you hear the words, but your sense of sight and common sense tell you another story altogether . . . . .
As Governor Palin tried to equate – no, elevate – her political experience as superior to that of Senator Obama’s, I felt like, “Here we go again.” What the Republican Party doesn’t get is that we don’t want to just change the captain of the ship, but the whole damn direction of the ship itself. Her soccer-mom-to-Governor story doesn’t change the fact that she wants to “win” the war in Iraq (uh, Afghanistan, anyone? And can somebody please tell me where in the world is Osama bin Laden?), is anti-choice, anti-government, etc. I’m not seeing a change in direction here, just a different captain and first mate at the helm. Mind you, I’m not for big government – I’m for better, efficient government. I’m not for “winning” the war in Iraq because no one has defined what “winning” means – if Iraq is autonomous, democratic, and virulently anti-American, is that still a “win”? The case the GOP – or rather OWP (Old Windbag Party) hasn’t made is how it plans to take the country in a different and better direction than that of the Bush administration. Haven’t they noticed his approval ratings?
That Governor Palin even had the nerve to chide the Democratic Party for not putting Hillary on the ticket when it took the Republican Party another twenty-fours years after the Democrats to put a woman on their ticket is just laughable.
Oh, and note to Govenor Palin: When people already consider you to be the joke, you might want to refrain from making any jokes yourself. You’d be better served to justify your nomination to the people outside of your party who will be voting on you in November. Just a thought.
When I think of all the Republican women of substance and accomplishment with whom I disagree but still respect who could have easily thrown the “experience” argument back in the face of the Democractic Party, including some I’ve listed above, I can’t help but wonder, “What was McCain thinking?” This was his first opportunity to demonstrate that he not only had experience but good judgment. He failed.
When I compare the McCain-Palin ticket to the Obama-Biden ticket on the policy merits alone, the McCain-Palin ticket, in particular Governor Palin, pales in comparison.
But NOOOOOOOOO. . . . . . they had to try to make their case for another four years, including a canned hack speech from that blowhard windbag Fred Thompson, topping it off with Gov. Sarah Palin, clearly a benchwarmer even among Republican women politicians (What? Sen. Liddy Dole was unavailable? Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchinson had better things to do than be second-in-command to the Leader of the Free World? Condi Rice had a memorial oil tanker to get back to? Sen. Olympia Snowe can’t stand your behind?)
Watching the Republicans attempt to make their case for another four years is like watching a pimp put pigtails on an old crackwhore and make the case for her virginity. Yeah, you hear the words, but your sense of sight and common sense tell you another story altogether . . . . .
As Governor Palin tried to equate – no, elevate – her political experience as superior to that of Senator Obama’s, I felt like, “Here we go again.” What the Republican Party doesn’t get is that we don’t want to just change the captain of the ship, but the whole damn direction of the ship itself. Her soccer-mom-to-Governor story doesn’t change the fact that she wants to “win” the war in Iraq (uh, Afghanistan, anyone? And can somebody please tell me where in the world is Osama bin Laden?), is anti-choice, anti-government, etc. I’m not seeing a change in direction here, just a different captain and first mate at the helm. Mind you, I’m not for big government – I’m for better, efficient government. I’m not for “winning” the war in Iraq because no one has defined what “winning” means – if Iraq is autonomous, democratic, and virulently anti-American, is that still a “win”? The case the GOP – or rather OWP (Old Windbag Party) hasn’t made is how it plans to take the country in a different and better direction than that of the Bush administration. Haven’t they noticed his approval ratings?
That Governor Palin even had the nerve to chide the Democratic Party for not putting Hillary on the ticket when it took the Republican Party another twenty-fours years after the Democrats to put a woman on their ticket is just laughable.
Oh, and note to Govenor Palin: When people already consider you to be the joke, you might want to refrain from making any jokes yourself. You’d be better served to justify your nomination to the people outside of your party who will be voting on you in November. Just a thought.
When I think of all the Republican women of substance and accomplishment with whom I disagree but still respect who could have easily thrown the “experience” argument back in the face of the Democractic Party, including some I’ve listed above, I can’t help but wonder, “What was McCain thinking?” This was his first opportunity to demonstrate that he not only had experience but good judgment. He failed.
When I compare the McCain-Palin ticket to the Obama-Biden ticket on the policy merits alone, the McCain-Palin ticket, in particular Governor Palin, pales in comparison.
It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To
The Clintons redeemed themselves.
Hillary gave the speech of a lifetime and was the portrait of magnanimity by voicing her unequivocal, unconditional support for Barack Obama. By making the motion to nominate Senator Obama by acclaimation, she showed the nation's women how a real woman loses -- with grace, dignity, and pride.
President Bill Clinton, the DNC's prosecutor-in-chief, laid out, in no uncertain terms, the case against the Bush administration and the Republican party.
And Senator Obama reminded me why I am a Democrat and made me proud to be one once again. My love-hate relationship with the party is no secret. Today, I'm a born-again Democrat. Because I, too, believe we are a better nation than what we have been during the past eight years.
I had to work late last night, so I missed hearing Obama's acceptance speech live except for the last of it on NPR. So, snuggled up with a stack of reading from work and some Otter Pops (for the hot flashes), I watched the speech on CNN near midnight.
I am in awe. I knew Senator Obama was possessed of great oratorical and intellectual gifts, but as the young folks say, he broke it down -- he laid out in plain English what he's going to do and why we -- not just him -- are going to do it.
And he's so right -- the McCains of the world don't get it. His candidacy isn't about him; it's about us, everyday American citizens who can no longer stand by and watch our government serve the interests of those who don't have our best interests at heart.
When he reminded us, in language reminiscent of the Kennedys and Dr. King, that "we are better nation than this," it was all that I could do not to cry. He gave life to the feelings of everyday Americans like myself.
So, today, I'm fired up and ready to go. I will be hosting a phone banking event at my home -- tentatively titled, "Burgers and Beer for Barack" -- and will do what I can to get as many people registered to vote as possible.
Why? Because I'm a Democrat. A proud Democrat. A Democrat who was almost brought to tears when she was reminded by Senator Obama of what my party and my nation can be.
Because it's my Party and I'll cry if I want to.
Hillary gave the speech of a lifetime and was the portrait of magnanimity by voicing her unequivocal, unconditional support for Barack Obama. By making the motion to nominate Senator Obama by acclaimation, she showed the nation's women how a real woman loses -- with grace, dignity, and pride.
President Bill Clinton, the DNC's prosecutor-in-chief, laid out, in no uncertain terms, the case against the Bush administration and the Republican party.
And Senator Obama reminded me why I am a Democrat and made me proud to be one once again. My love-hate relationship with the party is no secret. Today, I'm a born-again Democrat. Because I, too, believe we are a better nation than what we have been during the past eight years.
I had to work late last night, so I missed hearing Obama's acceptance speech live except for the last of it on NPR. So, snuggled up with a stack of reading from work and some Otter Pops (for the hot flashes), I watched the speech on CNN near midnight.
I am in awe. I knew Senator Obama was possessed of great oratorical and intellectual gifts, but as the young folks say, he broke it down -- he laid out in plain English what he's going to do and why we -- not just him -- are going to do it.
And he's so right -- the McCains of the world don't get it. His candidacy isn't about him; it's about us, everyday American citizens who can no longer stand by and watch our government serve the interests of those who don't have our best interests at heart.
When he reminded us, in language reminiscent of the Kennedys and Dr. King, that "we are better nation than this," it was all that I could do not to cry. He gave life to the feelings of everyday Americans like myself.
So, today, I'm fired up and ready to go. I will be hosting a phone banking event at my home -- tentatively titled, "Burgers and Beer for Barack" -- and will do what I can to get as many people registered to vote as possible.
Why? Because I'm a Democrat. A proud Democrat. A Democrat who was almost brought to tears when she was reminded by Senator Obama of what my party and my nation can be.
Because it's my Party and I'll cry if I want to.
A Little 'Tang at the 'Stang
“You’re a phenomenal woman. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” These kind words from BMNB this morning as I was dragging my tail and my spirit to work meant the world to me. He could see that my heart was heavy and my eyes were sad. “Keep your head up,” he advised.
This morning we discussed our future. Or rather, he told me in no uncertain terms what he was willing to do to secure our future, financially and otherwise. To make joy a regular part of our lives, not an occasional treat. To put our little family first. In other words, he assured me that in no uncertain terms he had my back.
For all of that, I would have willingly allowed him the pleasure of a little “‘tang at the ‘stang.”
You see, BMNB just returned from three days on the road driving most of our worldly possessions from a storage space in Aurora, Colorado to Elk Grove. He was tired beyond measure when he called me from Winnemucca, Nevada.
“You know,” I started slyly, “you’re in Nevada, where prostitution is legal in some counties. I wouldn’t be mad at you if you took in a little “ ‘tang at the ‘stang,” I laughed.
He laughed right back. “You mean the Mustang Ranch? Are they even still in business?” I could visualize his arched right eyebrow, which he arches when he’s curious or doubtful about something.
“I don’t know, but if they are, hey, it’s legal there and the IRS is probably running it to pay for back taxes. Won’t mess with your security clearance.”
He chuckled. “Nah, that’s okay. I’m good.”
You see, I’ve changed my position about marital infidelity. Back when I started college, I told my freshman roommate Sheila that if a husband of mine cheated on me, we’d be through. Cheating meant there was no trust; if there was no trust, there was no marriage.
“You mean you’d throw away a marriage behind some ass?” Sheila was wise beyond her years, even at 18.
Now, at the age of 45, I get it. Especially where BMNB is concerned.
You see, BMNB doesn’t have any real vices. He doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t gamble, and doesn’t chase women (or at least I have no reason to believe he does.) He’s cheap to a fault and won’t do anything that might remotely endanger his security clearance. He doesn’t even have a golf jones – he only goes out to the links to socialize with his friends who are golfing. He has no anger management issues, he’s never raised his hand to a woman, he’s never been arrested or done time, and he has no deep-seated therapy-worthy issues. For the most part, he’s as close to perfect a mate as I will ever come.
So if BMNB got a wild hair and decided to chase some tail, I ain’t mad at him, as long as he doesn’t violate the ground rules: 1) No souvenirs (e.g., crab lice, STD’s or children); 2) No emotional attachment; 3) No lying; 4) No cheating recidivism; and 5) No messing with my financial assets if you violate Rule Number 2 and decide you want a divorce. There’s love and then there’s money. Don’t mess with my money.
Long story short, I’m 45 years of age. I don’t want to start over. I don’t want to date again. I don’t want to divide up my assets, and I sure as hell don’t want to sell the Google stock in my 401k, especially behind some tail. We’ve worked too hard to build this life together to let it run adrift behind a stupid indiscretion from a man who’s been far too perfect for far too long. No person, male or female, is this good, and even BMNB should be allowed to fail just once.
So, BMNB, the offer still stands. But knowing you, you’re too good to take it.
