Unlike many black women across the U.S., I am not tasked with making black-eyed peas for luck and greens for money to celebrate the new year. My one and only task to prepare for the coming year is quite simple:
Make a mortgage payment on December 31.
This is no small feat. Banks close early. Call centers are swamped. I can't set up my online bill pay function to do it because the bill pay function starts before my paycheck is deposited. My mission is simple: Pay the mortgage over the phone before CitiMortgage closes for the day on December 31.
You see, BMNB and I have been in income tax hell for the past three or four years. When we moved to California and were waiting out the overpriced housing market, we no longer had a primary residence for purposes of mortgage interest and property tax deductions. As a double-income, no kids professional (albeit civil service professional) couple with few tax deductions, we were getting taxed out of the behind and coming up short every year. We re-jiggered our withholding, increased our deferred comp contributions, even increased our charitable contributions, but to no avail. We still owed. Big time.
Finally, BMNB got to the end of his rope and decided we had to pull the trigger and buy a house, no matter how much it cost. So last year we did, but late in the year. And, desperate for the mortgage interest deduction and having made only one mortgage payment, I sprang into action on December 31, making our January 1 mortgage payment one day earlier for the sole purpose of getting the mortgage interest deduction for our 2008 tax year. It helped. We still owed, but it definitely helped.
This year, with me being furloughed and given the availability of mortgage interest and property tax deductions to us for the entire year, we're looking at a much better outcome for tax year 2009. Having been in income tax hell for so long, BMNB and I don't make any major money moves -- or even some minor ones -- without consulting our accountant and taking into consideration the tax consequences of any move we make. Oh, and we got a new accountant. I prefer to think of him as our personal tax samurai. He's aggressive on our behalf and gives us helpful tips throughout the year to make sure we're not "surprised and ambushed" by the IRS and FTB as we've been in the past.
So, in order to maximize our mortgage interest deduction, my one and only task was to make a mortgage payment today before CitiMortgage's customer service phone lines shut down. I prepared the night before, having my checkbook, our mortgage statement, and, most important, CitiMortgage's customer service number sitting by the phone. It was the first thing I did when I woke up this morning. I got kicked out of the customer service phone que once, but I promptly got back in the game and made our payment with the assistance of a customer service rep with a lilting East Indian accent. We wished each other a Happy New Year.
So, in our household, it's not greens for money -- it's CitiMortgage for money.
Happy New Year, Y'all. May you enjoy a healthy, peaceful, and prosperous 2010.
BWB
Tidings of Comfort Food and Joy
I hope you had as wonderful a Christmas as I did. My Christmas wasn't about expensive gifts or overworked hostesses bearing overladen platters of food, but about gathering with family and exchanging small but meaningful gifts -- a photo of a departed, beloved pet; recipes from my late mom, SWIE; books to inspire travel; even a book of Sudoku puzzles. It wasn't the price but the thought put into the gifts that counted. And it was nice to have just about everyone gathered around without there being a funeral as the reason.
Indeed, one gift I treasured greatly was a book of my mom's recipes given to me by my sister. You see, I had been hankerin' for some good ol' chili beans like my mom used to make, but I had long forgotten how she made them. Luckily, my sister had it all written down. The gift of that recipe means that my mom's comfort food -- my comfort food -- will still live on.
If you're nice, perhaps I'll share the recipe with you, along with some of my mom's other comfort food recipes, like chili chicken. Good eatin', y'all.
Tidings of comfort food and joy . . . .
Happy Holidays . . .
Indeed, one gift I treasured greatly was a book of my mom's recipes given to me by my sister. You see, I had been hankerin' for some good ol' chili beans like my mom used to make, but I had long forgotten how she made them. Luckily, my sister had it all written down. The gift of that recipe means that my mom's comfort food -- my comfort food -- will still live on.
If you're nice, perhaps I'll share the recipe with you, along with some of my mom's other comfort food recipes, like chili chicken. Good eatin', y'all.
Tidings of comfort food and joy . . . .
Happy Holidays . . .
Merry Christmas!
I can't take credit for my neighbors' outdoor Christmas decorations, but I thought I'd share a photo or two of them just to same. Merry Christmas to all!
Black Woman Blogging
Let Those Old Republican SOB's Fillibuster
It looks like Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid has locked up the 60 votes he needs to end a Republican filibuster.
I say, let those old Republican SOB's filibuster. Just for the hell of it.
I'm not saying give up the 60 votes. I'm not saying that we shouldn't move forward with what's left of the health care bill. I'm less than thrilled that the public option will probably disappear from whatever bill emerges from the conference committee. But I'd rather see health care legislation enacted and possibly amended in the future than no health care legislation at all. I guess I'm a realist.
But I think this whole filibuster threat is one that is beyond the physical means of the Republican senators to carry out. Just look at their ages -- most of those old farts are in their 60's and 70's. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm in my 40's and my eyesight, back, and bladder aren't nearly what they used to be twenty years ago. I don't even want to imagine how those old farts are going to attempt to occupy a podium and speak into the wee hours of the night until they piss and crap on themselves.
But I sure would like to see them try. I don't think they have the balls -- even the gray-haired or bald balls -- to carry it off. If they feel that strongly about opposing health care, I say, let them stock up on Depends and handle their business. I say wear them down like Nolan Richardson's University of Arkansas basketball team used to wear down their opponents -- but this is going to be far more arduous than "40 minutes of hell" given their ages.
I'm about tired of these Senator Republicans. Go ahead -- let them filibuster. I want to see them piss and crap themselves.
Go ahead, Senate Republicans. In the name of that great civil rights obstructionist and secret lover of black women, Senator Strom Thurmond, I double-dog dare ya.
I say, let those old Republican SOB's filibuster. Just for the hell of it.
I'm not saying give up the 60 votes. I'm not saying that we shouldn't move forward with what's left of the health care bill. I'm less than thrilled that the public option will probably disappear from whatever bill emerges from the conference committee. But I'd rather see health care legislation enacted and possibly amended in the future than no health care legislation at all. I guess I'm a realist.
But I think this whole filibuster threat is one that is beyond the physical means of the Republican senators to carry out. Just look at their ages -- most of those old farts are in their 60's and 70's. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm in my 40's and my eyesight, back, and bladder aren't nearly what they used to be twenty years ago. I don't even want to imagine how those old farts are going to attempt to occupy a podium and speak into the wee hours of the night until they piss and crap on themselves.
But I sure would like to see them try. I don't think they have the balls -- even the gray-haired or bald balls -- to carry it off. If they feel that strongly about opposing health care, I say, let them stock up on Depends and handle their business. I say wear them down like Nolan Richardson's University of Arkansas basketball team used to wear down their opponents -- but this is going to be far more arduous than "40 minutes of hell" given their ages.
I'm about tired of these Senator Republicans. Go ahead -- let them filibuster. I want to see them piss and crap themselves.
Go ahead, Senate Republicans. In the name of that great civil rights obstructionist and secret lover of black women, Senator Strom Thurmond, I double-dog dare ya.
Why I'm Having A Merry Christmas
In the words of Maya Angelou, I'm singin' and swingin' and gettin' Merry like Christmas. I'm having a wonderful holiday season, and here's why:
I'm not doing anything I don't want to do.
First, let's talk about all the things I'm NOT doing or didn't do:
Drama. If something even vaguely hints at drama, I'm not going near it, no sirreee Bob. I've passed up some events and will continue to pass up events because the potential for drama is high.
Spending lots of money. I've focused on a few gifts for a few people -- my godchildren, my husband, BMNB, and a few others. My siblings and I drew names for a "Beg, Borrow or Steal Yankee Swap" for Christmas in which we're not allowed to spend money (more on that below). I bought office gifts on sale or at the Dollar Tree and stayed within my budget, which was very low. I have only one more gift to buy, and I will not have spent more than $100 on gifts when I'm done. I'm not buying gifts for folks who don't want gifts or complain about the gifts I give. This is a huge change from years ago, when I would spend hundreds on gifts. One time, I spent thousands. It took me a long time to realize it's not how much you spend, but how thoughtful the gift is, no matter how much it cost. One of the best gifts I've received this year? A jar of gourmet salsa made by one of our local high schools, Grant High School. With a bag of organic baked blue corn chips. Yum!
Cooking like a madwoman. My siblings and I are doing a potluck for Christmas. I'll make a small dinner for BMNB and myself just because he eats alot and likes to have something at home to munch on. But the days of my putting on a huge family meal and footing the bill for it are over.
Responding to last-minute requests to do anything. Okay, everybody knows when Christmas is, and it comes once a year like clockwork. So if folks can't get their act together to plan something and give advance notice, well, not my problem. Any last minute requests to do something, cook something, or bring something will be, in the words of my favorite financial guru Suze Orman, "DENIED."
Stressing out. I might get all my shopping done, might not. Oh well. Nobody ever died for lack of a gift, other than someone on the organ donor list. As long as my godchildren are taken care of, I'm good.
Doing everything myself. BMNB and I split the duties on lots of things -- he buys gifts for his side of the family, I buy for mine; he addresses and signs the Christmas cards for his side of the family, I take care of my side of the family. No woman should be the social secretary for her family all the time. Unless your husband's or your children's hands are broken, put them to work doing something, no matter how small.
Trying to be Jesus. I'm celebrating the birth of our Savior, but I'm not trying to be our Savior. This is especially difficult for me because, as my best friend tells me, I have somewhat of a Christ complex: I try to rescue people from bad situations no matter how responsible they are for being in those situations. This is especially hard for me when the decisions, or lack thereof, of parents have deleterious effects on their children. My oldest brother has given me wise counsel on this front which sounds kinda harsh but is true nonetheless: Some people need to suffer because it is through their suffering that they learn and grow. By interceding and rescuing them, I'm not doing them a favor because I'm short-circuiting their growth process, and it is this growth process that will lead them to better decisions in their own (and hopefully their children's) best interests. So, unless it's life or death, I seriously weigh my options before coming to the rescue of people, especially fools. If I do so, it's with the goal of teaching them to fish instead of giving them a fish, so to speak. As my best friend counsels me, "Don't forget how that Christ story ended." Word.
Now, to all the wonderful things I AM doing or will do:
Listening to and sharing Christmas CDs. I have a collection of Christmas CDs that ranges from Dolly Parton and Lou Rawls to Rosemary Clooney and Nat King Cole. I have a tradition of buying a new Christmas CD every year. This year I bought Michael McDonald's "This Christmas," and I'm so enjoying it! I've never heard as soulful a version of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" in my life. I brought all my Christmas CDs into the office right after Thanksgiving and offered to share them with my co-workers as long as I got them back by Christmas. This has proven extremely popular, and I would imagine a lot of my co-workers have filled the Ipods with musical Christmas cheer. I'll list my Christmas CD collection at the end of this entry. The most popular CD borrowed? Nat King Cole. Least? Barry Manilow, with no takers. Poor Barry.
Sending Christmas cards. This almost didn't happen, as I lost my Christmas card address list and didn't find it until Saturday morning. BMNB and I started sending out Christmas cards last year because so many people send us Christmas cards. We scrambled to get ours done and in the mail this weekend. We love sending them as much as we love receiving them. It's a nice way to let folks know you're thinking about them. However, I will be putting the address list on a flash drive so I won't have to scramble next year to find it.
Making baked goods for my neighbors. This is one thing I'm extremely proud of because it's long overdue. You see, I have really good neighbors in the old school sense of the word. My neighbors send BMNB and I plates of food (including, but not limited to, hot homemade doughnuts), mow our lawn, put away our garbage cans on trash day, give our dog dog treats, and they have given us trees and plants for our yard. Last year, they gave us Christmas cookies despite the fact that that we'd only been in the neighborhood for a little over a month. This year I said thanks with baked goods: A holiday sampler with dozens of Christmas cookies-- Kanella (a hazelnut cookie), Chocolate Decadence cookies, cream cheese cutout cookies (one dozen decorated, one dozen plain -- they're way better than shortbread and moister than sugar cookies), and a dozen and a half of cheese straws, courtesy of Paula Deen's recipe. It took me a day and a half straight to finish, but that pales in comparison to all the things they do for BMNB and me during the year. Thanks to the wonderful folks at Sunset Magazine for the Kanella and Chocolate Decadence cookie recipes featured in their December issue.
Being creative. My siblings and I are doing a "Beg, Borrow or Steal Yankee Swap" gift exchange. Here's how it works: 1) Draw names. 2) You can't spend money on the gift -- you have to give something you already own, or beg, borrow or steal to get it. 3) The gift can't have a value of more than $10. 4) At Christmas, we'll draw numbers to decide the order in which we open gifts, starting with the person who draws number 1 opening the gift brought for him or her first. 5) Anyone can make anyone else with a lower number "swap" gifts with them until all the gifts are opened. This has really forced me and my siblings to be creative about our gift giving -- thinking about stuff we already have that our recipients might want or paying special attention to the things our recipients like. I've even advised that the gifts need not be tactile -- they can be gift certificates for services, like "2 hours of closet organizing" or "mowing the lawn" or "washing and vacuuming your car." Plus, I've had to confer with some of my siblings on what their recipients might want. It's been really fun, and I'm looking forward to the gifts being opened to see how creative we can all be on the cheap. Again, it's not about the money, it's about the thoughtfulness of the gift.
Enjoying Christmas shows. BMNB and I watched Oprah's special on Christmas at the White House and had a ball. We caught the tail end of "A Charlie Brown Christmas," and, miffed that I missed it, I decided that I would buy it on DVD so that I can play it every year. The Christmas show that nearly brought me to tears? Paula Deen's Christmas on the Food Network. That lady sure knows how to live! Although it aired a year ago, it was still timely in its focus on good and easy dishes, gathering of family, and love. Paula says that their family gift giving really isn't about stuff because they have just about everything they want. It nearly brought me to tears when Paula opened her gift from her husband Mike: A card stating that he was taking her to Paris so that she could "eat, laugh, and have fun." The gift was special because, at the time, Paula Deen had never been "across the pond." Imagine that! One of America's top chefs, and she'd never been to Paris! It wasn't the cost of the gift, but the pure thoughtfulness of it and how it touched her heart that nearly brought me to tears. Now that's a meaningful Christmas.