That’s why I love you.
This morning we discussed our future. Or rather, he told me in no uncertain terms what he was willing to do to secure our future, financially and otherwise. To make joy a regular part of our lives, not an occasional treat. To put our little family first. In other words, he assured me that in no uncertain terms he had my back.
For all of that, I would have willingly allowed him the pleasure of a little “‘tang at the ‘stang.”
You see, BMNB just returned from three days on the road driving most of our worldly possessions from a storage space in Aurora, Colorado to Elk Grove. He was tired beyond measure when he called me from Winnemucca, Nevada.
“You know,” I started slyly, “you’re in Nevada, where prostitution is legal in some counties. I wouldn’t be mad at you if you took in a little “ ‘tang at the ‘stang,” I laughed.
He laughed right back. “You mean the Mustang Ranch? Are they even still in business?” I could visualize his arched right eyebrow, which he arches when he’s curious or doubtful about something.
“I don’t know, but if they are, hey, it’s legal there and the IRS is probably running it to pay for back taxes. Won’t mess with your security clearance.”
He chuckled. “Nah, that’s okay. I’m good.”
You see, I’ve changed my position about marital infidelity. Back when I started college, I told my freshman roommate Sheila that if a husband of mine cheated on me, we’d be through. Cheating meant there was no trust; if there was no trust, there was no marriage.
“You mean you’d throw away a marriage behind some ass?” Sheila was wise beyond her years, even at 18.
Now, at the age of 45, I get it. Especially where BMNB is concerned.
You see, BMNB doesn’t have any real vices. He doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t gamble, and doesn’t chase women (or at least I have no reason to believe he does.) He’s cheap to a fault and won’t do anything that might remotely endanger his security clearance. He doesn’t even have a golf jones – he only goes out to the links to socialize with his friends who are golfing. He has no anger management issues, he’s never raised his hand to a woman, he’s never been arrested or done time, and he has no deep-seated therapy-worthy issues. For the most part, he’s as close to perfect a mate as I will ever come.
So if BMNB got a wild hair and decided to chase some tail, I ain’t mad at him, as long as he doesn’t violate the ground rules: 1) No souvenirs (e.g., crab lice, STD’s or children); 2) No emotional attachment; 3) No lying; 4) No cheating recidivism; and 5) No messing with my financial assets if you violate Rule Number 2 and decide you want a divorce. There’s love and then there’s money. Don’t mess with my money.
Long story short, I’m 45 years of age. I don’t want to start over. I don’t want to date again. I don’t want to divide up my assets, and I sure as hell don’t want to sell the Google stock in my 401k, especially behind some tail. We’ve worked too hard to build this life together to let it run adrift behind a stupid indiscretion from a man who’s been far too perfect for far too long. No person, male or female, is this good, and even BMNB should be allowed to fail just once.
So, BMNB, the offer still stands. But knowing you, you’re too good to take it.
That’s why I love you.
But How Many Did She Threaten To Kill?
Harriet Tubman remains a blazing star in the firmament of African American history. The “Moses” of African American slaves, the Conductor of the Underground Railroad, she lead many of our people to freedom. When her “passengers,” because of fear or other reasons, threatened to turn around and head back to slavery, she supposedly would pull out a gun and threaten, “You’ll live free or die a slave!” She never lost a single passenger, even when there was a $40,000 bounty on her head.
My question is, how many of her passengers did she threaten to kill?
I’m reminded of this because of an orientation speech given by the principal of PS 7 Middle School. In his speech, he talked about the character traits the school requires of its students, and one of them is “coachability” -- the willingness to take instruction and do whatever it takes to accomplish a goal. I would imagine that some of Harriet Tubman’s passengers may have ceased to be coachable when faced with swimming in snake-infested waters or when hearing the baying of blood hounds. A gun to the back of your head can make you pretty coachable, I suppose.
Well, my PS 7 experience is coming to an end on Friday. My great-nephew will return to his mom, as we have agreed to disagree on his coachability. I’m hoping he will continue attending the school, but, unlike Harriet Tubman, I don’t have a gun to threaten that he live free or die a proverbial slave. I just have to hope and pray for the best. This has been a wonderful learning experience for me, though, because it has reinforced what I knew in my heart to be true – that you can’t want something for someone more than they want it for themselves, or for their children for that matter. That you can’t make someone share your vision. Or, as Dr. Phil says, “Some people get it; some don’t.” I won’t waste whatever precious time I have left on this earth with people who don’t get it. I will wish them well, but without any significant expenditure of my time.
Besides, I missed my blog.
My question is, how many of her passengers did she threaten to kill?
I’m reminded of this because of an orientation speech given by the principal of PS 7 Middle School. In his speech, he talked about the character traits the school requires of its students, and one of them is “coachability” -- the willingness to take instruction and do whatever it takes to accomplish a goal. I would imagine that some of Harriet Tubman’s passengers may have ceased to be coachable when faced with swimming in snake-infested waters or when hearing the baying of blood hounds. A gun to the back of your head can make you pretty coachable, I suppose.
Well, my PS 7 experience is coming to an end on Friday. My great-nephew will return to his mom, as we have agreed to disagree on his coachability. I’m hoping he will continue attending the school, but, unlike Harriet Tubman, I don’t have a gun to threaten that he live free or die a proverbial slave. I just have to hope and pray for the best. This has been a wonderful learning experience for me, though, because it has reinforced what I knew in my heart to be true – that you can’t want something for someone more than they want it for themselves, or for their children for that matter. That you can’t make someone share your vision. Or, as Dr. Phil says, “Some people get it; some don’t.” I won’t waste whatever precious time I have left on this earth with people who don’t get it. I will wish them well, but without any significant expenditure of my time.
Besides, I missed my blog.
Broke Cuisine
I recently heard from one subscriber to this blog – my sister, to be exact. She said she hadn’t read my views on John Edwards’ infidelity (pretty much a Democratic party male norm, to wit: Gary Hart, Bill Clinton, John F. Kennedy, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Antonio Villaraigosa, Rev. Jesse Jackson (not only a philanderer but a spiritual counselor to philanderers)) or seen any comments by me on the passing of Isaac Hayes or Bernie Mac (both major losses to the African American creative community). What happened to Black Woman Blogging?
She’s now Black Woman Sleep Deprived. Now that I have a ‘tween living with me five days a week and going to PS 7, my days are planned around carpools, back-to-school night, checking homework and making lunches. My day starts at 5:00 am and ends at 10:30 or 11 pm. A big transition from my DINK (Double Income No Kids) lifestyle of less than a month ago.
In fact, when I embarked on this path, I became yet again in awe of my mom, SWIE, and the fact that she did what I’m doing with not just one child but with six children, seven days a week, not five. And of how she would make dishes that seemed so special to us but were in fact the product of two facts: 1) She was broke; and 2) she had six mouths to feed. I call these dishes “broke cuisine.”
I started thinking about “broke cuisine” because I had a hankerin’ for one of my favorite broke cuisine foods: Egg rice. My mother used to make this for breakfast on Saturday mornings, and I couldn’t think of the last time I had had it. I asked BMNB if he’d ever had egg rice. He, the Southerner for whom a day without grits is a day without sunshine, turned his head sideways and looked at me as if I were an alien. Nope, he had never even heard of egg rice. I exclaimed, “Egg rice was THE BOMB!” When I mentioned egg rice to my older sisters, they reminded me that that was what SWIE would make us for breakfast when she was broke. It figures – egg rice consists of leftover white rice sautéed with onion, with a seasoned scrambled egg or two added with crumbled bacon bits and salt and pepper to taste. Good eatin’, folks. I had no idea as a child that we were having egg rice because she was broke. I thought it was a special treat.
As a child, I also thought that “breakfast for dinner” was a special treat. I would rack my tiny mind trying to figure out what we kids had done that was so special that we got to have breakfast for dinner – pancakes, eggs, bacon, you name it. Again, Mom was broke. When I would brag at school the next day that I got to have breakfast for dinner the night before, my mom would later tell me not to tell people that we had had breakfast for dinner. As a small child, I couldn’t understand why. Now I get it.
One of my older sisters reminded me of another “broke cuisine” specialty of SWIE: Pork fried rice. My mom would take one or two leftover pork chops or any leftover pork, chop it up into tiny, tiny bits, saute them with white rice, add soy sauce and saute some more until the rice turned brown, add a seasoned scrambled egg and – here’s the variation – green onions. To this day I think my mom made better pork fried rice than most Chinese restaurants.
My oldest sister reminded me of another broke cuisine staple: Bean burritos. SWIE would take leftover chili beans and put them in burritos with rice to make the beans stretch. Again, good eatin’. I was blissfully unaware as a child that this was indeed broke cuisine. I was too busy smacking my lips and going back for seconds.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be as creative in the kitchen as my mom was. Through her cooking creativity, she shielded me from the truth of our condition – that, more often than not, our family was broke. You couldn’t have told the six year-old me, though – heck, I’d just had breakfast for dinner last night, so life was good.
What’s your broke cuisine?
She’s now Black Woman Sleep Deprived. Now that I have a ‘tween living with me five days a week and going to PS 7, my days are planned around carpools, back-to-school night, checking homework and making lunches. My day starts at 5:00 am and ends at 10:30 or 11 pm. A big transition from my DINK (Double Income No Kids) lifestyle of less than a month ago.
In fact, when I embarked on this path, I became yet again in awe of my mom, SWIE, and the fact that she did what I’m doing with not just one child but with six children, seven days a week, not five. And of how she would make dishes that seemed so special to us but were in fact the product of two facts: 1) She was broke; and 2) she had six mouths to feed. I call these dishes “broke cuisine.”
I started thinking about “broke cuisine” because I had a hankerin’ for one of my favorite broke cuisine foods: Egg rice. My mother used to make this for breakfast on Saturday mornings, and I couldn’t think of the last time I had had it. I asked BMNB if he’d ever had egg rice. He, the Southerner for whom a day without grits is a day without sunshine, turned his head sideways and looked at me as if I were an alien. Nope, he had never even heard of egg rice. I exclaimed, “Egg rice was THE BOMB!” When I mentioned egg rice to my older sisters, they reminded me that that was what SWIE would make us for breakfast when she was broke. It figures – egg rice consists of leftover white rice sautéed with onion, with a seasoned scrambled egg or two added with crumbled bacon bits and salt and pepper to taste. Good eatin’, folks. I had no idea as a child that we were having egg rice because she was broke. I thought it was a special treat.
As a child, I also thought that “breakfast for dinner” was a special treat. I would rack my tiny mind trying to figure out what we kids had done that was so special that we got to have breakfast for dinner – pancakes, eggs, bacon, you name it. Again, Mom was broke. When I would brag at school the next day that I got to have breakfast for dinner the night before, my mom would later tell me not to tell people that we had had breakfast for dinner. As a small child, I couldn’t understand why. Now I get it.
One of my older sisters reminded me of another “broke cuisine” specialty of SWIE: Pork fried rice. My mom would take one or two leftover pork chops or any leftover pork, chop it up into tiny, tiny bits, saute them with white rice, add soy sauce and saute some more until the rice turned brown, add a seasoned scrambled egg and – here’s the variation – green onions. To this day I think my mom made better pork fried rice than most Chinese restaurants.
My oldest sister reminded me of another broke cuisine staple: Bean burritos. SWIE would take leftover chili beans and put them in burritos with rice to make the beans stretch. Again, good eatin’. I was blissfully unaware as a child that this was indeed broke cuisine. I was too busy smacking my lips and going back for seconds.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be as creative in the kitchen as my mom was. Through her cooking creativity, she shielded me from the truth of our condition – that, more often than not, our family was broke. You couldn’t have told the six year-old me, though – heck, I’d just had breakfast for dinner last night, so life was good.
What’s your broke cuisine?
My Life's Just Fine
It's been a long week, I put in my hardest
Gonna live my life, feels good to get it right
Mary J. Blige, "Just Fine"
This was the first week of a huge educational experiment. My (great)nephew came to stay with me during the week for the purpose of going to PS 7. Since he has a cousin and a family friend who also go there, I drove carpool.
And BMNB has been out of town, chowing down on Southern food in South Carolina, calling me with restaurant dispatches while he's ordering ("I'm at XYZ restaurant ordering seafood gumbo, and one of my colleagues is ordering shrimp and grits . . . ")
So, for two and a half days this week, I was the equivalent of a single mom.
I had absolutely no appreciation of how difficult that is. I am in awe and I bow down to your organizational skills and sheer will, single moms.
First, I realized that if I don't get up on time, nobody gets up on time, except maybe the dog, and that's because she's hungry.
Second, I learned that dinner delayed is pretty much dinner denied. A hungry child is irritable, unfocused, and just unable to function. Not unlike a hungry BMNB, but at least you can tell an adult to go fix his own damn dinner.
Third, I learned that I have to be at least as organized as the child I'm trying to organize. I have no excuse for being late for not being able to find something to wear when I've told him to lay out his clothes the night before. My nephew has an organizer for his homework. My Franklin Covey organizer is a shambles. Maybe I need to be going to PS 7.
Fourth, I learned that you can't give up or they'll give up. And you can't show doubt or they'll have doubt. It's like blood in the water to sharks -- they can smell defeat and doubt in an adult from miles out.
Fifth, I've learned that those last words you say to them when they leave your presence really, really matter. So choose well.
Sixth, I've learned that there's nothing more fun than bopping to Mary J. Blige's "Just Fine" while driving with a 'tween niece in the backseat, hearing her sing out loud, "So I like what I see when I'm looking at me when I'm walking past the mirror," hoping that this self-esteem anthem sticks with her in the years to come, and ignoring protests from my nephew that it's a "stupid chick song."
Or walking your dog with that same nephew and just listening to him talk about his hopes, joys and fears under a starlit sky.
Between cooking dinner, making lunches, checking homework, driving carpool, doing laundry, and coordinating with the village of family members who are all working together to make sure these kids take full advantage of this educational blessing . . .
Yep, "I wouldn't change my life, my life's just fine . . . . "
Gonna live my life, feels good to get it right
Mary J. Blige, "Just Fine"
This was the first week of a huge educational experiment. My (great)nephew came to stay with me during the week for the purpose of going to PS 7. Since he has a cousin and a family friend who also go there, I drove carpool.
And BMNB has been out of town, chowing down on Southern food in South Carolina, calling me with restaurant dispatches while he's ordering ("I'm at XYZ restaurant ordering seafood gumbo, and one of my colleagues is ordering shrimp and grits . . . ")
So, for two and a half days this week, I was the equivalent of a single mom.
I had absolutely no appreciation of how difficult that is. I am in awe and I bow down to your organizational skills and sheer will, single moms.
First, I realized that if I don't get up on time, nobody gets up on time, except maybe the dog, and that's because she's hungry.
Second, I learned that dinner delayed is pretty much dinner denied. A hungry child is irritable, unfocused, and just unable to function. Not unlike a hungry BMNB, but at least you can tell an adult to go fix his own damn dinner.
Third, I learned that I have to be at least as organized as the child I'm trying to organize. I have no excuse for being late for not being able to find something to wear when I've told him to lay out his clothes the night before. My nephew has an organizer for his homework. My Franklin Covey organizer is a shambles. Maybe I need to be going to PS 7.
Fourth, I learned that you can't give up or they'll give up. And you can't show doubt or they'll have doubt. It's like blood in the water to sharks -- they can smell defeat and doubt in an adult from miles out.
Fifth, I've learned that those last words you say to them when they leave your presence really, really matter. So choose well.
Sixth, I've learned that there's nothing more fun than bopping to Mary J. Blige's "Just Fine" while driving with a 'tween niece in the backseat, hearing her sing out loud, "So I like what I see when I'm looking at me when I'm walking past the mirror," hoping that this self-esteem anthem sticks with her in the years to come, and ignoring protests from my nephew that it's a "stupid chick song."
Or walking your dog with that same nephew and just listening to him talk about his hopes, joys and fears under a starlit sky.
Between cooking dinner, making lunches, checking homework, driving carpool, doing laundry, and coordinating with the village of family members who are all working together to make sure these kids take full advantage of this educational blessing . . .
Yep, "I wouldn't change my life, my life's just fine . . . . "
I Miss Oakland. I Miss Me.
It hit me when I was pulling into the parking lot at Peet’s Coffee to treat myself after surviving carpooling with three very sullen teenagers facing their second day of school. XM Radio’s “Suite 62” started to play Tony! Toni! Tone!’s soulful hit, “It Never Rains In Southern California,” and it brought back a flood of memories.
Tony! Toni! Tone! was from Oakland.
Once upon a time, I was, too.
No, I wasn’t born in Oakland, but in a way I was. Fresh out of law school in 1990, I landed in – no, made a beeline for – Oakland to begin my life as a Mary Richards-esque independent, working, single woman. In Oakland I had my first apartment by myself, up the hill from the Grand Lake Theater; my first independent single woman car – a deep red 1982 Honda Prelude (that my sister gave me, so maybe I wasn’t all that independent); and my first real job, working for a top law firm making $65,000 a year – more money than my parents combined, more than I could handle well, and Lord knows I didn’t. In Oakland, I felt young and smart and free. Like I had a checkbook drawn on an account of unlimited potential.
My attraction to Oakland, and the San Francisco Bay Area in general, began in my pre-teen years from visiting my cousin there. I had never seen so many upper-middle class blacks in one place in all my life. In my native Sacramento, all I saw was black people struggling. Not starving, mind you, but not thriving, either. Oakland was my first exposure to black intellectuals, to black wealth, to black power, to black success. In Oakland, anything was possible.
Now I’m a derided state worker in a city where I have no friends, where even a revitalized, bustling, clean, attractive downtown – in the capitol of the seventh largest economy in the world, mind you – seems beyond the capabilities of leaders of all races. I feel like I left behind the land of “Ain’t nothin’ to it but to do it!” for the land of “I don’t think so.”
I miss Oakland. I miss me.
I miss riding BART and seeing young, successful, suited-and-booted black men full of themselves and smelling good.
I miss Peet’s Coffee when it was just a Bay Area thing.
I miss taking the Casual Commute to work (my dad said that if I kept riding with strangers, I was going to end up like Polly Klaas), and the stunning bay views on the bus ride home on AT Transit.
I miss the Black Filmmakers Hall of Fame.
I miss Skates on the Bay, although it’s in Berkeley.
I miss my urban tribe of friends from all walks of life – law, business, education, the arts – all educated, all beautiful souls. They were people I wouldn’t hesitate to cook for, and I don’t cook for many people these days.
I miss the strength of affinity black folks in Oakland feel for their churches. It is stronger than any gang affiliation that routinely makes the mainstream media, but is hardly ever written about.
I miss the Charles Houston Bar Association and the Wiley Manuel Law Foundation.
I miss Marcus Books, although I’ve grown to love Underground Books.
I miss Grand Avenue – the bakeries, the thrift shops, the Grand Theater.
I miss Gertrude Stein’s, although it went out of business a long time ago.
I miss the art deco interior of the Paramount Theater. Not the acoustics, mind you, but the interior.
I miss the local judges of color who would rearrange their schedules to hear kids of all races from Oakland’s public high schools give their moot court arguments as part of the Wiley Manuel Law Foundation’s High School Moot Court competition.
I miss Oakland’s black judges, who mentored a generation of then-young black lawyers such as myself and encouraged us to reach higher than their accomplishments.
I miss the late Cecil Poole, Judge of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit, for whom I clerked after law school. In particular, I miss watching Judge Poole balance his checkbook on the bench when the lawyers presenting their oral arguments had ceased to engage him, much less persuade him. I miss how he never felt constrained by his race. But black men from Alabama rarely do. That's why I married one.
I miss Piedmont Avenue and Zati’s Restaurant in particular, although I do get back there now and again.
I miss the Rockridge BART station and all the shops around it, especially the Rockridge Bakery.
I miss Jack London Square and Samuel's Gallery, where I learned that art is essential to one's soul, even moreso if you're black.
I miss Yoshi’s and Kimball’s East, which is in Emeryville, but same difference.
I miss going to Alameda just so that I could look at Oakland.
I miss the kind of music lovers Oakland has who can tell you where in the city Earl “Fatha” Hines is buried and that “House of Music” was really a music store, not just the title of a Tony! Toni! Tone! CD.
I miss running around Lake Merritt and dusting middle-aged black men who would first compete with me and then just smile.
I miss Cal students, with their funky wit and funkier clothing and hair styles.
I miss the tiny streets of the Oakland hills, and the large, daring houses perched on the ledges there, all with views of the Bay.
Perhaps the Oakland I miss doesn’t really exist anymore, but I wouldn’t have accomplished all the things I did if I hadn’t lived there at the time of my life when I did. In the time of Oakland’s life and mine when anything was possible.
I miss Oakland. I miss me.
Tony! Toni! Tone! was from Oakland.
Once upon a time, I was, too.
No, I wasn’t born in Oakland, but in a way I was. Fresh out of law school in 1990, I landed in – no, made a beeline for – Oakland to begin my life as a Mary Richards-esque independent, working, single woman. In Oakland I had my first apartment by myself, up the hill from the Grand Lake Theater; my first independent single woman car – a deep red 1982 Honda Prelude (that my sister gave me, so maybe I wasn’t all that independent); and my first real job, working for a top law firm making $65,000 a year – more money than my parents combined, more than I could handle well, and Lord knows I didn’t. In Oakland, I felt young and smart and free. Like I had a checkbook drawn on an account of unlimited potential.
My attraction to Oakland, and the San Francisco Bay Area in general, began in my pre-teen years from visiting my cousin there. I had never seen so many upper-middle class blacks in one place in all my life. In my native Sacramento, all I saw was black people struggling. Not starving, mind you, but not thriving, either. Oakland was my first exposure to black intellectuals, to black wealth, to black power, to black success. In Oakland, anything was possible.