Enjoying outdoor Christmas decorations. If there were an Olympics for outdoor Christmas decoration, my neighbors would medal. Now, BMNB ain't trying to climb a ladder to put up lights he'd have to take down thirty days later, so that means that I enjoy outdoor Christmas decorations, and the creativity that goes into them, all the more. I've even taken photos of some of them. Yeah, I'm corny that way, but who cares?
Put up my Christmas tree. Yes, it's fake, and yes, I didn't change the theme and color scheme from last year (silver and blue winter wonderland), but I like it and it pleases me. Plus, I didn't have to spend any money.
Getting myself at least one gift. I bought myself a gift certificate for yoga classes in my neighborhood. I'm also giving myself non-tangible gifts for the coming year: Better health through exercise and cooking; organizing and painting my home office; traveling with BMNB on weekend getaways every other month; and giving myself time to finish projects near and dear to me. I'll also be spending more on self-beautification -- hair and nails -- with a concomitant reduction in our food budget. I'll let BMNB make up the difference. Hey, he makes more than I do and he wasn't furloughed. He likes it when I spend money on myself. No, he really does.
Saving. I suck at saving. My idea of saving has been, whatever's left at the end of the month, well, that's saving. No more. As my oldest brother has encouraged me to do since I got out of law school, I will indeed start "paying myself first."
Giving to charity. I've given food to our work food drive and will give more. One of my friends has as a signature in her email, "If you continually give, you will continually have." So true.
Being thankful. I'm so very thankful for the little (and not so little) things. I'm thankful that I have a wonderful family, a most excellent husband who has my back, great co-workers, a home of my own that no landlord can kick me out of, a dog that is, well, still kinda healthy although mentally ill (it's a long story), wonderful baristas at my local Starbucks, a great book club with fabulous women members, and shoes I can still fit no matter how big I get. I'm also thankful for our Savior.
Remembering the reason for the season. Need I say more?
My Christmas wish? That every child born be greeted with the same anticipation and joy as Jesus was on Christmas Day. Doesn't every child deserve that?
Merry Christmas,
Black Woman Blogging
Black Woman Blogging's Christmas CD Collection:
Handel's Messiah -- A Souful Celebration (Assorted Artists) -- This is my favorite Christmas CD.
Dolly Parton, Home for Christmas
Boyz II Men, Christmas Interpretations
Lou Rawls, A Merry Little Christmas
Nat King Cole, Christmas Favorites
Bebe Winans, My Christmas Prayer
Sleigh Full of Songs (Assorted Artists)
Jazz to the World: A Christmas Collection (Assorted Artists, 1995)
Yolanda Adams, Christmas with Yolanda Adams
Barry Manilow, Because It's Christmas
Whitney Houston, The Preacher's Wife Soundtrack
Crystal Gayle, Crystal Gayle Christmas
Holiday Sounds of the Season 2001
Christina Aguilera, My Kind of Christmas
Bebe and Cece Winans, First Christmas
Dave Koz, December Makes Me Feel This Way
Barbra Streisand, A Christmas Album
Vanessa Williams, Star Bright
Rosemary Clooney, Classic Holiday Treasures
Vince Guaraldi, A Charlie Brown Christmas (I can't seem to find this one, but I know I have it)
Michael McDonald, This Christmas
I'm not doing anything I don't want to do.
First, let's talk about all the things I'm NOT doing or didn't do:
Drama. If something even vaguely hints at drama, I'm not going near it, no sirreee Bob. I've passed up some events and will continue to pass up events because the potential for drama is high.
Spending lots of money. I've focused on a few gifts for a few people -- my godchildren, my husband, BMNB, and a few others. My siblings and I drew names for a "Beg, Borrow or Steal Yankee Swap" for Christmas in which we're not allowed to spend money (more on that below). I bought office gifts on sale or at the Dollar Tree and stayed within my budget, which was very low. I have only one more gift to buy, and I will not have spent more than $100 on gifts when I'm done. I'm not buying gifts for folks who don't want gifts or complain about the gifts I give. This is a huge change from years ago, when I would spend hundreds on gifts. One time, I spent thousands. It took me a long time to realize it's not how much you spend, but how thoughtful the gift is, no matter how much it cost. One of the best gifts I've received this year? A jar of gourmet salsa made by one of our local high schools, Grant High School. With a bag of organic baked blue corn chips. Yum!
Cooking like a madwoman. My siblings and I are doing a potluck for Christmas. I'll make a small dinner for BMNB and myself just because he eats alot and likes to have something at home to munch on. But the days of my putting on a huge family meal and footing the bill for it are over.
Responding to last-minute requests to do anything. Okay, everybody knows when Christmas is, and it comes once a year like clockwork. So if folks can't get their act together to plan something and give advance notice, well, not my problem. Any last minute requests to do something, cook something, or bring something will be, in the words of my favorite financial guru Suze Orman, "DENIED."
Stressing out. I might get all my shopping done, might not. Oh well. Nobody ever died for lack of a gift, other than someone on the organ donor list. As long as my godchildren are taken care of, I'm good.
Doing everything myself. BMNB and I split the duties on lots of things -- he buys gifts for his side of the family, I buy for mine; he addresses and signs the Christmas cards for his side of the family, I take care of my side of the family. No woman should be the social secretary for her family all the time. Unless your husband's or your children's hands are broken, put them to work doing something, no matter how small.
Trying to be Jesus. I'm celebrating the birth of our Savior, but I'm not trying to be our Savior. This is especially difficult for me because, as my best friend tells me, I have somewhat of a Christ complex: I try to rescue people from bad situations no matter how responsible they are for being in those situations. This is especially hard for me when the decisions, or lack thereof, of parents have deleterious effects on their children. My oldest brother has given me wise counsel on this front which sounds kinda harsh but is true nonetheless: Some people need to suffer because it is through their suffering that they learn and grow. By interceding and rescuing them, I'm not doing them a favor because I'm short-circuiting their growth process, and it is this growth process that will lead them to better decisions in their own (and hopefully their children's) best interests. So, unless it's life or death, I seriously weigh my options before coming to the rescue of people, especially fools. If I do so, it's with the goal of teaching them to fish instead of giving them a fish, so to speak. As my best friend counsels me, "Don't forget how that Christ story ended." Word.
Now, to all the wonderful things I AM doing or will do:
Listening to and sharing Christmas CDs. I have a collection of Christmas CDs that ranges from Dolly Parton and Lou Rawls to Rosemary Clooney and Nat King Cole. I have a tradition of buying a new Christmas CD every year. This year I bought Michael McDonald's "This Christmas," and I'm so enjoying it! I've never heard as soulful a version of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" in my life. I brought all my Christmas CDs into the office right after Thanksgiving and offered to share them with my co-workers as long as I got them back by Christmas. This has proven extremely popular, and I would imagine a lot of my co-workers have filled the Ipods with musical Christmas cheer. I'll list my Christmas CD collection at the end of this entry. The most popular CD borrowed? Nat King Cole. Least? Barry Manilow, with no takers. Poor Barry.
Sending Christmas cards. This almost didn't happen, as I lost my Christmas card address list and didn't find it until Saturday morning. BMNB and I started sending out Christmas cards last year because so many people send us Christmas cards. We scrambled to get ours done and in the mail this weekend. We love sending them as much as we love receiving them. It's a nice way to let folks know you're thinking about them. However, I will be putting the address list on a flash drive so I won't have to scramble next year to find it.
Making baked goods for my neighbors. This is one thing I'm extremely proud of because it's long overdue. You see, I have really good neighbors in the old school sense of the word. My neighbors send BMNB and I plates of food (including, but not limited to, hot homemade doughnuts), mow our lawn, put away our garbage cans on trash day, give our dog dog treats, and they have given us trees and plants for our yard. Last year, they gave us Christmas cookies despite the fact that that we'd only been in the neighborhood for a little over a month. This year I said thanks with baked goods: A holiday sampler with dozens of Christmas cookies-- Kanella (a hazelnut cookie), Chocolate Decadence cookies, cream cheese cutout cookies (one dozen decorated, one dozen plain -- they're way better than shortbread and moister than sugar cookies), and a dozen and a half of cheese straws, courtesy of Paula Deen's recipe. It took me a day and a half straight to finish, but that pales in comparison to all the things they do for BMNB and me during the year. Thanks to the wonderful folks at Sunset Magazine for the Kanella and Chocolate Decadence cookie recipes featured in their December issue.
Being creative. My siblings and I are doing a "Beg, Borrow or Steal Yankee Swap" gift exchange. Here's how it works: 1) Draw names. 2) You can't spend money on the gift -- you have to give something you already own, or beg, borrow or steal to get it. 3) The gift can't have a value of more than $10. 4) At Christmas, we'll draw numbers to decide the order in which we open gifts, starting with the person who draws number 1 opening the gift brought for him or her first. 5) Anyone can make anyone else with a lower number "swap" gifts with them until all the gifts are opened. This has really forced me and my siblings to be creative about our gift giving -- thinking about stuff we already have that our recipients might want or paying special attention to the things our recipients like. I've even advised that the gifts need not be tactile -- they can be gift certificates for services, like "2 hours of closet organizing" or "mowing the lawn" or "washing and vacuuming your car." Plus, I've had to confer with some of my siblings on what their recipients might want. It's been really fun, and I'm looking forward to the gifts being opened to see how creative we can all be on the cheap. Again, it's not about the money, it's about the thoughtfulness of the gift.
Enjoying Christmas shows. BMNB and I watched Oprah's special on Christmas at the White House and had a ball. We caught the tail end of "A Charlie Brown Christmas," and, miffed that I missed it, I decided that I would buy it on DVD so that I can play it every year. The Christmas show that nearly brought me to tears? Paula Deen's Christmas on the Food Network. That lady sure knows how to live! Although it aired a year ago, it was still timely in its focus on good and easy dishes, gathering of family, and love. Paula says that their family gift giving really isn't about stuff because they have just about everything they want. It nearly brought me to tears when Paula opened her gift from her husband Mike: A card stating that he was taking her to Paris so that she could "eat, laugh, and have fun." The gift was special because, at the time, Paula Deen had never been "across the pond." Imagine that! One of America's top chefs, and she'd never been to Paris! It wasn't the cost of the gift, but the pure thoughtfulness of it and how it touched her heart that nearly brought me to tears. Now that's a meaningful Christmas.
Enjoying outdoor Christmas decorations. If there were an Olympics for outdoor Christmas decoration, my neighbors would medal. Now, BMNB ain't trying to climb a ladder to put up lights he'd have to take down thirty days later, so that means that I enjoy outdoor Christmas decorations, and the creativity that goes into them, all the more. I've even taken photos of some of them. Yeah, I'm corny that way, but who cares?
Put up my Christmas tree. Yes, it's fake, and yes, I didn't change the theme and color scheme from last year (silver and blue winter wonderland), but I like it and it pleases me. Plus, I didn't have to spend any money.
Getting myself at least one gift. I bought myself a gift certificate for yoga classes in my neighborhood. I'm also giving myself non-tangible gifts for the coming year: Better health through exercise and cooking; organizing and painting my home office; traveling with BMNB on weekend getaways every other month; and giving myself time to finish projects near and dear to me. I'll also be spending more on self-beautification -- hair and nails -- with a concomitant reduction in our food budget. I'll let BMNB make up the difference. Hey, he makes more than I do and he wasn't furloughed. He likes it when I spend money on myself. No, he really does.
Saving. I suck at saving. My idea of saving has been, whatever's left at the end of the month, well, that's saving. No more. As my oldest brother has encouraged me to do since I got out of law school, I will indeed start "paying myself first."
Giving to charity. I've given food to our work food drive and will give more. One of my friends has as a signature in her email, "If you continually give, you will continually have." So true.
Being thankful. I'm so very thankful for the little (and not so little) things. I'm thankful that I have a wonderful family, a most excellent husband who has my back, great co-workers, a home of my own that no landlord can kick me out of, a dog that is, well, still kinda healthy although mentally ill (it's a long story), wonderful baristas at my local Starbucks, a great book club with fabulous women members, and shoes I can still fit no matter how big I get. I'm also thankful for our Savior.
Remembering the reason for the season. Need I say more?
My Christmas wish? That every child born be greeted with the same anticipation and joy as Jesus was on Christmas Day. Doesn't every child deserve that?
Merry Christmas,
Black Woman Blogging
Black Woman Blogging's Christmas CD Collection:
Handel's Messiah -- A Souful Celebration (Assorted Artists) -- This is my favorite Christmas CD.
Dolly Parton, Home for Christmas
Boyz II Men, Christmas Interpretations
Lou Rawls, A Merry Little Christmas
Nat King Cole, Christmas Favorites
Bebe Winans, My Christmas Prayer
Sleigh Full of Songs (Assorted Artists)
Jazz to the World: A Christmas Collection (Assorted Artists, 1995)
Yolanda Adams, Christmas with Yolanda Adams
Barry Manilow, Because It's Christmas
Whitney Houston, The Preacher's Wife Soundtrack
Crystal Gayle, Crystal Gayle Christmas
Holiday Sounds of the Season 2001
Christina Aguilera, My Kind of Christmas
Bebe and Cece Winans, First Christmas
Dave Koz, December Makes Me Feel This Way
Barbra Streisand, A Christmas Album
Vanessa Williams, Star Bright
Rosemary Clooney, Classic Holiday Treasures
Vince Guaraldi, A Charlie Brown Christmas (I can't seem to find this one, but I know I have it)
Michael McDonald, This Christmas
Copenhatin', Or When The Polar Bears Eat Sarah Palin's Pets
The poorer nations at the Copenhagen Summit (Is the term "lesser developed countries" considered politically incorrect?) want the richer nations to not only accelerate their decrease of greenhouse gas emissions, but to pay the poorer nations for having to adjust to climate change. The U.S. wants China to reduce its emissions more, and China is waiting for the U.S. to take greater steps, to wit, some form of legislation from the U.S. Senate. Good luck with that. I'm sure Joe Lieberman would be opposed to that, too. And Sarah Palin, the Britney Spears of politics, is dismissing climate change and the "politicized science" behind it (Is that similar to "politicized memoir-writing?") while taking swipes at California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, who is, well the Arnold Schwarzenegger of politics.
And while all this Copenhatin' is going on, some polar bear is swimming a marathon trying to get to an ice floe. Trust me, evolution is on the bear's side. When they can't find seals or walruses to eat and ice floes to get to, they're gonna come on land. We and our pets are next. And since Sarah's pets, assuming she has any, are closer to the polar bears than ours, well, she should have a greater stake in climate change legislation than the rest of us in the lower 48. To borrow from a Stanford joke, I don't have to outrun the polar bear -- I just have to outrun Sarah Palin and her pets. Assuming she has any.
I don't think effective responses to climate change are going to come from Copenhagen, Kyoto, or any other city with some trumped-up summit where nations play prisoner's dilemma with respect to ratifying any resulting treaty. Instead of climate scientists, we need some economists skilled in game theory to figure out how this Copenhagen thing is going to play out.
No, effective responses to climate change are going to have to come from you and me. We're going to have to make those small changes that, when heaped one upon the other, like one-dollar contributions to the Obama campaign, make big changes. We're going to have to hold industry accountable for greenhouse emissions and pass up their products that contribute greatly to the problem. We're going to have to buy locally, eschew our cars for mass transportation, and get used to those funny light bulbs. Because if we wait for the fools and climate change pimps in Copenhagen to act, there won't be any economy or much of anything else left to fight about. Because if we wait for people who don't represent our interests to act in our interests, we're doomed to not only be disappointed, but to join the food chain in a way I don't even want to contemplate.
Although it would be funny watching Sarah Palin trying to outrun a polar bear.
And while all this Copenhatin' is going on, some polar bear is swimming a marathon trying to get to an ice floe. Trust me, evolution is on the bear's side. When they can't find seals or walruses to eat and ice floes to get to, they're gonna come on land. We and our pets are next. And since Sarah's pets, assuming she has any, are closer to the polar bears than ours, well, she should have a greater stake in climate change legislation than the rest of us in the lower 48. To borrow from a Stanford joke, I don't have to outrun the polar bear -- I just have to outrun Sarah Palin and her pets. Assuming she has any.
I don't think effective responses to climate change are going to come from Copenhagen, Kyoto, or any other city with some trumped-up summit where nations play prisoner's dilemma with respect to ratifying any resulting treaty. Instead of climate scientists, we need some economists skilled in game theory to figure out how this Copenhagen thing is going to play out.
No, effective responses to climate change are going to have to come from you and me. We're going to have to make those small changes that, when heaped one upon the other, like one-dollar contributions to the Obama campaign, make big changes. We're going to have to hold industry accountable for greenhouse emissions and pass up their products that contribute greatly to the problem. We're going to have to buy locally, eschew our cars for mass transportation, and get used to those funny light bulbs. Because if we wait for the fools and climate change pimps in Copenhagen to act, there won't be any economy or much of anything else left to fight about. Because if we wait for people who don't represent our interests to act in our interests, we're doomed to not only be disappointed, but to join the food chain in a way I don't even want to contemplate.
Although it would be funny watching Sarah Palin trying to outrun a polar bear.
Hey Sixteen
Way back when in '87
I wore a size eight
In dresses and suits
Now time has passed
I’m fat and sagging
Wearing plus sizes
What the hell am I?
Hey sixteen
No you can’t weary skinny jeans
No True Religion for you
Please slap that eggnog
Right out of my hand
(with apologies to Steely Dan)
Yesterday, I finally accepted an unfortunate milestone I've reached: I can now shop freely in the plus sized women's department. I am officially a size sixteen.
Talk about payback being a mother. When I was interning for a state agency as a graduate student in my twenties, I laughed at all the women in their 40's and 50's complaining about saddlebag thighs, sagging boobs, dragging asses, weight gains, and turkey necks, all of them dreading swimsuit season. I swore that I would never let myself go like that. I promised myself that I would never, EVER, wear a double-digit size, that I would never have back fat sticking out of a backless dress or a one-piece swimsuit.
If you held up a swimsuit to me right now, it'd be like Kryptonite to Superman or garlic to a vampire. I would not only walk, but run in the other direction.
And, quite frankly, I was doing pretty well until I hit my mid-thirties. I didn't think much of it when I had to, for the first time, buy a size ten dress for a formal event. "Whatever," I thought to myself. "They didn't have the dress in an eight anyways."
Talk about denial. Like I could have fit a size eight.
I'd been pretty content holding at a size fourteen for the past six years or so. Any woman will tell you that size fourteen is pretty much the outer limit for finding anything in the stores approaching something you'd be willing to wear in public. Once you get beyond size fourteen, the pickins', unlike you, are pretty slim in terms of style and quality.
Well, I'm there. And I don't like it one bit.
Please, not Weight Watchers again. I hate that "falling off the wagon" feeling I get when I drag my fat ass into a Weight Watchers meeting for what would be the, oh, fifth time now. There's got to be a better way.
If I can just get off my fat ass and find it.
I wore a size eight
In dresses and suits
Now time has passed
I’m fat and sagging
Wearing plus sizes
What the hell am I?
Hey sixteen
No you can’t weary skinny jeans
No True Religion for you
Please slap that eggnog
Right out of my hand
(with apologies to Steely Dan)
Yesterday, I finally accepted an unfortunate milestone I've reached: I can now shop freely in the plus sized women's department. I am officially a size sixteen.
Talk about payback being a mother. When I was interning for a state agency as a graduate student in my twenties, I laughed at all the women in their 40's and 50's complaining about saddlebag thighs, sagging boobs, dragging asses, weight gains, and turkey necks, all of them dreading swimsuit season. I swore that I would never let myself go like that. I promised myself that I would never, EVER, wear a double-digit size, that I would never have back fat sticking out of a backless dress or a one-piece swimsuit.
If you held up a swimsuit to me right now, it'd be like Kryptonite to Superman or garlic to a vampire. I would not only walk, but run in the other direction.
And, quite frankly, I was doing pretty well until I hit my mid-thirties. I didn't think much of it when I had to, for the first time, buy a size ten dress for a formal event. "Whatever," I thought to myself. "They didn't have the dress in an eight anyways."
Talk about denial. Like I could have fit a size eight.
I'd been pretty content holding at a size fourteen for the past six years or so. Any woman will tell you that size fourteen is pretty much the outer limit for finding anything in the stores approaching something you'd be willing to wear in public. Once you get beyond size fourteen, the pickins', unlike you, are pretty slim in terms of style and quality.
Well, I'm there. And I don't like it one bit.
Please, not Weight Watchers again. I hate that "falling off the wagon" feeling I get when I drag my fat ass into a Weight Watchers meeting for what would be the, oh, fifth time now. There's got to be a better way.
If I can just get off my fat ass and find it.
The Greatest Golfer, But Not The Greatest Player
So it looks like my favorite Cablasian got caught cheating on his wife, confirming what I’ve believed all along: Women are smarter than men. Tiger may be one of the world’s best golfers, but he’s a lousy player, if you get what I mean.
Think about it: If politicians, NBA stars, rock stars, and even the President of the United States got caught cheating on their wives, what made Tiger Woods think he wouldn’t get caught?
Here’s where I think women are smarter than men: Women think of cheating in terms of relationships; men think of it as transactional. Let me explain.
For example, married women would find a way to use relationships to shield their husbands from their extramarital relationships. A married woman would be smart enough to assume that the person she’s cheating with is as low-down as she is and has nothing to lose from outing her, so she would choose a cheating partner who had some “skin in the game,” so to speak – someone with something to lose by going public with their cheating, i.e., a married man, preferably a wealthy one living in a community property state who would stand to lose half of his fortune if caught.
Second, what a woman understands about relationships that men don’t is this: Sooner or later, if you keep cheating with the woman you’re cheating with, she’s going to think, “If I’m so much better than your wife that you’re sleeping with me, why aren’t I good enough to be the wife?” Kinda like Monica Lewinsky thinking she was going to take Hillary’s place. Whether we care to admit it or not, women can be extremely competitive when it comes to gaining and maintaining the affections of men. Therefore, what men don’t understand that women do is that you either have to maintain the hope of ascending to the wife’s place for your mistress if you want to keep the cheating going, or stop cheating with this particular mistress before such hope can take hold in her. But you can’t keep the cheating going without some false hope unless she’s got something to lose by outing the relationship, i.e., a wealthy husband. In Tiger’s case, the mistress’ wealthy husband would have to have been worth at least $ 1 billion to make it worthwhile to keep her mouth shut. And the false hope won’t sustain her forever. When your mistress starts singing lines from Jill Scott’s “My Love,” i.e., “My love is deeper, tighter, sweeter, higher, flyer . . . didn’t you know this?”, then you’re about done. The demands will increase and secrecy of your “transgressions” will be on the line.
Finally, a married woman would have removed all traces and evidence of cheating to maintain the marriage, if for no other reason, to avoid losing her children. Unlike Tiger, a married woman would have had more than one cell phone for her dirty deeds, and the one used for her cheating would have been a non-contract throwaway without phone records. She would have had separate credit cards with the bills going to different addresses to pay for her misdeeds. And she would have maintained her sexual relationship with her husband to remove any doubt. Because for women, if you can’t maintain the relationships, you risk losing the “transactions,” if you will. It’s all about balancing and insulating the relationships. We women excel at this.
That’s why Tiger may be the greatest golfer ever, but we women are the greatest players.
Think about it: If politicians, NBA stars, rock stars, and even the President of the United States got caught cheating on their wives, what made Tiger Woods think he wouldn’t get caught?
Here’s where I think women are smarter than men: Women think of cheating in terms of relationships; men think of it as transactional. Let me explain.
For example, married women would find a way to use relationships to shield their husbands from their extramarital relationships. A married woman would be smart enough to assume that the person she’s cheating with is as low-down as she is and has nothing to lose from outing her, so she would choose a cheating partner who had some “skin in the game,” so to speak – someone with something to lose by going public with their cheating, i.e., a married man, preferably a wealthy one living in a community property state who would stand to lose half of his fortune if caught.
Second, what a woman understands about relationships that men don’t is this: Sooner or later, if you keep cheating with the woman you’re cheating with, she’s going to think, “If I’m so much better than your wife that you’re sleeping with me, why aren’t I good enough to be the wife?” Kinda like Monica Lewinsky thinking she was going to take Hillary’s place. Whether we care to admit it or not, women can be extremely competitive when it comes to gaining and maintaining the affections of men. Therefore, what men don’t understand that women do is that you either have to maintain the hope of ascending to the wife’s place for your mistress if you want to keep the cheating going, or stop cheating with this particular mistress before such hope can take hold in her. But you can’t keep the cheating going without some false hope unless she’s got something to lose by outing the relationship, i.e., a wealthy husband. In Tiger’s case, the mistress’ wealthy husband would have to have been worth at least $ 1 billion to make it worthwhile to keep her mouth shut. And the false hope won’t sustain her forever. When your mistress starts singing lines from Jill Scott’s “My Love,” i.e., “My love is deeper, tighter, sweeter, higher, flyer . . . didn’t you know this?”, then you’re about done. The demands will increase and secrecy of your “transgressions” will be on the line.
Finally, a married woman would have removed all traces and evidence of cheating to maintain the marriage, if for no other reason, to avoid losing her children. Unlike Tiger, a married woman would have had more than one cell phone for her dirty deeds, and the one used for her cheating would have been a non-contract throwaway without phone records. She would have had separate credit cards with the bills going to different addresses to pay for her misdeeds. And she would have maintained her sexual relationship with her husband to remove any doubt. Because for women, if you can’t maintain the relationships, you risk losing the “transactions,” if you will. It’s all about balancing and insulating the relationships. We women excel at this.
That’s why Tiger may be the greatest golfer ever, but we women are the greatest players.
Today, This Seat Is Reserved
During my husband's morning bus commute, he noted a placard reserving a seat in the front of the bus for Rosa Parks on what is the 54th anniversary of her refusal to give up her seat in the front of the bus. May she rest in peace.
Your Holiday Survival Manifesto and Mantras
The holidays are coming, and they usually entail spending a great deal of time with family members you may not see on a regular basis, perhaps because you choose not to. For some, holiday time with the fam is a blessing; for others, a curse. For those of you feeling cursed right about now, BWB's got your Holiday Survival Manifesto and accompanying mantras to get you through the holidays without your having to ask someone to post bail on your behalf.
First, the Manifesto. There are some simple realities of family life that we all need to remember around this time of year. In the words of my sister, The Writing Diva, I'd like to think of each of them as a holiday "slap upside da hed." Here goes:
1. To borrow from Donald Rumsfeld, you don't go into the holidays with the family you want; you go into the holidays with the family you have. Spending countless hours huddled around a large table over a perfectly (or imperfectly) roasted dead bird and cholesterol-enhancing side dishes isn't going to change your family into the Cosbys, which leads me to my next slap:
2) Past is prologue. If Aunt Sadie Mae acted a fool last Thanksgiving, well, guess what? She's probably going to act a fool this Thanksgiving. For you, it's drama; for her, it's an encore performance. Either way, it's coming. This leads me to my next slap:
3) Expectation is the mother of disappointment. If you expect people to act differently than they always have, you're doomed to be disappointed. No expectations, no disappointment. See how that works? I have a relative who once complained to me about another relative he didn't want to have over for holiday dinners because she always got drunk and it annoyed him. My response: Stop expecting her to do anything other than what she's always done. If you stop expecting her to be sober, you won't be disappointed when she isn't. Not serving any alcohol might help, too.