Now I’m a derided state worker in a city where I have no friends, where even a revitalized, bustling, clean, attractive downtown – in the capitol of the seventh largest economy in the world, mind you – seems beyond the capabilities of leaders of all races. I feel like I left behind the land of “Ain’t nothin’ to it but to do it!” for the land of “I don’t think so.”
I miss Oakland. I miss me.
I miss riding BART and seeing young, successful, suited-and-booted black men full of themselves and smelling good.
I miss Peet’s Coffee when it was just a Bay Area thing.
I miss taking the Casual Commute to work (my dad said that if I kept riding with strangers, I was going to end up like Polly Klaas), and the stunning bay views on the bus ride home on AT Transit.
I miss the Black Filmmakers Hall of Fame.
I miss Skates on the Bay, although it’s in Berkeley.
I miss my urban tribe of friends from all walks of life – law, business, education, the arts – all educated, all beautiful souls. They were people I wouldn’t hesitate to cook for, and I don’t cook for many people these days.
I miss the strength of affinity black folks in Oakland feel for their churches. It is stronger than any gang affiliation that routinely makes the mainstream media, but is hardly ever written about.
I miss the Charles Houston Bar Association and the Wiley Manuel Law Foundation.
I miss Marcus Books, although I’ve grown to love Underground Books.
I miss Grand Avenue – the bakeries, the thrift shops, the Grand Theater.
I miss Gertrude Stein’s, although it went out of business a long time ago.
I miss the art deco interior of the Paramount Theater. Not the acoustics, mind you, but the interior.
I miss the local judges of color who would rearrange their schedules to hear kids of all races from Oakland’s public high schools give their moot court arguments as part of the Wiley Manuel Law Foundation’s High School Moot Court competition.
I miss Oakland’s black judges, who mentored a generation of then-young black lawyers such as myself and encouraged us to reach higher than their accomplishments.
I miss the late Cecil Poole, Judge of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit, for whom I clerked after law school. In particular, I miss watching Judge Poole balance his checkbook on the bench when the lawyers presenting their oral arguments had ceased to engage him, much less persuade him. I miss how he never felt constrained by his race. But black men from Alabama rarely do. That's why I married one.
I miss Piedmont Avenue and Zati’s Restaurant in particular, although I do get back there now and again.
I miss the Rockridge BART station and all the shops around it, especially the Rockridge Bakery.
I miss Jack London Square and Samuel's Gallery, where I learned that art is essential to one's soul, even moreso if you're black.
I miss Yoshi’s and Kimball’s East, which is in Emeryville, but same difference.
I miss going to Alameda just so that I could look at Oakland.
I miss the kind of music lovers Oakland has who can tell you where in the city Earl “Fatha” Hines is buried and that “House of Music” was really a music store, not just the title of a Tony! Toni! Tone! CD.
I miss running around Lake Merritt and dusting middle-aged black men who would first compete with me and then just smile.
I miss Cal students, with their funky wit and funkier clothing and hair styles.
I miss the tiny streets of the Oakland hills, and the large, daring houses perched on the ledges there, all with views of the Bay.
Perhaps the Oakland I miss doesn’t really exist anymore, but I wouldn’t have accomplished all the things I did if I hadn’t lived there at the time of my life when I did. In the time of Oakland’s life and mine when anything was possible.
I miss Oakland. I miss me.
Somewhere Over The Meno-Rainbow
It arrives like clockwork, around 2:00 am, with the speed of a bullet train. Next thing I know, I’m flying out of bed, tearing at my clothes like I’m on fire, because that’s what it damn sure feels like. When it ends, I’m drenched in a cold sweat, groggy, sitting on the toilet naked, and hoping I can return to sleep unmolested.
It appears I’ve bought a ticket on the bullet train to menostop.
I have no idea why they call it menopause – my “meno” ain’t “pausing.” “Pausing” implies that it’s going to resume at some point in the future. Nope, my “meno” is hitting the brakes. Hard. I guess this is my belated forty-fifth birthday present.
When it first started, I wanted to blame my husband, BMNB. He is his own nuclear energy plant. The man has an extremely high metabolism, and he kicks off a lot of heat when he sleeps. Could meet the electricity needs of a California prison, that BMNB. I just assumed it was because it was summer, I was sleeping too close to him, and I was heating up because of him.
But BMNB was out of town all last week, and these bullet train hot flashes continued in his absence. No one to blame but myself and my aging infrastructure. Maybe I can do like the State of California and issue infrastructure bonds for my aging body. To pay for a tummy tuck and a lifetime of Botox and Restalyne.
When I could no longer blame it on BMNB, I had to ask my sister, who is, shall we say, somewhere over the meno-rainbow and damn happy to be there.
“Are you having mood swings?”, she asked.
“How would I know? I’m a b***h all the time,” I replied.
“Do you have this urge to choke the living crap out of people?”, she asked.
“Well, not everyone, just the stupid people. But I never had much patience for stupid people to begin with.”
“Sounds like you’re transitioning,” she smiled through the phone.
“Well, when did you start your, uh, ‘transition’?”, I asked.
“When I was about 50.”
“BUT I’M ONLY FORTY-FIVE!!!,” I wailed, as if that was going to stop the hands of time.
Time waits for no one. And now I’m going up in hormonal flames like a freakin’ Roman candle every morning at 2:00 am.
I, too, want to be somewhere over the meno-rainbow, blissfully beyond the need for feminine products, assuming my brain doesn’t get singed from these hot flashes first.
It appears I’ve bought a ticket on the bullet train to menostop.
I have no idea why they call it menopause – my “meno” ain’t “pausing.” “Pausing” implies that it’s going to resume at some point in the future. Nope, my “meno” is hitting the brakes. Hard. I guess this is my belated forty-fifth birthday present.
When it first started, I wanted to blame my husband, BMNB. He is his own nuclear energy plant. The man has an extremely high metabolism, and he kicks off a lot of heat when he sleeps. Could meet the electricity needs of a California prison, that BMNB. I just assumed it was because it was summer, I was sleeping too close to him, and I was heating up because of him.
But BMNB was out of town all last week, and these bullet train hot flashes continued in his absence. No one to blame but myself and my aging infrastructure. Maybe I can do like the State of California and issue infrastructure bonds for my aging body. To pay for a tummy tuck and a lifetime of Botox and Restalyne.
When I could no longer blame it on BMNB, I had to ask my sister, who is, shall we say, somewhere over the meno-rainbow and damn happy to be there.
“Are you having mood swings?”, she asked.
“How would I know? I’m a b***h all the time,” I replied.
“Do you have this urge to choke the living crap out of people?”, she asked.
“Well, not everyone, just the stupid people. But I never had much patience for stupid people to begin with.”
“Sounds like you’re transitioning,” she smiled through the phone.
“Well, when did you start your, uh, ‘transition’?”, I asked.
“When I was about 50.”
“BUT I’M ONLY FORTY-FIVE!!!,” I wailed, as if that was going to stop the hands of time.
Time waits for no one. And now I’m going up in hormonal flames like a freakin’ Roman candle every morning at 2:00 am.
I, too, want to be somewhere over the meno-rainbow, blissfully beyond the need for feminine products, assuming my brain doesn’t get singed from these hot flashes first.
MySpace: The Skank Archives
I feel sorry for the MySpace generation. They live as if they’ll never have children. Or grandchildren for that matter.
My introduction to MySpace, which I refer to as “The Skank Archives,” came when I visited my sister-in-law’s home and saw my nephew and his friends huddled around his computer, staring at a MySpace page much the way our people probably huddled around a hearth telling stories in the 1800’s.
If the photo they were oogling had been a story, it would have been rated “R” for mature audiences.
Some young lady had posted a photo of herself in a bikini top that barely contained her “assets” and a bottom that pretty much showed off her bottom. She looked as if she were auditioning for a “Girls Gone Wild” video. The boys were smiling, snickering, and laughing. She was one of my nephew’s MySpace friends, or whatever you call them.
“Nephew, that girl’s a skank,” I told him in no uncertain terms. “No woman who respects herself puts that kind of photo on the Internet for the world to see. She is NOT dating material. Don’t bring her home,” I told him, my threat trailing off as my husband pulled me out the door.
And I meant every word.
I hate to say it this way, but here goes: Back in the day, one’s youthful indiscretions remained pretty much secret, except for the occasional slip-up of a drunken aunt or uncle. Save a Polaroid taken without one’s knowledge, most of the errors of our youth weren’t archived for the world, or our children, to see down the line.
Not this generation. Not only do they chronicle their youthful indiscretions, but they archive them on MySpace, Facebook, etc. Don’t they know that these web pages are archived, ostensibly forever? For their children and maybe their grandchildren to see one day?
Ah, children and grandchildren. No one will judge you more harshly than the fruit of your loins. That’s why, as you grow older, you close ranks with your friends who do know of your youthful indiscretions in a silent, “If your kids ask, I won’t tell if you don’t” pact. The things I know about my friends’ youthful indiscretions in high school and college remain archived in my brain, to the extent that I still remember them, only to be retrieved upon pain of torture by the Taliban (I have a low pain threshold.), precisely because they know of mine, too.
But the MySpace generation? They’ve archived their youthful indiscretions for easy access. A Google search by their grandchildren will retrieve evidence such as that young woman’s (skank’s) photo. Try having THAT conversation with your grandkids:
“Grandma, what’s a skank and why did they call you that?”
Oooh wee boy, wouldn’t want to have THAT conversation with the grands. But there’s a whole generation who is going to have to have that conversation in, say, 2040.
My advice: Live like you’ll have to explain your life to your grandkids. And if you don’t want to explain something, don’t do it. Or at least have the good sense not to post what you did on MySpace.
My introduction to MySpace, which I refer to as “The Skank Archives,” came when I visited my sister-in-law’s home and saw my nephew and his friends huddled around his computer, staring at a MySpace page much the way our people probably huddled around a hearth telling stories in the 1800’s.
If the photo they were oogling had been a story, it would have been rated “R” for mature audiences.
Some young lady had posted a photo of herself in a bikini top that barely contained her “assets” and a bottom that pretty much showed off her bottom. She looked as if she were auditioning for a “Girls Gone Wild” video. The boys were smiling, snickering, and laughing. She was one of my nephew’s MySpace friends, or whatever you call them.
“Nephew, that girl’s a skank,” I told him in no uncertain terms. “No woman who respects herself puts that kind of photo on the Internet for the world to see. She is NOT dating material. Don’t bring her home,” I told him, my threat trailing off as my husband pulled me out the door.
And I meant every word.
I hate to say it this way, but here goes: Back in the day, one’s youthful indiscretions remained pretty much secret, except for the occasional slip-up of a drunken aunt or uncle. Save a Polaroid taken without one’s knowledge, most of the errors of our youth weren’t archived for the world, or our children, to see down the line.