4) Unless you raised them or or abused them, your relatives' dysfunction is neither your fault nor your problem. During the holidays, in the spirit of charity and good cheer, we often take on the problems and dysfunction of folks not of our own creation, often to our own detriment. Stop with that. Right now, I said. Besides, even assuming these dysfunctional folks could be fixed, you sure ain't gonna fix them over the holidays because there's simply not enough time.
5) You are not "Save The Children," and you don't have to feed the world. Money is tight and time is even tighter. Everybody needs to pitch in and help to make Thanksgiving dinner "accessible" to everyone who's coming. Instead of footing the bill by yourself for some mondo Thanksgiving dinner, hold a potluck and make everybody bring something, even if it's just two liters of Coke. It's a recession, you ain't Donald Trump, and neither am I, so let's stop fronting, shall we?
Now the mantras. Invariably, there are situations that will occur during the holidays that will make you want to take your guns out of the gun safe (You do have a gun safe, don't you?). Don't do that. Instead, recite and live these mantras or the duration of the holidays:
1) I will prepare myself as much as possible. That means having a game plan going into Thanksgiving, in particular. If you're hosting, plan your menu, stick to your plans, be the biyatch, and tell everybody else what they're going to do or bring in language that makes it sound like you 're asking them to do it. Starting off with the Southern sweeteners such as "sugar" and "honey" might help, as in, "Sugar, you make the best damned sweet potato pie. Think you might be able to bring one to Thanksgiving dinner? I'd surely 'preciate it if you could. You know Mama just loves your pie." Or, "Honey, could you help me clear the table so we can play Pokeno?" You know how to do this, especially if you're a married woman. Do your thing.
2) I will not let the perfect get in the way of the good. Mess up the turkey? So what. When's the last time you cooked a turkey, anyway? Don't let the perfect get in the way of the good. Do what you can to fix it (one year, I had to roll through Boston Market at the last minute because I totally blew the turkey, but they hooked me up), but get on with the holiday and enjoy yourself. There are no medals for a perfect dinner, anyway.
3) I will not take personally anything anyone says about me. Inevitably, Cousin Shanice, whom you suspect has an eating disorder and/or a weave but you can't prove either, is going to make some comment about your weight, your hair, etc., that will usually start off with the falsely familiar endearment "girl," as in "Girl, you sho have put on some weight. Hmm, hmm, hmm!" You will show Cousin Shanice grace and not take personally anything she says about you. Remember that most snarky criticism comes from people who have far more severe personal issues than you can even imagine, e.g., inability to keep down food or grow their own crop of hair. Your happiness just kills them, so smile in their faces and party like it's 1999.
4) I will not respond negatively to stupid stuff. Then again, there's always that one person who decides that Thanksgiving is the time to share news of stuff they should not be proud of but don't have the good sense to be ashamed of. For example, people who should not be repopulating the earth tend to break news of an impending birth around this time. You know these people -- men with more baby mamas than they can count on one hand, women whose children have been taken away from them by the state. Your natural instinct is to slap them upside the head and say, "Fool, you need another child like you need a hole in the head." The problem is that, deep down inside, they know this. You telling them this and responding negatively is only going to raise your blood pressure, not theirs, because they're too stupid to know they shouldn't be proud. In fact, I'm counseling you to do the opposite: Indulge them. Yep, I said it. Indulge them. Ask about the baby's due date, whether they've chosen a name, if they're having a baby shower. Join in their misguided excitement. But don't you volunteer to host that baby shower or I will personally come and slap you upside da hed.
5) I will not let anyone mistreat my children, especially in their own home. This comes with some caveats, however. During the holidays, people who have not seen your children for a while might feel free to make undue comments about their appearance, etc. Now, if these comments are directed to a girl entering puberty, you definitely need to play defense and play it fast, especially if they're coming from an older adult male. Give the offending party notice that your child is sensitive about whatever -- her budding breasts, his growth spurt, etc. -- and that you'd appreciate it if they'd leave the topic alone. If the offending party keeps coming with the remarks, you need to pull them to the side and tell them to shut the eff up and, if you're in your home, tell them they need to go home. No child should be verbally assaulted in his or her own home.
Now, there are some caveats. If you're a guest and a parent, you don't get to take a parenting vacation and let your children run wild in someone else's house, and I don't care whose house it is. You need to keep your children well-behaved and under control because they aren't anyone else's responsibility but your own. Bring books, games, whatever, but it's your job to keep them occupied. As my mom used to say, "You laid up and made them kids. Kids don't ask to be born." So, if someone disciplines your bad-ass child because you didn't take care of it first, well, shame on you.
6) I did not create the dysfunction, and I cannot fix it; therefore, I will sit back and watch it like really bad dinner theater. Chances are, the eff'd up things about your family are not of your own creation. Chances are, you can't fix the dysfunction. Since you didn't cause it and you can't fix it, you might as well pretend that you're at some really bad dinner theater, fill your plate, and sit back and watch as if you don't know these people. Pretend you're invisible and detach yourself from the situation. Trust me, you'll have some good stories to share with your co-workers the following week.
With that, you're prepared for the holidays.
P.S. Happy Birthday, BMNB!
First, the Manifesto. There are some simple realities of family life that we all need to remember around this time of year. In the words of my sister, The Writing Diva, I'd like to think of each of them as a holiday "slap upside da hed." Here goes:
1. To borrow from Donald Rumsfeld, you don't go into the holidays with the family you want; you go into the holidays with the family you have. Spending countless hours huddled around a large table over a perfectly (or imperfectly) roasted dead bird and cholesterol-enhancing side dishes isn't going to change your family into the Cosbys, which leads me to my next slap:
2) Past is prologue. If Aunt Sadie Mae acted a fool last Thanksgiving, well, guess what? She's probably going to act a fool this Thanksgiving. For you, it's drama; for her, it's an encore performance. Either way, it's coming. This leads me to my next slap:
3) Expectation is the mother of disappointment. If you expect people to act differently than they always have, you're doomed to be disappointed. No expectations, no disappointment. See how that works? I have a relative who once complained to me about another relative he didn't want to have over for holiday dinners because she always got drunk and it annoyed him. My response: Stop expecting her to do anything other than what she's always done. If you stop expecting her to be sober, you won't be disappointed when she isn't. Not serving any alcohol might help, too.
4) Unless you raised them or or abused them, your relatives' dysfunction is neither your fault nor your problem. During the holidays, in the spirit of charity and good cheer, we often take on the problems and dysfunction of folks not of our own creation, often to our own detriment. Stop with that. Right now, I said. Besides, even assuming these dysfunctional folks could be fixed, you sure ain't gonna fix them over the holidays because there's simply not enough time.
5) You are not "Save The Children," and you don't have to feed the world. Money is tight and time is even tighter. Everybody needs to pitch in and help to make Thanksgiving dinner "accessible" to everyone who's coming. Instead of footing the bill by yourself for some mondo Thanksgiving dinner, hold a potluck and make everybody bring something, even if it's just two liters of Coke. It's a recession, you ain't Donald Trump, and neither am I, so let's stop fronting, shall we?
Now the mantras. Invariably, there are situations that will occur during the holidays that will make you want to take your guns out of the gun safe (You do have a gun safe, don't you?). Don't do that. Instead, recite and live these mantras or the duration of the holidays:
1) I will prepare myself as much as possible. That means having a game plan going into Thanksgiving, in particular. If you're hosting, plan your menu, stick to your plans, be the biyatch, and tell everybody else what they're going to do or bring in language that makes it sound like you 're asking them to do it. Starting off with the Southern sweeteners such as "sugar" and "honey" might help, as in, "Sugar, you make the best damned sweet potato pie. Think you might be able to bring one to Thanksgiving dinner? I'd surely 'preciate it if you could. You know Mama just loves your pie." Or, "Honey, could you help me clear the table so we can play Pokeno?" You know how to do this, especially if you're a married woman. Do your thing.
2) I will not let the perfect get in the way of the good. Mess up the turkey? So what. When's the last time you cooked a turkey, anyway? Don't let the perfect get in the way of the good. Do what you can to fix it (one year, I had to roll through Boston Market at the last minute because I totally blew the turkey, but they hooked me up), but get on with the holiday and enjoy yourself. There are no medals for a perfect dinner, anyway.
3) I will not take personally anything anyone says about me. Inevitably, Cousin Shanice, whom you suspect has an eating disorder and/or a weave but you can't prove either, is going to make some comment about your weight, your hair, etc., that will usually start off with the falsely familiar endearment "girl," as in "Girl, you sho have put on some weight. Hmm, hmm, hmm!" You will show Cousin Shanice grace and not take personally anything she says about you. Remember that most snarky criticism comes from people who have far more severe personal issues than you can even imagine, e.g., inability to keep down food or grow their own crop of hair. Your happiness just kills them, so smile in their faces and party like it's 1999.
4) I will not respond negatively to stupid stuff. Then again, there's always that one person who decides that Thanksgiving is the time to share news of stuff they should not be proud of but don't have the good sense to be ashamed of. For example, people who should not be repopulating the earth tend to break news of an impending birth around this time. You know these people -- men with more baby mamas than they can count on one hand, women whose children have been taken away from them by the state. Your natural instinct is to slap them upside the head and say, "Fool, you need another child like you need a hole in the head." The problem is that, deep down inside, they know this. You telling them this and responding negatively is only going to raise your blood pressure, not theirs, because they're too stupid to know they shouldn't be proud. In fact, I'm counseling you to do the opposite: Indulge them. Yep, I said it. Indulge them. Ask about the baby's due date, whether they've chosen a name, if they're having a baby shower. Join in their misguided excitement. But don't you volunteer to host that baby shower or I will personally come and slap you upside da hed.
5) I will not let anyone mistreat my children, especially in their own home. This comes with some caveats, however. During the holidays, people who have not seen your children for a while might feel free to make undue comments about their appearance, etc. Now, if these comments are directed to a girl entering puberty, you definitely need to play defense and play it fast, especially if they're coming from an older adult male. Give the offending party notice that your child is sensitive about whatever -- her budding breasts, his growth spurt, etc. -- and that you'd appreciate it if they'd leave the topic alone. If the offending party keeps coming with the remarks, you need to pull them to the side and tell them to shut the eff up and, if you're in your home, tell them they need to go home. No child should be verbally assaulted in his or her own home.
Now, there are some caveats. If you're a guest and a parent, you don't get to take a parenting vacation and let your children run wild in someone else's house, and I don't care whose house it is. You need to keep your children well-behaved and under control because they aren't anyone else's responsibility but your own. Bring books, games, whatever, but it's your job to keep them occupied. As my mom used to say, "You laid up and made them kids. Kids don't ask to be born." So, if someone disciplines your bad-ass child because you didn't take care of it first, well, shame on you.
6) I did not create the dysfunction, and I cannot fix it; therefore, I will sit back and watch it like really bad dinner theater. Chances are, the eff'd up things about your family are not of your own creation. Chances are, you can't fix the dysfunction. Since you didn't cause it and you can't fix it, you might as well pretend that you're at some really bad dinner theater, fill your plate, and sit back and watch as if you don't know these people. Pretend you're invisible and detach yourself from the situation. Trust me, you'll have some good stories to share with your co-workers the following week.
With that, you're prepared for the holidays.
P.S. Happy Birthday, BMNB!
"Girlcotting" the 2010 Winter Olympics
Some boys take an athletic girl
And hide her away from the rest of the world . . .
Girls wanna be the ones to jump at the sun
Oh girls, they wanna ski jump
Oh girls just wanna ski jump . . .
- a parody of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," with apologies to Cyndi Lauper
The person with the record for the longest ski jump at the Vancouver Olympic facility will not be competing in the 2010 Winter Olympics. Women aren't allowed to compete in the ski jump, one event that has been in the Winter Olympics since its inception. And according to the Christian Science Monitor, the person who holds the ski jump record for that facility, Lindsey Van, an American, will not be competing. Because she's a woman.
So, let me get this straight: Women can lead nations, die in combat, compete in Olympic boxing -- but they can't ski jump? The IOC says there aren't enough nations and competitors to justify including women ski jumpers.
But they still include curling not only as an event, but an event for both sexes? Who watches curling, anyway?
I call B.S. And I call for a "girlcott" of the 2010 Winter Olympics by every woman who has ever told her sister, mother, daughter, or granddaughter that they can achieve whatever they want if they put their hearts into it.
So, as much as I love ice skating and men's speed skating (I'm sorry, but for heterosexual females, men's speed skating is acceptable porn -- love those tight catsuits! Thanks for the, uh, memories, Eric Heiden!), I'll be turning the channel and sitting out the 2010 Winter Olympics along with Lindsey Van's ski jumping. Until women can compete in any event they choose alongside men, I'll be girlcotting any international sports event that excludes us.
'Cause girls just wanna to ski jump.
To sign a petition to include women's ski jumping in the Olympics, visit here.
And hide her away from the rest of the world . . .
Girls wanna be the ones to jump at the sun
Oh girls, they wanna ski jump
Oh girls just wanna ski jump . . .
- a parody of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," with apologies to Cyndi Lauper
The person with the record for the longest ski jump at the Vancouver Olympic facility will not be competing in the 2010 Winter Olympics. Women aren't allowed to compete in the ski jump, one event that has been in the Winter Olympics since its inception. And according to the Christian Science Monitor, the person who holds the ski jump record for that facility, Lindsey Van, an American, will not be competing. Because she's a woman.
So, let me get this straight: Women can lead nations, die in combat, compete in Olympic boxing -- but they can't ski jump? The IOC says there aren't enough nations and competitors to justify including women ski jumpers.
But they still include curling not only as an event, but an event for both sexes? Who watches curling, anyway?
I call B.S. And I call for a "girlcott" of the 2010 Winter Olympics by every woman who has ever told her sister, mother, daughter, or granddaughter that they can achieve whatever they want if they put their hearts into it.