Not this generation. Not only do they chronicle their youthful indiscretions, but they archive them on MySpace, Facebook, etc. Don’t they know that these web pages are archived, ostensibly forever? For their children and maybe their grandchildren to see one day?
Ah, children and grandchildren. No one will judge you more harshly than the fruit of your loins. That’s why, as you grow older, you close ranks with your friends who do know of your youthful indiscretions in a silent, “If your kids ask, I won’t tell if you don’t” pact. The things I know about my friends’ youthful indiscretions in high school and college remain archived in my brain, to the extent that I still remember them, only to be retrieved upon pain of torture by the Taliban (I have a low pain threshold.), precisely because they know of mine, too.
But the MySpace generation? They’ve archived their youthful indiscretions for easy access. A Google search by their grandchildren will retrieve evidence such as that young woman’s (skank’s) photo. Try having THAT conversation with your grandkids:
“Grandma, what’s a skank and why did they call you that?”
Oooh wee boy, wouldn’t want to have THAT conversation with the grands. But there’s a whole generation who is going to have to have that conversation in, say, 2040.
My advice: Live like you’ll have to explain your life to your grandkids. And if you don’t want to explain something, don’t do it. Or at least have the good sense not to post what you did on MySpace.
The Peace Perimeter
I made the mistake of asking. It was all my fault.
I asked one of my relatives how some of my other relatives were doing. What a can of worms I opened! Tales of self-centered, irresponsible, janky, triflin' adult behavior from folks old enough to know better flowed. I learned more than I needed to know.
I spent the rest of my afternoon in my backyard garden, too mortified and aghast to do anything else but seek refuge in compost and perennials. Why did I ask? People don't change overnight, if at all. Their patterns of poor choices persist until they decide to change or they die. They don't care who they affect with their lousy choices. Until they change, they're like an albatross on the spirit of those who, by family ties and by having made better life choices, are duty bound to watch out or care for them.
It came to me between the roses and the lantana. I had to create my own spiritual Green Zone. A Peace Perimeter, if you will.
From now on, I won't ask about janky, triflin' people, whether they are related to me or not. I'll just try to remember to pray for them. And I won't let others tell me about their janky, triflin' exploits. I'll just say, "No thanks, I don't need to know. Please don't share."
You have to guard your spirit. You really do. I lost most of that afternoon in the garden trying to regroup when I had other things to do, like clean out my refrigerator and cook for the week. From now on, when I'm in my home, I won't deal with janky, triflin' people or their exploits. When I'm out and about, I'll excuse myself from conversations about them.
I will steadfastly guard my Peace Perimeter.
Do you have a Peace Perimeter, and, if so, how do you guard it?
I asked one of my relatives how some of my other relatives were doing. What a can of worms I opened! Tales of self-centered, irresponsible, janky, triflin' adult behavior from folks old enough to know better flowed. I learned more than I needed to know.
I spent the rest of my afternoon in my backyard garden, too mortified and aghast to do anything else but seek refuge in compost and perennials. Why did I ask? People don't change overnight, if at all. Their patterns of poor choices persist until they decide to change or they die. They don't care who they affect with their lousy choices. Until they change, they're like an albatross on the spirit of those who, by family ties and by having made better life choices, are duty bound to watch out or care for them.
It came to me between the roses and the lantana. I had to create my own spiritual Green Zone. A Peace Perimeter, if you will.
From now on, I won't ask about janky, triflin' people, whether they are related to me or not. I'll just try to remember to pray for them. And I won't let others tell me about their janky, triflin' exploits. I'll just say, "No thanks, I don't need to know. Please don't share."
You have to guard your spirit. You really do. I lost most of that afternoon in the garden trying to regroup when I had other things to do, like clean out my refrigerator and cook for the week. From now on, when I'm in my home, I won't deal with janky, triflin' people or their exploits. When I'm out and about, I'll excuse myself from conversations about them.
I will steadfastly guard my Peace Perimeter.
Do you have a Peace Perimeter, and, if so, how do you guard it?
And the Croix de Estrogen Goes To . . .
Today is Nelson Mandela’s 90th birthday. Tomorrow is my dad’s 83rd. Nelson Mandela served 27 years in prison and ultimately received the Nobel Peace Price in 1993. My father served a 24 year sentence of his own, but the best I can do for him is to award him my own prize: the Croix de Estrogen.
You see, since my father married in 1952, he has never for an extended time lived without a woman. He lived with my mother until her death in 1998, except for a few brief, shall we say, “time outs.” However, my father spent 24 years living with five women – his four daughters and his wife. At one point, all of his daughters were of menstruating age and his wife was menopausal. That in itself was a special form of hell.
But my dad earned his sentence. I’ve heard stories of how he was quite the Lothario back in the day before he married my mom. If I recall the family lore correctly, he met my mom while he was hanging out in a parking lot, watching two women fight over him. He walked away with my mom.
A while back, our local paper ran a series of stories on the African American night life in Sacramento in the 40’s and 50’s. There was mention of a popular African American club, the Momo Club, and a wildly popular exotic dancer who worked there. Lo and behold, there was a quote in the paper from one of my aunts talking about this dancer and how popular she was. I asked my dad, “Hey, Dad, did you know this lady who danced at the Momo Club?”
He replied: “Know her? I used to date her.”
Huh? MY dad?
So, my dad, who was wildly popular with the ladies in his own right back in the day, earned his sentence in estrogen hell: Four headstrong, intelligent, smart-mouthed daughters who don’t take no tea for the fever. And boy, did he ever have a time with us speaking to him as only daughters can to their fathers:
“Daddy! You need to put some lotion on them crusty feet of yours. You’re grossing me out.”
“Daddy! You know that tie don’t go with that shirt. You need to change.”
“Daddy! I can see your boxers through those white pants. You need to change.”
“Dad, you need a hair cut. You starting to look like Huey Newton ‘bout the head.”
“Daddy, you need to cut them toenails. You lookin’ like The Brother From Another Planet.”
And on it went. Not to mention what my mom dished out, especially when he came in the house sweaty after having mowed the lawn or worked on cars:
“You stink, old goat. Go take a shower.”
I think that when my sisters and I were all of menstruating age (and, as nature would have it, often at the same time monthly), my father would have easily switched places with Nelson Mandela. However, he happily went to the grocery store and picked up our feminine products. At the time I thought he was, well, mental, for taking on such a task. Inevitably, he would pick the wrong product for one of us, and that particular PMS’ing daughter would let him have it:
“Dad! You KNOW I don’t use these. You need to take them back.”
“Okay.” And he would gladly return to the store and correct the error.
It wasn’t until I was older that I came to understand the wisdom of his ways. I asked him why he didn’t mind going to the store (sometimes repeatedly) to buy feminine products for his daughters. His response: “When your daughters are using feminine products, that means they’re not pregnant.”
Tomorrow is my dad’s birthday, and I’m happy to report that he is happily remarried and no longer surrounded by menopausal or menstruating women. I award him the first (and only) Black Woman Blogging’s Croix de Estrogen for all his years of service to attitudinal, PMS’ing and menopausal women, all of whom were in his family.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Mandela. And Happy Birthday, Dad.
You see, since my father married in 1952, he has never for an extended time lived without a woman. He lived with my mother until her death in 1998, except for a few brief, shall we say, “time outs.” However, my father spent 24 years living with five women – his four daughters and his wife. At one point, all of his daughters were of menstruating age and his wife was menopausal. That in itself was a special form of hell.
But my dad earned his sentence. I’ve heard stories of how he was quite the Lothario back in the day before he married my mom. If I recall the family lore correctly, he met my mom while he was hanging out in a parking lot, watching two women fight over him. He walked away with my mom.
A while back, our local paper ran a series of stories on the African American night life in Sacramento in the 40’s and 50’s. There was mention of a popular African American club, the Momo Club, and a wildly popular exotic dancer who worked there. Lo and behold, there was a quote in the paper from one of my aunts talking about this dancer and how popular she was. I asked my dad, “Hey, Dad, did you know this lady who danced at the Momo Club?”
He replied: “Know her? I used to date her.”
Huh? MY dad?
So, my dad, who was wildly popular with the ladies in his own right back in the day, earned his sentence in estrogen hell: Four headstrong, intelligent, smart-mouthed daughters who don’t take no tea for the fever. And boy, did he ever have a time with us speaking to him as only daughters can to their fathers:
“Daddy! You need to put some lotion on them crusty feet of yours. You’re grossing me out.”
“Daddy! You know that tie don’t go with that shirt. You need to change.”
“Daddy! I can see your boxers through those white pants. You need to change.”
“Dad, you need a hair cut. You starting to look like Huey Newton ‘bout the head.”
“Daddy, you need to cut them toenails. You lookin’ like The Brother From Another Planet.”
And on it went. Not to mention what my mom dished out, especially when he came in the house sweaty after having mowed the lawn or worked on cars:
“You stink, old goat. Go take a shower.”
I think that when my sisters and I were all of menstruating age (and, as nature would have it, often at the same time monthly), my father would have easily switched places with Nelson Mandela. However, he happily went to the grocery store and picked up our feminine products. At the time I thought he was, well, mental, for taking on such a task. Inevitably, he would pick the wrong product for one of us, and that particular PMS’ing daughter would let him have it:
“Dad! You KNOW I don’t use these. You need to take them back.”
“Okay.” And he would gladly return to the store and correct the error.
It wasn’t until I was older that I came to understand the wisdom of his ways. I asked him why he didn’t mind going to the store (sometimes repeatedly) to buy feminine products for his daughters. His response: “When your daughters are using feminine products, that means they’re not pregnant.”
Tomorrow is my dad’s birthday, and I’m happy to report that he is happily remarried and no longer surrounded by menopausal or menstruating women. I award him the first (and only) Black Woman Blogging’s Croix de Estrogen for all his years of service to attitudinal, PMS’ing and menopausal women, all of whom were in his family.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Mandela. And Happy Birthday, Dad.
I Tried To Make Me Go To Weight Watchers . . . .
"They tried to make me go to rehab, but I said 'no, no, no' . . . "
Amy Winehouse, "Rehab"
I am the Amy Winehouse of Weight Watchers. Like rehab for her, it just doesn’t stick for me as of late.
Let me first say that it’s not Weight Watchers’ fault. When I first did Weight Watchers, right before my wedding, and followed the program diligently, I lost seventeen pounds within three months. But for Weight Watchers, I wouldn’t have looked as good as I did on my wedding day. Well, but for Weight Watchers, a slammin’ makeup and hair artist, and good lighting.
Whenever I have stuck diligently with Weight Watchers for more than a month, I’ve always, always seen results. But since then, I just haven’t been able to make it stick. Or rather, stick with it. And just as Amy Winehouse probably blames the people in her life, her success, etc., I blame the things going on in my life – the moves, the job changes, family demands, finances, etc.
I also get resentful when I run out of points. It just seems perverse to me that really obese people get more points than I do. I need them more. They have more fat reserves than I do. Why do they get more points? Heck, if you put me, an overweight-heading-into-obesity person out in Death Valley with an obese person, the obese person would probably survive longer. More fat reserves. It just isn’t fair.
During my third go-round with Weight Watchers, I made the mistake of joining with two of my sisters and my nephew’s girlfriend. The mistake was that I was no longer anonymously accountable for my Weight Watchers’ sins. Because I coerced them into joining, I now had a group to which I was accountable which I couldn’t brush off when they asked me, “How’d you do this week?”
Big mistake.
Now, I’m back at my worst weight ever, short of breath climbing the stairs, with a cholesterol count that is out of this world. And I can’t bring myself to slink back in to yet another meeting, although I’ve absolutely adored all my Weight Watchers meeting leaders (all three of them – two in the Sacramento area, one in Aurora, Colorado) and know they would welcome me back with open arms and no judgment.
I’ve even convinced myself that Amy has a far greater need to be in rehab than I do to be in Weight Watchers – losing her voice and her career. Truth be told, however, we both have equally strong reasons for going to our respective programs – our health.
So as soon as I muster the courage, to borrow from an Amy Winehouse song, “I’ll try to make me go to Weight Watchers without saying, ‘no, no, no’ . . . . .”
Amy Winehouse, "Rehab"
I am the Amy Winehouse of Weight Watchers. Like rehab for her, it just doesn’t stick for me as of late.
Let me first say that it’s not Weight Watchers’ fault. When I first did Weight Watchers, right before my wedding, and followed the program diligently, I lost seventeen pounds within three months. But for Weight Watchers, I wouldn’t have looked as good as I did on my wedding day. Well, but for Weight Watchers, a slammin’ makeup and hair artist, and good lighting.
Whenever I have stuck diligently with Weight Watchers for more than a month, I’ve always, always seen results. But since then, I just haven’t been able to make it stick. Or rather, stick with it. And just as Amy Winehouse probably blames the people in her life, her success, etc., I blame the things going on in my life – the moves, the job changes, family demands, finances, etc.
I also get resentful when I run out of points. It just seems perverse to me that really obese people get more points than I do. I need them more. They have more fat reserves than I do. Why do they get more points? Heck, if you put me, an overweight-heading-into-obesity person out in Death Valley with an obese person, the obese person would probably survive longer. More fat reserves. It just isn’t fair.
During my third go-round with Weight Watchers, I made the mistake of joining with two of my sisters and my nephew’s girlfriend. The mistake was that I was no longer anonymously accountable for my Weight Watchers’ sins. Because I coerced them into joining, I now had a group to which I was accountable which I couldn’t brush off when they asked me, “How’d you do this week?”
Big mistake.
Now, I’m back at my worst weight ever, short of breath climbing the stairs, with a cholesterol count that is out of this world. And I can’t bring myself to slink back in to yet another meeting, although I’ve absolutely adored all my Weight Watchers meeting leaders (all three of them – two in the Sacramento area, one in Aurora, Colorado) and know they would welcome me back with open arms and no judgment.
I’ve even convinced myself that Amy has a far greater need to be in rehab than I do to be in Weight Watchers – losing her voice and her career. Truth be told, however, we both have equally strong reasons for going to our respective programs – our health.
So as soon as I muster the courage, to borrow from an Amy Winehouse song, “I’ll try to make me go to Weight Watchers without saying, ‘no, no, no’ . . . . .”
Days of W(h)ine and Nuts
Not a good week for political surrogates, this past week.
Former Senator Phil Gramm thinks we’re a nation of whiners, and the Rev. Jesse Jackson wants to cut Senator Obama’s nuts off.
First things first: If I am indeed a whiner, then pass me a big hunk of cheese (preferably Brie) to go with this whine. Gas at $4.51 per gallon is not all in my head. Nor are rising food costs, even at reliable ol’ Winco. And don’t get me started on my tax bill and my feeling that professional, childless couples shouldn’t have to subsidize people who had more kids than they can afford via the current income tax system. I was totally down with Steve Forbes’ flat income tax proposal. If everyone knew from the get-go that they had to hand over 15% of their wages to the government, we’d all plan accordingly. And better.
Second, it was sad to hear yet another politician get caught on yet another “hot mike.” But Rev. Jesse Jackson on Fox News? Come on, now. When you’re a liberal on Fox News, every mike is a hot mike, even if you’re not wearing it. He should have known better. Just plain stupid.
Even more sad was watching his son, Congressman Jesse Jackson, Jr., having to denounce his own father. “Strong words,” BMNB commented upon hearing Jesse Jr’s tirade. “No,” I responded. “Strong words would have been Jesse Jr. saying of his father, ‘My father would be better served addressing the most recent product of HIS nuts, i.e., my illegitimate half-sister, than concerning himself with Senator Obama’s nuts.’”
The good things that came from all this? McCain now gets it that even if we’re not in a technical recession, we’re pretty much in a recession anyway because that’s how people feel. And Obama’s stance on personal responsibility and black fathers does not require the acquiescence or approval of the old guard civil rights leaders like Rev. Jackson. That he can deliver the hard truths – truths that even Dr. King would probably feel obliged to deliver had he lived to see what’s going on – signals a change in African American leadership.
So, here’s to w(h)ine and nuts.
Former Senator Phil Gramm thinks we’re a nation of whiners, and the Rev. Jesse Jackson wants to cut Senator Obama’s nuts off.
First things first: If I am indeed a whiner, then pass me a big hunk of cheese (preferably Brie) to go with this whine. Gas at $4.51 per gallon is not all in my head. Nor are rising food costs, even at reliable ol’ Winco. And don’t get me started on my tax bill and my feeling that professional, childless couples shouldn’t have to subsidize people who had more kids than they can afford via the current income tax system. I was totally down with Steve Forbes’ flat income tax proposal. If everyone knew from the get-go that they had to hand over 15% of their wages to the government, we’d all plan accordingly. And better.
Second, it was sad to hear yet another politician get caught on yet another “hot mike.” But Rev. Jesse Jackson on Fox News? Come on, now. When you’re a liberal on Fox News, every mike is a hot mike, even if you’re not wearing it. He should have known better. Just plain stupid.
Even more sad was watching his son, Congressman Jesse Jackson, Jr., having to denounce his own father. “Strong words,” BMNB commented upon hearing Jesse Jr’s tirade. “No,” I responded. “Strong words would have been Jesse Jr. saying of his father, ‘My father would be better served addressing the most recent product of HIS nuts, i.e., my illegitimate half-sister, than concerning himself with Senator Obama’s nuts.’”
The good things that came from all this? McCain now gets it that even if we’re not in a technical recession, we’re pretty much in a recession anyway because that’s how people feel. And Obama’s stance on personal responsibility and black fathers does not require the acquiescence or approval of the old guard civil rights leaders like Rev. Jackson. That he can deliver the hard truths – truths that even Dr. King would probably feel obliged to deliver had he lived to see what’s going on – signals a change in African American leadership.
So, here’s to w(h)ine and nuts.
Can't We Just Kick This Old School?
“Can’t we just kick this old school?”
From the movie “Juno”
My niece tells me that my husband and I are the youngest “old school” people she knows.
We take that as a compliment.
My husband, BMNB, and I, think a lot alike. Blame it on our parents.
My husband’s parents are from Alabama, while my dad is from Arkansas and my mom was from Sacramento. When you have at least one southern parent, you’re bound to be “old school.”
What exactly does it mean to be “old school”?
It means telling a young but wayward man in your family that he needs to get a job and stop living off his mother.
It means that you make children in your family respond to you by saying, “Yes, sir” and “Yes, ma’am.”
It means you don’t negotiate with children. You listen to them, you consider their points of view, but when it comes to the important things in their lives, like education, increased freedoms, etc., you are, in the words of President Bush, the “decider.”
It means you don’t brook sarcasm from children. Sarcasm is for peers. We are not their peers. We’re their elders.
It means that you don’t let children tell you what they’re going to do, as in, “I’m going down the street.” It means that you make children ask you if they can do things, as in, “May I go down the street?”
It means that you aren’t afraid to snatch a child up in public, CPS be damned.
It means you try not to wear out your welcome. Don’t arrive too late, don’t stay too long, don’t eat too much. Well, BMNB has a problem with that last one.
It means you still believe in corporal punishment. As a last resort, but it’s definitely a weapon in the arsenal. As my late mother said to my brother when he told her not to whip his son (her grandson), “I’ll beat him AND you, too.”
It means you regularly invoke the words and phrases of the old school vocabulary and phrase book, oftentimes when talking about your own relatives: “triflin’,” “triflin’ negro,” “foolishness,” “hot mess,” “that don’t make no kind of sense” “lazy good for nothin’,” “sorry-ass,” and “ain’t got a lick of sense.”
It means you pull people you love to the side to “pull their coattails.” If you’re old school, you know what I mean.
It means that you don’t part easily with your money, no matter the sob story your loved one gives you.
It means you don’t give kids money for anything but their birthdays and Christmas; otherwise, they have to work for it.
It means living below your means, because you never know when The Man is going to act funky and make your job unbearable.
It means your spirit is older and wiser than your years would suggest. Or so you hope.
Here’s to all the old school folks out there!
From the movie “Juno”
My niece tells me that my husband and I are the youngest “old school” people she knows.
We take that as a compliment.
My husband, BMNB, and I, think a lot alike. Blame it on our parents.
My husband’s parents are from Alabama, while my dad is from Arkansas and my mom was from Sacramento. When you have at least one southern parent, you’re bound to be “old school.”
What exactly does it mean to be “old school”?
It means telling a young but wayward man in your family that he needs to get a job and stop living off his mother.
It means that you make children in your family respond to you by saying, “Yes, sir” and “Yes, ma’am.”
It means you don’t negotiate with children. You listen to them, you consider their points of view, but when it comes to the important things in their lives, like education, increased freedoms, etc., you are, in the words of President Bush, the “decider.”
It means you don’t brook sarcasm from children. Sarcasm is for peers. We are not their peers. We’re their elders.
It means that you don’t let children tell you what they’re going to do, as in, “I’m going down the street.” It means that you make children ask you if they can do things, as in, “May I go down the street?”
It means that you aren’t afraid to snatch a child up in public, CPS be damned.
It means you try not to wear out your welcome. Don’t arrive too late, don’t stay too long, don’t eat too much. Well, BMNB has a problem with that last one.
It means you still believe in corporal punishment. As a last resort, but it’s definitely a weapon in the arsenal. As my late mother said to my brother when he told her not to whip his son (her grandson), “I’ll beat him AND you, too.”
It means you regularly invoke the words and phrases of the old school vocabulary and phrase book, oftentimes when talking about your own relatives: “triflin’,” “triflin’ negro,” “foolishness,” “hot mess,” “that don’t make no kind of sense” “lazy good for nothin’,” “sorry-ass,” and “ain’t got a lick of sense.”