So, as much as I love ice skating and men's speed skating (I'm sorry, but for heterosexual females, men's speed skating is acceptable porn -- love those tight catsuits! Thanks for the, uh, memories, Eric Heiden!), I'll be turning the channel and sitting out the 2010 Winter Olympics along with Lindsey Van's ski jumping. Until women can compete in any event they choose alongside men, I'll be girlcotting any international sports event that excludes us.
'Cause girls just wanna to ski jump.
To sign a petition to include women's ski jumping in the Olympics, visit here.
The Greatest Concert That Never Was
Something very, very good came out of something very, very bad.
The very, very bad thing? That would be the movie "Couples Retreat." BMNB and I don't always agree on which movies to see. I wanted to see "This Is It," but he wanted comedy on the same plane as "The Hangover." Despite the bad movie reviews, he wanted to see "Couples Retreat." I agreed.
It is the only time I have ever not only walked out on a movie, but demanded my money back. It is the first time BMNB and I did this as a couple.
The movie is produced, co-written and starring Vince Vaughn. It starts with a scene in which one of Vaughn's buddies, an overweight brother who has just gone through a painful divorce and has taken up with a twenty-something year-old, is in a motorcycle dealership trying to convince Vaughn's character over the phone to co-sign a loan for him to buy a motorcycle to please his girlfriend since his divorce has wrecked his credit. To persuade Vaughn's character to co-sign, the brother proclaims the purchase of the motorcycle to be "a black thing" that Vaughn's character "wouldn't understand." Vaughn's character chides him: "Don't go playing the race card with me."
Ugh.
By the time the four couples involved get to the couples retreat on a tropical island, the brother and his girlfriend (how they could afford a couples retreat when the brother couldn't afford a motorcycle because of bad credit is beyond me) are the racial foils in a poorly written script. The girlfriend, a stereotypical ignorant hood rat, doesn't know that "wahoo" is a fish and, when informed, refuses to order it and starts spouting off about the "Mexicans" in the back cooking, only to be corrected about her racism by one of the white wives who is "1/12 Latina."
Ugh.
"Why we gotta be the ignorant ones?" BMNB asked. I suggested, for the second time, that we not only leave, but that we ask for our money back and go see "This Is It." He agreed. And we got our money back.
Maybe Vince Vaughn doesn't know how to write comedies in which black people are funny without being the stereotypical butt of the jokes. It can be done, Vince Vaughn. Maybe you need to see some funny black films like Boomerang, Brown Sugar, and the like.
Anyway, we left. And I am so grateful, because "This Is It" was a treat. It is, without a doubt, the greatest concert that never was.
"This Is It" is not just footage of rehearsals for Michael Jackson's last tour -- it includes behind-the-scenes footage of how the concert tour was going to be put together -- all the special effects, the costume design, the stage design, the choreography, everything. With every glimpse into these facets involving people who are the best of their respective crafts from around the world, I kept saying, "WOW. That is COOL!" You see how Michael Jackson wanted to give his best performance ever and leave his fans mesmerized. I was mesmerized by the film itself.
I was amazed by Jackson, not because the rehearsals represented his best performances ever -- they didn't, and they weren't intended to. What amazed me was that Jackson, presumably because he was trying to preserve his voice, sang at what can be best called "half-throttle" -- and even then he was better than most singers, rarely missing a note. And the moves. At age 50, Michael still had the moves. They were in his freakin' DNA. He didn't have to rehearse all the choreography from his videos. It was in his DNA, and he could tap into it at any moment. And he did. Spontaneously, at times. Despite being surrounded by dancers half his age, even as good as those dancers were -- and they were -- you could still tell that Michael was the master and they were still the students. Brilliant students, but students nonetheless.
The singers and the musicians brought it, too. And in one scene, a woman guitarist doing a solo is encouraged by Michael to shine. "I want to hear your highest note. I want you to shine. And we'll all be right here with you." How many stars of his caliber are that generous to want those around them to shine as much as he did?
To a person, each and every artist involved in this production was a die-hard fan determined to give his or her all to this effort. The costume designers talked about working with other designers and even the folks at Swarovski to create one-of-a-kind electrical costumes that had never been created before for a concert tour. The special effects folks re-filmed parts of Michael's videos (I won't tell which) in 3-D, catapulted dancers from below the stage floor, and even had Michael on a cherry-picker high above the audience. The musicians appreciated that Michael knew what he wanted, knew his music, just knew, with one begging Michael to do his own sound checks because, in his words, "Only you can see it, Michael." One aspiring dancer took the next available flight from Australia upon hearing of auditions just two days before. Another who was chosen from the audition chorus line to be part of the tour dropped to her knees and cried when she was chosen. The dancers chosen for the tour, many of them fans of Michael since their childhoods, were determined to be, as director Kenny Ortega dictated, "extensions of Michael Jackson himself."
One thing you'll notice is that Michael was a benevolent perfectionist. He knew exactly what he wanted things to sound and look like and would give direction with clarity and an overabundance of love, often saying, "with love," after giving instructions. The closest he ever comes to being a divo is when a musician assures him that, with respect to a particular song, that "they'll get there," and Michael responds quietly but firmly, "Make sure that we get there." No tantrums, no yelling. More often than not, what you'll hear when someone messes up is Michael saying reassuringly and calmly, "That is why we rehearse," with the patience of a father teaching a child. More than the exceptional talent of Michael and those around him, what shines in this film is Michael's kindness and childlike joy in what he was doing. At times, when he's busting a move, a wry, child-like smile emerges, like he can't help but take joy in what he's doing and can't contain himself. At one point he even starts singing at full throttle, only to reign himself in. His musical director tells him, "That's okay. You were feeling it, Michael." Because he was. And you will, too. Sometimes his own dancers and staff would break out into applause just watching Michael. They couldn't help it. You, too, might find yourself waving your arms from side to side when Michael sings "I'll Be There," for what probably was the last time.
But for the fact that I was sitting in one of the middle rows, I would have gotten out of my seat and danced, too. I applauded loudly as if I were at a concert. And I appreciated Michael's environmental message, which was unexpected, and, most of all, his message of love for all.
If you're a Michael Jackson fan, you need to see this movie to appreciate all that would have been. You should also see it as a tribute to those excellent musicians, singers, dancers, choreographers, special effects artists, aerialists, costume designers, stage designers, makeup artists, and the like who, as Michael asked of them, "gave their all" to put on a show that would have been second to none, that would have pushed the boundaries of what a concert could be, just like Michael pushed the boundaries of dance, music, videos. And kindness.
Because that was how Michael Jackson rolled.
The very, very bad thing? That would be the movie "Couples Retreat." BMNB and I don't always agree on which movies to see. I wanted to see "This Is It," but he wanted comedy on the same plane as "The Hangover." Despite the bad movie reviews, he wanted to see "Couples Retreat." I agreed.
It is the only time I have ever not only walked out on a movie, but demanded my money back. It is the first time BMNB and I did this as a couple.
The movie is produced, co-written and starring Vince Vaughn. It starts with a scene in which one of Vaughn's buddies, an overweight brother who has just gone through a painful divorce and has taken up with a twenty-something year-old, is in a motorcycle dealership trying to convince Vaughn's character over the phone to co-sign a loan for him to buy a motorcycle to please his girlfriend since his divorce has wrecked his credit. To persuade Vaughn's character to co-sign, the brother proclaims the purchase of the motorcycle to be "a black thing" that Vaughn's character "wouldn't understand." Vaughn's character chides him: "Don't go playing the race card with me."
Ugh.
By the time the four couples involved get to the couples retreat on a tropical island, the brother and his girlfriend (how they could afford a couples retreat when the brother couldn't afford a motorcycle because of bad credit is beyond me) are the racial foils in a poorly written script. The girlfriend, a stereotypical ignorant hood rat, doesn't know that "wahoo" is a fish and, when informed, refuses to order it and starts spouting off about the "Mexicans" in the back cooking, only to be corrected about her racism by one of the white wives who is "1/12 Latina."
Ugh.
"Why we gotta be the ignorant ones?" BMNB asked. I suggested, for the second time, that we not only leave, but that we ask for our money back and go see "This Is It." He agreed. And we got our money back.
Maybe Vince Vaughn doesn't know how to write comedies in which black people are funny without being the stereotypical butt of the jokes. It can be done, Vince Vaughn. Maybe you need to see some funny black films like Boomerang, Brown Sugar, and the like.
Anyway, we left. And I am so grateful, because "This Is It" was a treat. It is, without a doubt, the greatest concert that never was.
"This Is It" is not just footage of rehearsals for Michael Jackson's last tour -- it includes behind-the-scenes footage of how the concert tour was going to be put together -- all the special effects, the costume design, the stage design, the choreography, everything. With every glimpse into these facets involving people who are the best of their respective crafts from around the world, I kept saying, "WOW. That is COOL!" You see how Michael Jackson wanted to give his best performance ever and leave his fans mesmerized. I was mesmerized by the film itself.
I was amazed by Jackson, not because the rehearsals represented his best performances ever -- they didn't, and they weren't intended to. What amazed me was that Jackson, presumably because he was trying to preserve his voice, sang at what can be best called "half-throttle" -- and even then he was better than most singers, rarely missing a note. And the moves. At age 50, Michael still had the moves. They were in his freakin' DNA. He didn't have to rehearse all the choreography from his videos. It was in his DNA, and he could tap into it at any moment. And he did. Spontaneously, at times. Despite being surrounded by dancers half his age, even as good as those dancers were -- and they were -- you could still tell that Michael was the master and they were still the students. Brilliant students, but students nonetheless.
The singers and the musicians brought it, too. And in one scene, a woman guitarist doing a solo is encouraged by Michael to shine. "I want to hear your highest note. I want you to shine. And we'll all be right here with you." How many stars of his caliber are that generous to want those around them to shine as much as he did?
To a person, each and every artist involved in this production was a die-hard fan determined to give his or her all to this effort. The costume designers talked about working with other designers and even the folks at Swarovski to create one-of-a-kind electrical costumes that had never been created before for a concert tour. The special effects folks re-filmed parts of Michael's videos (I won't tell which) in 3-D, catapulted dancers from below the stage floor, and even had Michael on a cherry-picker high above the audience. The musicians appreciated that Michael knew what he wanted, knew his music, just knew, with one begging Michael to do his own sound checks because, in his words, "Only you can see it, Michael." One aspiring dancer took the next available flight from Australia upon hearing of auditions just two days before. Another who was chosen from the audition chorus line to be part of the tour dropped to her knees and cried when she was chosen. The dancers chosen for the tour, many of them fans of Michael since their childhoods, were determined to be, as director Kenny Ortega dictated, "extensions of Michael Jackson himself."
One thing you'll notice is that Michael was a benevolent perfectionist. He knew exactly what he wanted things to sound and look like and would give direction with clarity and an overabundance of love, often saying, "with love," after giving instructions. The closest he ever comes to being a divo is when a musician assures him that, with respect to a particular song, that "they'll get there," and Michael responds quietly but firmly, "Make sure that we get there." No tantrums, no yelling. More often than not, what you'll hear when someone messes up is Michael saying reassuringly and calmly, "That is why we rehearse," with the patience of a father teaching a child. More than the exceptional talent of Michael and those around him, what shines in this film is Michael's kindness and childlike joy in what he was doing. At times, when he's busting a move, a wry, child-like smile emerges, like he can't help but take joy in what he's doing and can't contain himself. At one point he even starts singing at full throttle, only to reign himself in. His musical director tells him, "That's okay. You were feeling it, Michael." Because he was. And you will, too. Sometimes his own dancers and staff would break out into applause just watching Michael. They couldn't help it. You, too, might find yourself waving your arms from side to side when Michael sings "I'll Be There," for what probably was the last time.
But for the fact that I was sitting in one of the middle rows, I would have gotten out of my seat and danced, too. I applauded loudly as if I were at a concert. And I appreciated Michael's environmental message, which was unexpected, and, most of all, his message of love for all.
If you're a Michael Jackson fan, you need to see this movie to appreciate all that would have been. You should also see it as a tribute to those excellent musicians, singers, dancers, choreographers, special effects artists, aerialists, costume designers, stage designers, makeup artists, and the like who, as Michael asked of them, "gave their all" to put on a show that would have been second to none, that would have pushed the boundaries of what a concert could be, just like Michael pushed the boundaries of dance, music, videos. And kindness.
Because that was how Michael Jackson rolled.
Not of God
The shooting at Fort Hood is sad, puzzling, and disconcerting. What's also sad is that leaders of Muslim communities around the United States had to immediately speak out and distance themselves from the acts of the alleged shooter, Major Nidal Malik Hasan, and clarify that his alleged acts did not represent the Muslim community or the Muslim faith.
Was there ever any doubt?
Why is it that when someone of a "marginalized" group goes batshit crazy and does something tragic and fatal, Americans tend to go all Pearl Harbor on the group the crazy person is part of -- whether it's race (Japanese) or religion (in this case, Islam). Don't we know better by now? Don't we know that - or at least I believe that -- there is no faith that would call for or condone the mass slaughter of innocent people? It pains me to know that Muslim places of worship received threatening phone calls within hours of the Fort Hood massacre. Don't we know better by now?
What Major Hasan did, or is alleged to have done, was not of God. Plain and simple. Acts like that are not of God, no matter how many times man or Satan wants to pin evil on God with shouts of "Allah Akbar" (God is Great) or its equivalent. Not of God. Plain and simple.
I would have thought that a so-called "Christian nation" would know that by now.
Was there ever any doubt?
Why is it that when someone of a "marginalized" group goes batshit crazy and does something tragic and fatal, Americans tend to go all Pearl Harbor on the group the crazy person is part of -- whether it's race (Japanese) or religion (in this case, Islam). Don't we know better by now? Don't we know that - or at least I believe that -- there is no faith that would call for or condone the mass slaughter of innocent people? It pains me to know that Muslim places of worship received threatening phone calls within hours of the Fort Hood massacre. Don't we know better by now?