It means you pull people you love to the side to “pull their coattails.” If you’re old school, you know what I mean.
It means that you don’t part easily with your money, no matter the sob story your loved one gives you.
It means you don’t give kids money for anything but their birthdays and Christmas; otherwise, they have to work for it.
It means living below your means, because you never know when The Man is going to act funky and make your job unbearable.
It means your spirit is older and wiser than your years would suggest. Or so you hope.
Here’s to all the old school folks out there!
A Girl's Gotta Have Her Own Money
I was speaking with one of my nieces about one of my great nieces who is happily ensconced in another state, living with her sweetie. My niece then told me that my great niece didn’t have a job.
“Whatchu mean she ain’t got no job?”, I replied. Yes, I can go from zero to vernacular in a nanosecond.
My niece assured me that, yes, she didn’t have a job.
“Oh, but see, that’s not acceptable. She has GOT to get a job. A girl’s gotta have her own money . . . .” And on I blathered, espousing truths I deemed to be self-evident.
One of which is: A girl’s gotta have her own money.
The landscape is littered with formerly happy girlfriends, spouses and, yes, lesbian partners who were bounced out on their tushes by their sole wage-earner boyfriends, spouses and lesbian partners with nothing to cushion the landing but cellulite. It ain’t pretty, and it ain’t painless. A girl’s gotta have her own money.
My mother, who was financially tied to my father because of me and my five siblings, always drilled into my and my sisters’ heads that we needed to “do for self,” “not depend on no man,” and “make our own money” so that we could be independent. So our futures would not be dependent on any partner.
I learned this the hard way during a brief period when I was unemployed. My temporary teaching job with a law school had ended, and I was working for a disreputable legal recruiter. I waited to be paid but was never paid for the work I did. In the meantime, BMNB was effectively the sole wage earner.
We were in Costco doing our monthly Costco run, and I came across a bag of natural almond candy that I wanted. It was $5.00. I asked if we could get it, and BMNB said to me with the solemnity of monk, “I don’t think we should be spending our money this way.”
A $5.00 bag of candy. A lawyer for a husband. And, as the earner of non-existent wages, I had no say.
Over a $5.00 bag of candy.
Let’s just say I had my Scarlett O’Hara moment right then and there: As God was my witness, I would never, EVER, allow myself to be in a position to be financially dependent on anyone, man, woman, or beast. EVER.
I brushed myself off and made my plan. I moved back to California, where I was and am licensed to practice law, leaving BMNB and my dog behind. My sister kindly took me in. Within six weeks, I had a job with a local law firm making double what BMNB made. I paid my sister all the room and board I owed her and continued paying her until I moved out.
I even resisted the urge to engage in payback when, as a strange twist of fate, I became the sole wage earner in the marriage while BMNB studied for the bar exam.
But I never forgot. I will never forget that feeling of financial powerlessness I felt in the snack aisle of the Aurora, Colorado Costco.
And I was lucky. If he had decided to put me out while I was unemployed -- out of the townhome that he owns in his name alone – I would have been in a world of hurt. I had no relatives and few friends in Colorado. I would have been landing on nothing but cellulite, too.
So, ladies, learn from my minor mistake. A girl’s gotta have her own money. Because you never, ever know what life has in store for you.
“Whatchu mean she ain’t got no job?”, I replied. Yes, I can go from zero to vernacular in a nanosecond.
My niece assured me that, yes, she didn’t have a job.
“Oh, but see, that’s not acceptable. She has GOT to get a job. A girl’s gotta have her own money . . . .” And on I blathered, espousing truths I deemed to be self-evident.
One of which is: A girl’s gotta have her own money.
The landscape is littered with formerly happy girlfriends, spouses and, yes, lesbian partners who were bounced out on their tushes by their sole wage-earner boyfriends, spouses and lesbian partners with nothing to cushion the landing but cellulite. It ain’t pretty, and it ain’t painless. A girl’s gotta have her own money.
My mother, who was financially tied to my father because of me and my five siblings, always drilled into my and my sisters’ heads that we needed to “do for self,” “not depend on no man,” and “make our own money” so that we could be independent. So our futures would not be dependent on any partner.
I learned this the hard way during a brief period when I was unemployed. My temporary teaching job with a law school had ended, and I was working for a disreputable legal recruiter. I waited to be paid but was never paid for the work I did. In the meantime, BMNB was effectively the sole wage earner.
We were in Costco doing our monthly Costco run, and I came across a bag of natural almond candy that I wanted. It was $5.00. I asked if we could get it, and BMNB said to me with the solemnity of monk, “I don’t think we should be spending our money this way.”
A $5.00 bag of candy. A lawyer for a husband. And, as the earner of non-existent wages, I had no say.
Over a $5.00 bag of candy.
Let’s just say I had my Scarlett O’Hara moment right then and there: As God was my witness, I would never, EVER, allow myself to be in a position to be financially dependent on anyone, man, woman, or beast. EVER.
I brushed myself off and made my plan. I moved back to California, where I was and am licensed to practice law, leaving BMNB and my dog behind. My sister kindly took me in. Within six weeks, I had a job with a local law firm making double what BMNB made. I paid my sister all the room and board I owed her and continued paying her until I moved out.
I even resisted the urge to engage in payback when, as a strange twist of fate, I became the sole wage earner in the marriage while BMNB studied for the bar exam.
But I never forgot. I will never forget that feeling of financial powerlessness I felt in the snack aisle of the Aurora, Colorado Costco.
And I was lucky. If he had decided to put me out while I was unemployed -- out of the townhome that he owns in his name alone – I would have been in a world of hurt. I had no relatives and few friends in Colorado. I would have been landing on nothing but cellulite, too.
So, ladies, learn from my minor mistake. A girl’s gotta have her own money. Because you never, ever know what life has in store for you.
Nothing Has Ever Felt Quite Like This
I am an enormously blessed person. I don’t say that to brag. I say that to glorify Him.
Today I learned that my great-nephew was admitted to PS 7 Middle School, a charter school that is part of the St. HOPE charter schools in Sacramento. This is an enormous opportunity. Huge! PS 7 is a feeder school for St. HOPE’s Sacramento High Charter School, which recently had 81% of its graduating class admitted to four-year colleges. How many public schools – inner city public schools, to boot – do you know of that can say the same?
PS 7 doesn’t have state-of-the-art digs, but it has state-of-the-art thinking: A longer school year, longer school days, individualized education programs so that students can work at their pace no matter how advanced, and inculcation that, from day one, students are not just preparing to graduate high school, but to graduate college. So much so that the signs outside each class’ door don’t read “Second Grade” or “Third Grade,” but Class of 2021” or “Class of 2022” – the year each class is scheduled to graduate college. The Fatherhood Group there, an organization of men, arranges an annual college visit for the entire school. I’m talking K through Eighth grade. They recently visited Stanford, my alma mater, and met the president of the university.
How many schools, public or private, do you know of that do things like this?
God had his hands all over this.
BMNB had his hands in this, too. St. HOPE schools held a one-day “camp” for prospective students. I was content to pass along the flyer for the camp to my nieces and nephews for their kids. Not BMNB. He went to their homes, made arrangements to pick up our great-nephews and one great-niece, and personally took them to this camp so they could become exposed to what St. HOPE schools had to offer. He pushed over the reticence of some of his nieces like a freight train. He GETS it – the opportunity to get a college preparatory education for free is enormous. It is truly a valuable gift from God. Education changes everything – how we think, how we live, how we give. Education frees you in a way that no Emancipation Proclamation can.
Everything I’ve accomplished up to now feels insignificant compared to this opportunity to help my great-nephew achieve dreams he has yet to dream for himself. To take this golden – no, platinum – opportunity and run with it. To do for him what my parents and teachers did for me.
To borrow from Will Downing and Rachelle Ferrell, “Nothing has ever felt quite like this.” And I’m lovin’ it.
Oh, and that wild woman cheering at the top of her lungs at the Sacramento High Charter School graduation in 2014? That would be me.
(For more information on the St. HOPE schools, please visit http://www.sthopepublicschools.org)
Today I learned that my great-nephew was admitted to PS 7 Middle School, a charter school that is part of the St. HOPE charter schools in Sacramento. This is an enormous opportunity. Huge! PS 7 is a feeder school for St. HOPE’s Sacramento High Charter School, which recently had 81% of its graduating class admitted to four-year colleges. How many public schools – inner city public schools, to boot – do you know of that can say the same?
PS 7 doesn’t have state-of-the-art digs, but it has state-of-the-art thinking: A longer school year, longer school days, individualized education programs so that students can work at their pace no matter how advanced, and inculcation that, from day one, students are not just preparing to graduate high school, but to graduate college. So much so that the signs outside each class’ door don’t read “Second Grade” or “Third Grade,” but Class of 2021” or “Class of 2022” – the year each class is scheduled to graduate college. The Fatherhood Group there, an organization of men, arranges an annual college visit for the entire school. I’m talking K through Eighth grade. They recently visited Stanford, my alma mater, and met the president of the university.
How many schools, public or private, do you know of that do things like this?
God had his hands all over this.
BMNB had his hands in this, too. St. HOPE schools held a one-day “camp” for prospective students. I was content to pass along the flyer for the camp to my nieces and nephews for their kids. Not BMNB. He went to their homes, made arrangements to pick up our great-nephews and one great-niece, and personally took them to this camp so they could become exposed to what St. HOPE schools had to offer. He pushed over the reticence of some of his nieces like a freight train. He GETS it – the opportunity to get a college preparatory education for free is enormous. It is truly a valuable gift from God. Education changes everything – how we think, how we live, how we give. Education frees you in a way that no Emancipation Proclamation can.
Everything I’ve accomplished up to now feels insignificant compared to this opportunity to help my great-nephew achieve dreams he has yet to dream for himself. To take this golden – no, platinum – opportunity and run with it. To do for him what my parents and teachers did for me.
To borrow from Will Downing and Rachelle Ferrell, “Nothing has ever felt quite like this.” And I’m lovin’ it.
Oh, and that wild woman cheering at the top of her lungs at the Sacramento High Charter School graduation in 2014? That would be me.
(For more information on the St. HOPE schools, please visit http://www.sthopepublicschools.org)
It Ain't Summer Until . . .
It Ain’t Summer Until . . .
. . . .you’ve worn flip-flops
. . . . you’ve grilled something in your own backyard, especially for family and friends
. . . .your feet are as dark as your forearms
. . . you’ve had a homemade glass of sparkling limeade (Thanks, Martha Stewart! Recipe to follow . . . )
. . . you’ve spent time talking over the backyard fence to your neighbor about your respective backyard gardens
. . . .you’ve taken a child swimming
. . . . you’ve eaten a grilled burger that would put fast-food chain burgers to shame (Thanks, BMNB, and thanks to Memphis Minnie’s Rib Rub)
. . . . you’ve had to wait to walk your dog in the evening because it wouldn't cooling down
. . . . you’re looking for recipes for Southwest Corn and Black Bean salad (lost mine!)