What Major Hasan did, or is alleged to have done, was not of God. Plain and simple. Acts like that are not of God, no matter how many times man or Satan wants to pin evil on God with shouts of "Allah Akbar" (God is Great) or its equivalent. Not of God. Plain and simple.
I would have thought that a so-called "Christian nation" would know that by now.
Witnesses and Accomplices
I haven't written about the gang rape of the young girl at a high school in Richmond, California that was not only witnessed by many, but was recorded on cell phones but not reported. Words fail me. In my mind, these "witnesses" are also "accomplices." Words fail me. What kind of animals could watch someone be brutalized and not hit even three buttons on a cell phone -- "911" --that might have stopped it?
My friend and protege, The Outraged Citizen, has provided some extremely thoughtful and well-written commentary on this tragedy. You should read it.
Say a prayer for the girl, her family, and for the souls of those who watched, recorded, and failed to act. Their souls are in need of healing.
Reminds me of that Stevie Wonder song, "Love's In Need of Love Today" . . . .
My friend and protege, The Outraged Citizen, has provided some extremely thoughtful and well-written commentary on this tragedy. You should read it.
Say a prayer for the girl, her family, and for the souls of those who watched, recorded, and failed to act. Their souls are in need of healing.
Reminds me of that Stevie Wonder song, "Love's In Need of Love Today" . . . .
Ain't No "Yum-O" In This GD Cookbook!
As infrequently as I make guest appearances in my own kitchen, there ought to be klieg lights, a makeup artist, a director and a dialogue coach when I show up. Cooking on a regular, sustained basis requires planning and creativity I just don't care to develop. But I know I need to. When I think of what BMNB and I spend eating out -- mind you, we spend a lot less than we did before the furlough -- I could easily feed us for a lot less on $ .99 per lb chickens from Safeway and the like. Again, planning and creativity. Mind you, my mom used to put a meal for eight on the table seven days a week when I was a child. I have no excuse.
I was reading an article on Slate.com about using coupons to get free groceries and after trolling forums I found out about this cookbook entitled -- get this -- "Get In The Kitchen, Bit@hes!". This cookbook is described as "not your Grandma's cookbook." If you visit the author's website, and click on "The Book" tab, you'll be greeted thusly:
Tired of all the cookbooks written by wholesome and sweet chefs that make you want to smack them in the face with a frying pan?
Well… you’re in luck! I’m not gonna coddle you, hold your hand or even tell you that you look hot in an apron. I’m not your momma, sweetheart. I’m your daddy!
Stop wasting money eating out and ordering in. Don’t have the time to cook? Don’t like cooking? Quit your damn whining and Get in the Kitchen!
Just the prompt I needed. There's a free recipe page with entrees the likes of "Love You Long Time Pork Ribs," "Poke Me Pork," and "Trailer Park Chicken Marsala." I haven't tried any yet -- I'm going to try the "Love You Long Time Pork Ribs" -- but just the idea of the book, along with its recipe difficulty rating system -- "Dumb Ass" (easiest), "The Little Chef That Could" (more difficult), and "Are You Fu#@ing Kidding Me?" (hardest) -- had me almost falling off my chair laughing. If someone could go to this trouble to make cooking this easy AND this funny, I need to make the effort to get in the kitchen. If I like the ribs, I'm definitely buying the book.
Ain't no "Yum-O" in this cookbook, no sirree. I guess this lazy bit@h betta get in the kitchen. Between the furloughs, car repairs, vet bills and the holiday season coming up, I need to make a dollar out of 15 cents, starting in the kitchen.
I was reading an article on Slate.com about using coupons to get free groceries and after trolling forums I found out about this cookbook entitled -- get this -- "Get In The Kitchen, Bit@hes!". This cookbook is described as "not your Grandma's cookbook." If you visit the author's website, and click on "The Book" tab, you'll be greeted thusly:
Tired of all the cookbooks written by wholesome and sweet chefs that make you want to smack them in the face with a frying pan?
Well… you’re in luck! I’m not gonna coddle you, hold your hand or even tell you that you look hot in an apron. I’m not your momma, sweetheart. I’m your daddy!
Stop wasting money eating out and ordering in. Don’t have the time to cook? Don’t like cooking? Quit your damn whining and Get in the Kitchen!
Just the prompt I needed. There's a free recipe page with entrees the likes of "Love You Long Time Pork Ribs," "Poke Me Pork," and "Trailer Park Chicken Marsala." I haven't tried any yet -- I'm going to try the "Love You Long Time Pork Ribs" -- but just the idea of the book, along with its recipe difficulty rating system -- "Dumb Ass" (easiest), "The Little Chef That Could" (more difficult), and "Are You Fu#@ing Kidding Me?" (hardest) -- had me almost falling off my chair laughing. If someone could go to this trouble to make cooking this easy AND this funny, I need to make the effort to get in the kitchen. If I like the ribs, I'm definitely buying the book.
Ain't no "Yum-O" in this cookbook, no sirree. I guess this lazy bit@h betta get in the kitchen. Between the furloughs, car repairs, vet bills and the holiday season coming up, I need to make a dollar out of 15 cents, starting in the kitchen.
Letterman Used Power For Sex -- Surprised?
Okay, so let me first admit my bias. I've always thought David Letterman was funnier than Jay Leno. His humor had less reliance on sight gags and was more nuanced and intelligent than Leno's and, to an extent, Carson's, who is one of the greatest in my books.
That said, I'm not so biased as to give Letterman a pass on his past "indiscretions" with female staffers. But surprised? You'd have to have lived in a yert to have been surprised by his actions.
Powerful men use or trade power (and wealth) all the time to get sex, especially if they're, well, unsightly. I'm no beauty queen, but let's face it -- David Letterman is far from gorgeous. I'm talking light years from handsome. But for his height, Middle Earth would have called CBS and asked them to return their missing hobbit. I'd hazard to guess that but for the power of his celebrity and position of authority as a boss, for years he'd have been taking matters into his right hand with a jar of Vaseline beside him, if you know what I mean.
So am I surprised that he used his power as a boss and a celebrity to get laid? Not at all. Happens every day, in workplaces large and small. Power gets traded for sex so much, in the workplace and outside of it, that there ought to be a formal exchange for it, like the Chicago Mercantile Exchange or NASDAQ.
Do you think Monica Lewinsky would have even bothered with Bill Clinton if he had been a middle-aged, mid-level manager at IBM with a scratchy, twanged voice? Would Donna Rice have bothered with Gary Hart but for his political power? Would any woman in her right mind put up with the pomposity of Donald Trump if he were just a working-class construction foreman with a bad combover? I don't think so. I doubt that Jesse Jackson, John Edwards (cute as he is), Eliot Spitzer, Newt Gingrich and the like would have had half the success they've had getting women, sometimes in addition to their wives, but for the power they possess or possessed. C'mon -- if you had seen Eliot Spitzer walking down the street before he was powerful, would you have said to yourself, "There goes my dream boat!" ? I don't think so. More like, "That dude so needs a tan."
What's surprising is that, in this age of so-called women's liberation and empowerment, we women are willing to trade ourselves so easily for something that can slip from a man's hands in the blink of an eye. It takes two to do the horizontal mambo, at least willingly. Given all the legal protections in place against sexual harassment in the workplace, are the women who bumped uglies with Letterman powerless victims or willing participants who were attempting to advance their own careers? Unless somebody sues him, we'll probably never know. It all just has such an ick factor to me.
I never really watched Letterman on a consistent basis after he went to CBS. Now, I just don't want to.
That said, I'm not so biased as to give Letterman a pass on his past "indiscretions" with female staffers. But surprised? You'd have to have lived in a yert to have been surprised by his actions.
Powerful men use or trade power (and wealth) all the time to get sex, especially if they're, well, unsightly. I'm no beauty queen, but let's face it -- David Letterman is far from gorgeous. I'm talking light years from handsome. But for his height, Middle Earth would have called CBS and asked them to return their missing hobbit. I'd hazard to guess that but for the power of his celebrity and position of authority as a boss, for years he'd have been taking matters into his right hand with a jar of Vaseline beside him, if you know what I mean.
So am I surprised that he used his power as a boss and a celebrity to get laid? Not at all. Happens every day, in workplaces large and small. Power gets traded for sex so much, in the workplace and outside of it, that there ought to be a formal exchange for it, like the Chicago Mercantile Exchange or NASDAQ.
Do you think Monica Lewinsky would have even bothered with Bill Clinton if he had been a middle-aged, mid-level manager at IBM with a scratchy, twanged voice? Would Donna Rice have bothered with Gary Hart but for his political power? Would any woman in her right mind put up with the pomposity of Donald Trump if he were just a working-class construction foreman with a bad combover? I don't think so. I doubt that Jesse Jackson, John Edwards (cute as he is), Eliot Spitzer, Newt Gingrich and the like would have had half the success they've had getting women, sometimes in addition to their wives, but for the power they possess or possessed. C'mon -- if you had seen Eliot Spitzer walking down the street before he was powerful, would you have said to yourself, "There goes my dream boat!" ? I don't think so. More like, "That dude so needs a tan."
What's surprising is that, in this age of so-called women's liberation and empowerment, we women are willing to trade ourselves so easily for something that can slip from a man's hands in the blink of an eye. It takes two to do the horizontal mambo, at least willingly. Given all the legal protections in place against sexual harassment in the workplace, are the women who bumped uglies with Letterman powerless victims or willing participants who were attempting to advance their own careers? Unless somebody sues him, we'll probably never know. It all just has such an ick factor to me.
I never really watched Letterman on a consistent basis after he went to CBS. Now, I just don't want to.
Don't Opt In
The public option is back on the table, in a new form. As proposed by Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, the new public option allows states to decide whether to opt in or opt out. I think this is a fair compromise.
For those states whose senators opposed the public option and will probably continue to oppose it in any form, my message to you is this: If Senator Reid's proposal passes and becomes law, don't opt in. At least have the integrity to stand behind the vote of your chosen representatives. Don't opt in.
If you went to one of those town hall meetings and warned of socialism, Barack O'Communism and the like, then own your words and your deeds. Don't opt in. If you love federalism that much and hate so-called "big government" that much that you're willing to stick it to yourselves, well, then, party on. Don't opt in.
Seems to me that the states that most vehemently opposed the public option are also those states that have traditionally had the highest rates of obesity and obesity-related diseases. You know the states I'm talking about. Most of them are in the south. They would only increase the risk in the public option pool, not spread it. Maybe they don't know what it's like not to have access to affordable health care. Maybe they don't care at all.
You see, I know what it's like to have free health care extended to me in a time of need. I was interviewing for jobs in San Francisco during my third year of law school and the only health care coverage I had was through the law school's clinic. I sprained my ankle running for a bus, and a cab driver was kind enough to drop me at a free clinic in San Francisco, for no charge even. There I was, suited and booted, sitting among the drug addicts, the homeless, and the soiled doves, one of whom told me, "Girl, you might as well get tested for AIDS while you're here -- it's free, you know" -- waiting to be seen by a doctor, not knowing how much it would cost. I was seen, bandaged, given a set of crutches and instructions for treating my sprain, and was sent on my way. When I inquired as to a bill (and held my breath), I was told, "It's no charge. This is San Francisco." I told them that I could pay them when I got back to school, even send them back the crutches, and I was told that there was still no charge and that it would cost me more to send the crutches back then what they were worth. Trust me, I wore those crutches out -- in the snow on the way to class, up two flights of stairs to my hovel of a student apartment, you name it.
I know what it's like to be thankful for and in need of health care. I'm sure California will opt in if given the chance. Quite frankly, if the healthy states like Colorado and Hawai'i opt in, California needs to be up in the mix, too. Those high-risk states can go it alone, though, as far as I'm concerned. Maybe their states' rights will give them solace from the pain of not having access to affordable health care.
As my dad would say, sometimes people have too much sense for their own good.
For those states whose senators opposed the public option and will probably continue to oppose it in any form, my message to you is this: If Senator Reid's proposal passes and becomes law, don't opt in. At least have the integrity to stand behind the vote of your chosen representatives. Don't opt in.
If you went to one of those town hall meetings and warned of socialism, Barack O'Communism and the like, then own your words and your deeds. Don't opt in. If you love federalism that much and hate so-called "big government" that much that you're willing to stick it to yourselves, well, then, party on. Don't opt in.
Seems to me that the states that most vehemently opposed the public option are also those states that have traditionally had the highest rates of obesity and obesity-related diseases. You know the states I'm talking about. Most of them are in the south. They would only increase the risk in the public option pool, not spread it. Maybe they don't know what it's like not to have access to affordable health care. Maybe they don't care at all.
You see, I know what it's like to have free health care extended to me in a time of need. I was interviewing for jobs in San Francisco during my third year of law school and the only health care coverage I had was through the law school's clinic. I sprained my ankle running for a bus, and a cab driver was kind enough to drop me at a free clinic in San Francisco, for no charge even. There I was, suited and booted, sitting among the drug addicts, the homeless, and the soiled doves, one of whom told me, "Girl, you might as well get tested for AIDS while you're here -- it's free, you know" -- waiting to be seen by a doctor, not knowing how much it would cost. I was seen, bandaged, given a set of crutches and instructions for treating my sprain, and was sent on my way. When I inquired as to a bill (and held my breath), I was told, "It's no charge. This is San Francisco." I told them that I could pay them when I got back to school, even send them back the crutches, and I was told that there was still no charge and that it would cost me more to send the crutches back then what they were worth. Trust me, I wore those crutches out -- in the snow on the way to class, up two flights of stairs to my hovel of a student apartment, you name it.
I know what it's like to be thankful for and in need of health care. I'm sure California will opt in if given the chance. Quite frankly, if the healthy states like Colorado and Hawai'i opt in, California needs to be up in the mix, too. Those high-risk states can go it alone, though, as far as I'm concerned. Maybe their states' rights will give them solace from the pain of not having access to affordable health care.
As my dad would say, sometimes people have too much sense for their own good.
Michael Jordan Didn't Talk Trash (?)
One of the perils of being an attorney is having to work with other attorneys. My work often involves debating my colleagues on finer points of law, down to the meaning of individual words. It's amazing how different attorneys can read a case and draw different meanings from it. Because my work involves drafting decisions that reflect the legal and factual conclusions of my employer, only when my view of the law and facts prevails does my work ever see the light of day, and never with my name on it.
It can become very tiresome to be in constant debate mode.
I was sharing this sentiment with Black Man Not Blogging (BMNB) on our way to work today, one of the days when we actually shared a ride in together. As usual, he used a sports metaphor to give me advice:
"Jordan didn't talk trash."
What?
BMNB proceeded to explain to me that I need to stop debating folks and let my written legal work do all the talking. Just stop talking, for goodness' sake. "Michael Jordan didn't talk trash. He let his work on the court speak for him. He didn't have to talk trash because his worked backed him up. You need to stop talking and let your work speak for you."
I told him that, in my case, I'm not like guys. When someone attacks my work, I take it personally and feel obliged to defend it. Then I had an epiphany: I needed to leave it on the court, so to speak. Do my work, do my best, and leave my feelings about my work at work. Don't take them with me.
It was only later in the day when I Googled the phrase "Michael Jordan talking trash" did I find out that, yes, indeed, Jordan did talk trash. But he talked trash with a purpose: To get in his opponent's head, distract them, and defeat them.
But I won't let the truth get in the way of a good sports metaphor.
It can become very tiresome to be in constant debate mode.
I was sharing this sentiment with Black Man Not Blogging (BMNB) on our way to work today, one of the days when we actually shared a ride in together. As usual, he used a sports metaphor to give me advice:
"Jordan didn't talk trash."
What?
BMNB proceeded to explain to me that I need to stop debating folks and let my written legal work do all the talking. Just stop talking, for goodness' sake. "Michael Jordan didn't talk trash. He let his work on the court speak for him. He didn't have to talk trash because his worked backed him up. You need to stop talking and let your work speak for you."
I told him that, in my case, I'm not like guys. When someone attacks my work, I take it personally and feel obliged to defend it. Then I had an epiphany: I needed to leave it on the court, so to speak. Do my work, do my best, and leave my feelings about my work at work. Don't take them with me.
It was only later in the day when I Googled the phrase "Michael Jordan talking trash" did I find out that, yes, indeed, Jordan did talk trash. But he talked trash with a purpose: To get in his opponent's head, distract them, and defeat them.
But I won't let the truth get in the way of a good sports metaphor.
Taking Up
I against my brother
My brother and I against our father
My brother, my father and I against our uncle
And all of us against the infidel . . .
Old Arab Proverb (I'm told)
When I was a child, as part of a large black family, I was trained, as were my siblings, to "take up" for any of my siblings if any one of us got into a fight. Mind you, since I was the youngest, I didn't have to make good on this familial pact. It was understood that if any one of us got into a fight or was threatened with one, and there was another one of us around, they had better "take up" for the one who was in a fight or threatened. If we got home and our parents found out that we didn't take up for one another, we were going to get it. We would be judged, and there would be hell to pay. Didn't matter if your sister or brother started the fight -- that would be dealt with later -- all that mattered was that if there was going to be trouble, you'd best be fighting alongside your sibling instead of sitting on the sidelines or fighting against them.
Because "taking up" was a common phenomenon among black families in the ghetto during the '60's and '70's, if you lived in the ghetto, you pretty much knew what your odds were going into a fight. There were people who wouldn't mess with me because they knew my older brother would take up for me. "Don't mess with her. Her brother's crazy." Just the knowledge that you weren't going to be the only one they'd have to do battle with was enough to keep the peace. Don't start none, won't be none. Talk about a deterrent. I guess it was the ghetto equivalent of NATO.
You don't expect when you're in your forties that your siblings would still have to take up for you, but it's nice to know that they would. I won't dignify the person or the act that caused me to seek advice, solace and support from my siblings, but my siblings made it very clear that they would take up for me. Between sips of iced tea and bites of an off-the-chain pound cake (my sisters may not be Southerners, but like Southern women, there's always dessert in their house) I was given an infusion of SWIE-wit and the confirmation that the pact still stood. A subsequent family meeting in my absence involving my oldest brother made clear that the pact still stood.
I am blessed beyond measure to have the family I was born into. I don't know what I did to deserve it, but I know I am blessed.
The pact still stands. We may be sliding into middle age, but the pact still stands.
Thanks to our parents.
My brother and I against our father
My brother, my father and I against our uncle
And all of us against the infidel . . .
Old Arab Proverb (I'm told)
When I was a child, as part of a large black family, I was trained, as were my siblings, to "take up" for any of my siblings if any one of us got into a fight. Mind you, since I was the youngest, I didn't have to make good on this familial pact. It was understood that if any one of us got into a fight or was threatened with one, and there was another one of us around, they had better "take up" for the one who was in a fight or threatened. If we got home and our parents found out that we didn't take up for one another, we were going to get it. We would be judged, and there would be hell to pay. Didn't matter if your sister or brother started the fight -- that would be dealt with later -- all that mattered was that if there was going to be trouble, you'd best be fighting alongside your sibling instead of sitting on the sidelines or fighting against them.
Because "taking up" was a common phenomenon among black families in the ghetto during the '60's and '70's, if you lived in the ghetto, you pretty much knew what your odds were going into a fight. There were people who wouldn't mess with me because they knew my older brother would take up for me. "Don't mess with her. Her brother's crazy." Just the knowledge that you weren't going to be the only one they'd have to do battle with was enough to keep the peace. Don't start none, won't be none. Talk about a deterrent. I guess it was the ghetto equivalent of NATO.
You don't expect when you're in your forties that your siblings would still have to take up for you, but it's nice to know that they would. I won't dignify the person or the act that caused me to seek advice, solace and support from my siblings, but my siblings made it very clear that they would take up for me. Between sips of iced tea and bites of an off-the-chain pound cake (my sisters may not be Southerners, but like Southern women, there's always dessert in their house) I was given an infusion of SWIE-wit and the confirmation that the pact still stood. A subsequent family meeting in my absence involving my oldest brother made clear that the pact still stood.
I am blessed beyond measure to have the family I was born into. I don't know what I did to deserve it, but I know I am blessed.
The pact still stands. We may be sliding into middle age, but the pact still stands.
Thanks to our parents.
A Noble Piece Prize for President Obama
Dear Mr. President,
Congratulations on receiving this year's Nobel Peace Prize. I believe you may be the second [correction: third] African American man to be so lauded and the third sitting U.S. President. You are to be commended for capturing the attention of the world and inspiring hope for a nuclear-free and peaceful world.
As you noted in your remarks to the press on Friday, "the Nobel Peace Prize has not just been used to honor specific achievement; it's also been used as a means to give momentum to a set of causes." Well, I'd like to give momentum to a cause dear to my heart, health care reform. Real health care reform. To that end, I've decided to award you Black Woman Blogging's first Noble Piece Prize. Unfortunately, the prize does not come with $1.4 million dollars. All that it entitles you to is a piece of my mind in furtherance of a noble cause.
Mr. President, I fervently believe that a public option in health care reform is the only real reform possible. I realize that the recent versions of health care reform legislation have left out this option as a "non-starter." I believe that the only entity powerful enough to negotiate effectively with Big Pharma on the price of prescription drugs (that my taxpayer dollars help create through research and development tax credits) and compete effectively against health insurance companies is the public option, not fifty or so state co-ops.
Mr. President, we already have rationed health care as feared by opponents of the public option. It's call denial of claims by health insurance companies. And we already effectively have a "public option" -- the emergency rooms of hospitals around the nation where the uninsured sick cannot be denied care and for which the public picks up the tab either through higher health insurance rates or higher taxes for programs like Medi-Cal.
You acknowledge that the Nobel Peace Prize was awarded to you for leadership in service of the aspirations of people around the world. Well, Mr. President, leadership is doing that which is difficult, unpopular, and necessary, whether it's pardoning President Nixon or pushing the 1964 Civil Rights Act through Congress without committee hearings. The public option is, in my opinion, difficult, unpopular, and extremely necessary.
To that end, I hope you take this piece of my mind and put it to a noble use. If you have the Democratic Party votes to get a public option passed, I think you should do it, even if it means holding Blue Dog Democrats' feet to the fire (quite frankly, I think Blue Dog Democrats are the political world's equivalent of pre-op tranny prostitutes -- they walk the walk, talk the talk, but they don't deliver what they're selling) and making the Republicans bend over and hold their ankles. You've tried bipartisanship and it isn't working. The Republicans and their talk-radio lackeys would like nothing more than to see you fail for reasons unrelated to the merits of your cause and, in some cases, for reasons related to a new-age racism that's gone "sheetless." Again, leadership, true leadership, is doing that which is difficult, unpopular, and necessary. Getting Democrats to unite on anything of substance is difficult; you will always be unpopular with the Republicans; but the public option is, in my humble opinion, very necessary.
Again, my congratulations on your becoming a Nobel Laureate and a Noble Laureate. And give my regards and birthday wishes to Bo.
Very truly yours,
Black Woman Blogging
Congratulations on receiving this year's Nobel Peace Prize. I believe you may be the second [correction: third] African American man to be so lauded and the third sitting U.S. President. You are to be commended for capturing the attention of the world and inspiring hope for a nuclear-free and peaceful world.
As you noted in your remarks to the press on Friday, "the Nobel Peace Prize has not just been used to honor specific achievement; it's also been used as a means to give momentum to a set of causes." Well, I'd like to give momentum to a cause dear to my heart, health care reform. Real health care reform. To that end, I've decided to award you Black Woman Blogging's first Noble Piece Prize. Unfortunately, the prize does not come with $1.4 million dollars. All that it entitles you to is a piece of my mind in furtherance of a noble cause.
Mr. President, I fervently believe that a public option in health care reform is the only real reform possible. I realize that the recent versions of health care reform legislation have left out this option as a "non-starter." I believe that the only entity powerful enough to negotiate effectively with Big Pharma on the price of prescription drugs (that my taxpayer dollars help create through research and development tax credits) and compete effectively against health insurance companies is the public option, not fifty or so state co-ops.
Mr. President, we already have rationed health care as feared by opponents of the public option. It's call denial of claims by health insurance companies. And we already effectively have a "public option" -- the emergency rooms of hospitals around the nation where the uninsured sick cannot be denied care and for which the public picks up the tab either through higher health insurance rates or higher taxes for programs like Medi-Cal.
You acknowledge that the Nobel Peace Prize was awarded to you for leadership in service of the aspirations of people around the world. Well, Mr. President, leadership is doing that which is difficult, unpopular, and necessary, whether it's pardoning President Nixon or pushing the 1964 Civil Rights Act through Congress without committee hearings. The public option is, in my opinion, difficult, unpopular, and extremely necessary.
To that end, I hope you take this piece of my mind and put it to a noble use. If you have the Democratic Party votes to get a public option passed, I think you should do it, even if it means holding Blue Dog Democrats' feet to the fire (quite frankly, I think Blue Dog Democrats are the political world's equivalent of pre-op tranny prostitutes -- they walk the walk, talk the talk, but they don't deliver what they're selling) and making the Republicans bend over and hold their ankles. You've tried bipartisanship and it isn't working. The Republicans and their talk-radio lackeys would like nothing more than to see you fail for reasons unrelated to the merits of your cause and, in some cases, for reasons related to a new-age racism that's gone "sheetless." Again, leadership, true leadership, is doing that which is difficult, unpopular, and necessary. Getting Democrats to unite on anything of substance is difficult; you will always be unpopular with the Republicans; but the public option is, in my humble opinion, very necessary.
Again, my congratulations on your becoming a Nobel Laureate and a Noble Laureate. And give my regards and birthday wishes to Bo.
Very truly yours,
Black Woman Blogging
Mama Was A Germophobe
Mama was a germaphobe . . .
Wherever there was a germ, she would burn it
And when she died
She left me Clorox and Pine-Sol
-- A parody of "Papa Was A Rolling Stone," with apologies to The Temptations
I was cleaning one of my bathrooms yesterday, and the smell of lemon-scented Pine-Sol wafted from the sinks, countertops, toilet and bath tub. French lavender-scented Method All-Surface Cleaner had been slathered on the window blinds that I had previously dusted. The windows, mirrors and chrome sink fixtures shined with the assistance of Windex. I had finished sweeping and Swiffering the floor and was getting ready to mop and clean the baseboards.
I thought to myself, “Mom would be proud.”
You see, my mom, SWIE, was a germaphobe. Or rather, a germ assassin. Her cleaning philosophy could be summed up as this: If a surface was going to have contact with food, any human orifice, or feet, it had to be disinfected. Dishes, flatware, pots and pans were washed with dishwashing detergent and Clorox. Sheets, pillow cases, any manner of bed linens, bath towels, underwear -- no matter the quality or color – as well as bath mats were laundered in laundry detergent, hot water, and Clorox. Toilet bowls, sinks, showers, and bathtubs were cleaned with Pine-Sol. Floors were mopped with Pine-Sol. And kitchen towels were washed separately from bath towels, underwear or anything else in order to avoid any cross-contamination in the cleaning process. I think she even put bleach in carpet cleaning solution.
She came by this germ aversion naturally and through personal experience. My mom once briefly worked doing cleaning in a hospital, coming into contact with all variants of human effluents. I think that’s where she developed her love of Clorox. She might have also gotten her germ aversion from her mother, who had once worked briefly as a maid in a cathouse, or at least that’s what I remember her telling me. Contrary to popular stereotype, “soiled doves” of the bordello persuasion are pretty particular about their “work environment,” so to speak, or at least they were at that time. My grandmother said she laundered a whole lot of sheets in scalding hot water, detergent, and, I think, Clorox. And this was before washing machines. But my grandmother was always pretty particular not only about cleanliness but timeliness. She would always brag to my mother that she always had her house cleaned from top to bottom AND Sunday dinner on the table by 2:00 pm on Sunday, a deadline my mother wasn’t always able to meet.