. . . you’ve had Tiramisu ice cream at Baskin-Robbins
. . . you’ve made peace with your body and worn that swimsuit/tank top/summer dress anyway, perfection be damned.
Happy Summer, Y’all.
Martha Stewart’s Sparkling Limeade
1 cup freshly squeezed lime juice
1 cup sugar
1 cup water
1 quart seltzer water
Ice
Heat sugar and water on med/low heat, stirring until the mixture is a clear syrup. Set aside and let cool. When cool, add to lime juice in a pitcher and stir. Add seltzer water and stir. Add ice.
This recipe can be doubled.
Memphis Minnie’s Rib Rub
This rib rub was featured in the Sacramento Bee, and it comes from Memphis Minnie’s rib joint in San Francisco. Although intended for ribs, I also put this rub on chicken and in hamburger meat for hamburgers I intend to grill.
2 parts salt (I use seasoned salt)
1 part pepper
1 part brown sugar
1 part regular sugar
1 part garlic powder
1 part Paprika
Mix in food processor to get rid of any lumps.
. . . .you’ve worn flip-flops
. . . . you’ve grilled something in your own backyard, especially for family and friends
. . . .your feet are as dark as your forearms
. . . you’ve had a homemade glass of sparkling limeade (Thanks, Martha Stewart! Recipe to follow . . . )
. . . you’ve spent time talking over the backyard fence to your neighbor about your respective backyard gardens
. . . .you’ve taken a child swimming
. . . . you’ve eaten a grilled burger that would put fast-food chain burgers to shame (Thanks, BMNB, and thanks to Memphis Minnie’s Rib Rub)
. . . . you’ve had to wait to walk your dog in the evening because it wouldn't cooling down
. . . . you’re looking for recipes for Southwest Corn and Black Bean salad (lost mine!)
. . . you’ve had Tiramisu ice cream at Baskin-Robbins
. . . you’ve made peace with your body and worn that swimsuit/tank top/summer dress anyway, perfection be damned.
Happy Summer, Y’all.
Martha Stewart’s Sparkling Limeade
1 cup freshly squeezed lime juice
1 cup sugar
1 cup water
1 quart seltzer water
Ice
Heat sugar and water on med/low heat, stirring until the mixture is a clear syrup. Set aside and let cool. When cool, add to lime juice in a pitcher and stir. Add seltzer water and stir. Add ice.
This recipe can be doubled.
Memphis Minnie’s Rib Rub
This rib rub was featured in the Sacramento Bee, and it comes from Memphis Minnie’s rib joint in San Francisco. Although intended for ribs, I also put this rub on chicken and in hamburger meat for hamburgers I intend to grill.
2 parts salt (I use seasoned salt)
1 part pepper
1 part brown sugar
1 part regular sugar
1 part garlic powder
1 part Paprika
Mix in food processor to get rid of any lumps.
Close The Door, Baby
Close the door, baby
And let me know you're mine . . .
from "Close The Door" by Teddy Pendergrass
Those enticing words from 70’s singer Teddy Pendergrass were alluring to even those who had no hopes whatsoever of garnering the attention of the sexy crooner, including a middle-aged mother of six in the Sacramento suburbs (that would be my mom). But those words also have an application outside of the fantasies of middle-aged women from the 70's: They apply to situations where you have to let go of what once was and close the door on that which could be harmful to you.
For example, last week I ran into an old friend, a former friend to whom I haven’t spoken in more than ten years. Why we ceased being friends is still a mystery to me. All I know is that I wouldn’t go to Las Vegas with her after she broke up with her most recent beau (these break-ups were pretty common back then) because I had just started a new job, was assigned to a make-or-break-my-future case (or so I though at the time in my 31 year-old mind), and couldn’t take time off. All of a sudden I was branded as unsupportive and selfish despite decades of support and unselfishness that my own mother thought bordered on madness. We would now call it co-dependency.
When I saw her last week, she actually came across the room and hugged me. I would have been content to continue ignoring her from across the room, but she was actually the bigger person and reached out to me. And hugged me. It seemed sincere . . . .
And I wondered: Should I, in turn, be as magnanimous as she had been and at least tell her that it was indeed big of her to take that step, to reach out and hug someone she has ostensibly despised for ten years?
And then the words hit me: Close the door, baby.
Upon further reflection, I thought, “Why would I make any effort that would in any way open the door to someone coming back into my life when I still have no idea why I was dismissed so hurtfully from hers? What proof do I have that things would be any different than our co-dependent years, from childhood to our entry into the professional world?”
I didn’t.
Close the door, baby.
And with that, I didn’t consider doing anything more.
At this stage in my life, I’m doing a lot of emotional pruning – getting rid of dead weight in my life, such as people who don’t support me, people who revel in my failures behind my back, people who mean me more harm than good while smiling in my face. I don’t want to have to guess about the intentions of the people I choose to have in my life.
Close the door, baby.
And so I did.
And let me know you're mine . . .
from "Close The Door" by Teddy Pendergrass
Those enticing words from 70’s singer Teddy Pendergrass were alluring to even those who had no hopes whatsoever of garnering the attention of the sexy crooner, including a middle-aged mother of six in the Sacramento suburbs (that would be my mom). But those words also have an application outside of the fantasies of middle-aged women from the 70's: They apply to situations where you have to let go of what once was and close the door on that which could be harmful to you.
For example, last week I ran into an old friend, a former friend to whom I haven’t spoken in more than ten years. Why we ceased being friends is still a mystery to me. All I know is that I wouldn’t go to Las Vegas with her after she broke up with her most recent beau (these break-ups were pretty common back then) because I had just started a new job, was assigned to a make-or-break-my-future case (or so I though at the time in my 31 year-old mind), and couldn’t take time off. All of a sudden I was branded as unsupportive and selfish despite decades of support and unselfishness that my own mother thought bordered on madness. We would now call it co-dependency.
When I saw her last week, she actually came across the room and hugged me. I would have been content to continue ignoring her from across the room, but she was actually the bigger person and reached out to me. And hugged me. It seemed sincere . . . .
And I wondered: Should I, in turn, be as magnanimous as she had been and at least tell her that it was indeed big of her to take that step, to reach out and hug someone she has ostensibly despised for ten years?
And then the words hit me: Close the door, baby.
Upon further reflection, I thought, “Why would I make any effort that would in any way open the door to someone coming back into my life when I still have no idea why I was dismissed so hurtfully from hers? What proof do I have that things would be any different than our co-dependent years, from childhood to our entry into the professional world?”
I didn’t.
Close the door, baby.
And with that, I didn’t consider doing anything more.
At this stage in my life, I’m doing a lot of emotional pruning – getting rid of dead weight in my life, such as people who don’t support me, people who revel in my failures behind my back, people who mean me more harm than good while smiling in my face. I don’t want to have to guess about the intentions of the people I choose to have in my life.
Close the door, baby.
And so I did.
Now I Know I'll Need Therapy: My Hair Stylist Retired
After nineteen years of relaxing, dying, conditioning, cutting, setting, and blow drying my hair in addition to dispensing tons of good ol' Mother wit and blunt truths, my hair stylist has decided to retire. To leave behind what I imagine are now exorbitant rents in the now-yuppified but formerly ghettofabulous area that was Hayes Valley in San Francisco where she has had her shop. To finally get off her feet and kick up her heels. To be with family.
Now I know I'm going to need a therapist.
Although I'm ecstatic for her -- her retirement reminds me that not every black woman has prepared for or has the means to retire -- I'm saddened to lose someone to whom I entrusted my joys, fears, man issues, and family issues. To lose someone who bluntly and necessarily told me when I was being stupid -- with men, with my money, with my family. Given that my mother's ability to do so waned with the early onset of her Alzheimer's, this blunt truth and Mother wit that only a Sister with Sense can dispense was sorely needed by me. Sometimes when I would come in for a touch-up, she would notice that my hair was falling out. She would spin the chair around and ask me, "So what's really going on in your life that's making your hair fall out?"
Sometimes we all need someone to verbally "slap us upside da hed," as my sister says, regarding the state of our lives, otherwise we won't make a much-needed change. My hair stylist was that person.
If there's not a client/hair stylist privilege like the doctor/patient privilege or clergy/congregant privilege, there definitely should be. I'll be the first to argue for it.
The relationship black men have with their barbers is different than the relationship that black women have with their hair stylists. Black men discuss sports with their barbers; black women discuss black men with their hair stylists. As I explained to BMNB, my hair stylist has been in my life consistently for nineteen years, while he had been in my life inconsistently for more than twenty years. But for the fact that I married him, she would hold higher status in my life, just on loyalty alone. She knows more about my loser ex-boyfriends than my husband does. And I think it should stay just that way.
But when a sister retires, we should all rejoice. Black women tend to labor too long and too hard for too little. That one of us is freed from that labor is cause to rejoice, even if it means that we're going to be left behind and have to learn to be happy to be nappy.
Maybe I'll start wearing braids . . . .
Congratulations, Gigi Mathews, on a much deserved and well-earned retirement. I wish you joy, peace, and no more hair grease!
Now I know I'm going to need a therapist.
Although I'm ecstatic for her -- her retirement reminds me that not every black woman has prepared for or has the means to retire -- I'm saddened to lose someone to whom I entrusted my joys, fears, man issues, and family issues. To lose someone who bluntly and necessarily told me when I was being stupid -- with men, with my money, with my family. Given that my mother's ability to do so waned with the early onset of her Alzheimer's, this blunt truth and Mother wit that only a Sister with Sense can dispense was sorely needed by me. Sometimes when I would come in for a touch-up, she would notice that my hair was falling out. She would spin the chair around and ask me, "So what's really going on in your life that's making your hair fall out?"
Sometimes we all need someone to verbally "slap us upside da hed," as my sister says, regarding the state of our lives, otherwise we won't make a much-needed change. My hair stylist was that person.
If there's not a client/hair stylist privilege like the doctor/patient privilege or clergy/congregant privilege, there definitely should be. I'll be the first to argue for it.
The relationship black men have with their barbers is different than the relationship that black women have with their hair stylists. Black men discuss sports with their barbers; black women discuss black men with their hair stylists. As I explained to BMNB, my hair stylist has been in my life consistently for nineteen years, while he had been in my life inconsistently for more than twenty years. But for the fact that I married him, she would hold higher status in my life, just on loyalty alone. She knows more about my loser ex-boyfriends than my husband does. And I think it should stay just that way.
But when a sister retires, we should all rejoice. Black women tend to labor too long and too hard for too little. That one of us is freed from that labor is cause to rejoice, even if it means that we're going to be left behind and have to learn to be happy to be nappy.
Maybe I'll start wearing braids . . . .
Congratulations, Gigi Mathews, on a much deserved and well-earned retirement. I wish you joy, peace, and no more hair grease!
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