In other words, my mother couldn’t stand dirtiness. She even had somewhat of a grading system.
If your house was dirty, she would say that it was “just nasty.” But it was the way she said “nasty” – drawing out the “a” to a long “aaaaahhhhh” that sounded like, “Well, that’s just naaaahhhsty.”
If your house was beyond nasty, it was filthy. Nasty was for untidy; filthy was for visible dirt, dust, mold, mildew, dried food, poop, etc. on surfaces exposed to food, human orifices, or feet. And then there were her superlative phrases: “That don’t make no kind of sense” added to “nasty” or “filthy” ratcheted up the dirtiness factor; “That don’t make a lick of sense” ratcheted it up another notch; and if “That don’t make a lick-a-bit of sense” was added to “That’s just filthy,” well, then, you had reached the height of uncleanliness in my mom’s book, to wit: “Well, that’s just filthy. That don’t make a lick-a-bit of sense.”
In order to maintain my mother’s sense of order and cleanliness, she had us kids on a cleaning schedule. Every day, the following tasks were carried out by the six of us: 1) Cleaning the front bathroom; 2) Cleaning the back bathroom; 3) Dusting and polishing the furniture in the living room, cleaning the patio window with Windex, and vacuuming the living room and the hallway; 4) Morning dishes; and 5) Evening dishes. Mind you, this was a 1200 or so square foot house. Cleaning the bathrooms entailed cleaning the sinks, toilets, and bathtub or shower with Pine-Sol, cleaning the mirrors with Windex, sweeping the floor, and putting out a clean hand towel. Bath mats were switched and the floors were mopped, with Pine-Sol, weekly. Evening dishes required two people – one to wash, the other to wipe – and entailed washing (with detergent and Clorox, of course) and drying dishes, putting away leftovers, taking the stove apart and cleaning all the eyes, wiping down the counters (with detergent and Clorox, of course) and wiping off the dining room table cover (she had a solid maple dining room table with a plastic cover), and sweeping the floor. I remember the discussion that went on about whether I, the youngest child, should be added to the cleaning rotation. The test? If you were tall enough to stand on a chair and put away a dish, you were added to the cleaning rotation. I think I was seven when it happened. My brothers had it worse -- they had the gender-specific chores of taking out the garbage, yard work, and poop-scooping added to their daily chores.
Morning dishes, however, was the most crucial task of the day. My mom got home at 4:15 or 4:30 every day, so morning dishes had to be done before she got home. Why? My mother refused to cook in a dirty kitchen. Absolutely refused. If she came home and the kitchen wasn’t clean – I mean, nothing on the counters except appliances, no dishes drying in the dishstand, no food bits in the sink -- she would change out of her work shoes into her house slippers, grab her purse, car keys, and cigarettes, and go to her sister’s house and leave us without dinner. That wasn’t such a big deal until my dad came home and wanted to know why there was no dinner. If you were the person responsible for there not being dinner, there was hell to pay. My dad loved my mother’s cooking almost as much as he loved us, and after a long day working on printing presses, he’d come home hungry and grouchy because of his hunger. He was not someone to be starved because of an indolent child who lost track of time watching Star Trek.
Weekends had their own rhythm. Bed linens were stripped and laundered – and I’m talking seven sets of bed linens – in – what else? – hot water, laundry detergent, and Clorox. Floors were mopped in Pine-Sol. My mom upped her cleaning game on the weekend, due in small part, I think, because of the possibility of a visit from her mother. If your house wasn’t clean, Granny would talk about you. My mother didn’t want to be “that” daughter – you know, the daughter that “don’t keep house” -- so if we got wind that Granny was coming, we would fly into action to clean and tidy the home beyond our usual tasks to meet not only our mother’s approval, but our grandmother’s.
My mom loved Clorox, Pine-Sol, Windex, and her BFF later in life would be Tilex. She would have loved the Swiffer. She was not an environmentalist; in fact, it was the germs of the environment that were to be battled and conquered, in her view. No "Simple Green" or "Seventh Generation" for her, no sirree. She would routinely take a week of vacation during the spring just to do spring cleaning on her house, washing walls, carpets, drapes, outside windows, etc., believing that no one would ever clean her house as well as she did because it was her house. She didn't like dirt or dirty smells, and woe be unto those who didn’t spray air freshener after “dropping some kids in the pool.” She would hunt you down, ask you, “Did something just crawl up inside you and DIE?”, and then, with one hand holding her nose and the other wielding Glade Air Freshener like a flame thrower, would kick open the offending bathroom's door like a DEA agent and prepare to do battle with your poop stench.
I don’t always meet my mother’s cleaning standards as to frequency, but I do meet them as to breadth and depth of cleaning, even ratcheting up my game a bit. My obsession is baseboards: You can tell if my life is all out of whack if there’s dirt on my white baseboards. My husband thought I was being obsessive when I told him that we had to go around our entire rental with pails of hot water and Spic-and-Span (Pine-Sol is too hard on paint) to clean all the white baseboards in a 2600 square foot house. When he saw the effect, he was hooked. A baseboard cleaning convert.
My mom would be proud of us. That is, if she came on the right day.
Wherever there was a germ, she would burn it
And when she died
She left me Clorox and Pine-Sol
-- A parody of "Papa Was A Rolling Stone," with apologies to The Temptations
I was cleaning one of my bathrooms yesterday, and the smell of lemon-scented Pine-Sol wafted from the sinks, countertops, toilet and bath tub. French lavender-scented Method All-Surface Cleaner had been slathered on the window blinds that I had previously dusted. The windows, mirrors and chrome sink fixtures shined with the assistance of Windex. I had finished sweeping and Swiffering the floor and was getting ready to mop and clean the baseboards.
I thought to myself, “Mom would be proud.”
You see, my mom, SWIE, was a germaphobe. Or rather, a germ assassin. Her cleaning philosophy could be summed up as this: If a surface was going to have contact with food, any human orifice, or feet, it had to be disinfected. Dishes, flatware, pots and pans were washed with dishwashing detergent and Clorox. Sheets, pillow cases, any manner of bed linens, bath towels, underwear -- no matter the quality or color – as well as bath mats were laundered in laundry detergent, hot water, and Clorox. Toilet bowls, sinks, showers, and bathtubs were cleaned with Pine-Sol. Floors were mopped with Pine-Sol. And kitchen towels were washed separately from bath towels, underwear or anything else in order to avoid any cross-contamination in the cleaning process. I think she even put bleach in carpet cleaning solution.
She came by this germ aversion naturally and through personal experience. My mom once briefly worked doing cleaning in a hospital, coming into contact with all variants of human effluents. I think that’s where she developed her love of Clorox. She might have also gotten her germ aversion from her mother, who had once worked briefly as a maid in a cathouse, or at least that’s what I remember her telling me. Contrary to popular stereotype, “soiled doves” of the bordello persuasion are pretty particular about their “work environment,” so to speak, or at least they were at that time. My grandmother said she laundered a whole lot of sheets in scalding hot water, detergent, and, I think, Clorox. And this was before washing machines. But my grandmother was always pretty particular not only about cleanliness but timeliness. She would always brag to my mother that she always had her house cleaned from top to bottom AND Sunday dinner on the table by 2:00 pm on Sunday, a deadline my mother wasn’t always able to meet.
In other words, my mother couldn’t stand dirtiness. She even had somewhat of a grading system.
If your house was dirty, she would say that it was “just nasty.” But it was the way she said “nasty” – drawing out the “a” to a long “aaaaahhhhh” that sounded like, “Well, that’s just naaaahhhsty.”
If your house was beyond nasty, it was filthy. Nasty was for untidy; filthy was for visible dirt, dust, mold, mildew, dried food, poop, etc. on surfaces exposed to food, human orifices, or feet. And then there were her superlative phrases: “That don’t make no kind of sense” added to “nasty” or “filthy” ratcheted up the dirtiness factor; “That don’t make a lick of sense” ratcheted it up another notch; and if “That don’t make a lick-a-bit of sense” was added to “That’s just filthy,” well, then, you had reached the height of uncleanliness in my mom’s book, to wit: “Well, that’s just filthy. That don’t make a lick-a-bit of sense.”
In order to maintain my mother’s sense of order and cleanliness, she had us kids on a cleaning schedule. Every day, the following tasks were carried out by the six of us: 1) Cleaning the front bathroom; 2) Cleaning the back bathroom; 3) Dusting and polishing the furniture in the living room, cleaning the patio window with Windex, and vacuuming the living room and the hallway; 4) Morning dishes; and 5) Evening dishes. Mind you, this was a 1200 or so square foot house. Cleaning the bathrooms entailed cleaning the sinks, toilets, and bathtub or shower with Pine-Sol, cleaning the mirrors with Windex, sweeping the floor, and putting out a clean hand towel. Bath mats were switched and the floors were mopped, with Pine-Sol, weekly. Evening dishes required two people – one to wash, the other to wipe – and entailed washing (with detergent and Clorox, of course) and drying dishes, putting away leftovers, taking the stove apart and cleaning all the eyes, wiping down the counters (with detergent and Clorox, of course) and wiping off the dining room table cover (she had a solid maple dining room table with a plastic cover), and sweeping the floor. I remember the discussion that went on about whether I, the youngest child, should be added to the cleaning rotation. The test? If you were tall enough to stand on a chair and put away a dish, you were added to the cleaning rotation. I think I was seven when it happened. My brothers had it worse -- they had the gender-specific chores of taking out the garbage, yard work, and poop-scooping added to their daily chores.
Morning dishes, however, was the most crucial task of the day. My mom got home at 4:15 or 4:30 every day, so morning dishes had to be done before she got home. Why? My mother refused to cook in a dirty kitchen. Absolutely refused. If she came home and the kitchen wasn’t clean – I mean, nothing on the counters except appliances, no dishes drying in the dishstand, no food bits in the sink -- she would change out of her work shoes into her house slippers, grab her purse, car keys, and cigarettes, and go to her sister’s house and leave us without dinner. That wasn’t such a big deal until my dad came home and wanted to know why there was no dinner. If you were the person responsible for there not being dinner, there was hell to pay. My dad loved my mother’s cooking almost as much as he loved us, and after a long day working on printing presses, he’d come home hungry and grouchy because of his hunger. He was not someone to be starved because of an indolent child who lost track of time watching Star Trek.
Weekends had their own rhythm. Bed linens were stripped and laundered – and I’m talking seven sets of bed linens – in – what else? – hot water, laundry detergent, and Clorox. Floors were mopped in Pine-Sol. My mom upped her cleaning game on the weekend, due in small part, I think, because of the possibility of a visit from her mother. If your house wasn’t clean, Granny would talk about you. My mother didn’t want to be “that” daughter – you know, the daughter that “don’t keep house” -- so if we got wind that Granny was coming, we would fly into action to clean and tidy the home beyond our usual tasks to meet not only our mother’s approval, but our grandmother’s.
My mom loved Clorox, Pine-Sol, Windex, and her BFF later in life would be Tilex. She would have loved the Swiffer. She was not an environmentalist; in fact, it was the germs of the environment that were to be battled and conquered, in her view. No "Simple Green" or "Seventh Generation" for her, no sirree. She would routinely take a week of vacation during the spring just to do spring cleaning on her house, washing walls, carpets, drapes, outside windows, etc., believing that no one would ever clean her house as well as she did because it was her house. She didn't like dirt or dirty smells, and woe be unto those who didn’t spray air freshener after “dropping some kids in the pool.” She would hunt you down, ask you, “Did something just crawl up inside you and DIE?”, and then, with one hand holding her nose and the other wielding Glade Air Freshener like a flame thrower, would kick open the offending bathroom's door like a DEA agent and prepare to do battle with your poop stench.
I don’t always meet my mother’s cleaning standards as to frequency, but I do meet them as to breadth and depth of cleaning, even ratcheting up my game a bit. My obsession is baseboards: You can tell if my life is all out of whack if there’s dirt on my white baseboards. My husband thought I was being obsessive when I told him that we had to go around our entire rental with pails of hot water and Spic-and-Span (Pine-Sol is too hard on paint) to clean all the white baseboards in a 2600 square foot house. When he saw the effect, he was hooked. A baseboard cleaning convert.
My mom would be proud of us. That is, if she came on the right day.
Welcome Home, Roman Polanski!
Dear Mr. Polanski,
On behalf of the citizens of California, it is my pleasure to welcome you, albeit somewhat prematurely, back to California. We’ve been waiting for you for about thirty years or so, give or take. Your anticipated arrival was rather unexpected and left us woefully unprepared. I would try to greet you in person upon your arrival, but my understanding is that, for security purposes, you arrival via the federal government’s “Con-Air” airline will not be made public.
You will notice that many things have changed in California, and in the California prison system, since you left. The prison population is much larger, more diverse, and less tolerant of crimes against children. Given prison overcrowding, it is a well-known fact that the prisoners, not the guards, run the prisons. Given the crime to which you pleaded guilty, as well as your wealth, privilege, and your use of these attributes to enjoy a wonderful new life in Europe, you might find your next home and your new neighbors to be less than welcoming. Perhaps you can break the ice by regaling your new friends with tales of films you directed that they may have seen on a prison movie night. In light of your fugitive status – oh, pardon me, I mean “living in exile” – you will probably find yourself in close quarters with an element of society you’ve only seen in, well, films. As a director, I’m sure you’re more than adept at dealing with difficult people.
You will also find that the California criminal justice system has changed. You will be far more likely to face a woman judge now than probably at any time during California’s history. Not good odds for you. You’re also far more likely to face a non-white judge. That may not work well for you, either. But with friends like Martin Scorsese and Woody Allen to attest to your changed character and brilliant film career abroad, maybe your judge will sentence you to time served. On second thought, given Woody’s penchant for young, daughter-like girls, you might not want to have him as a character witness or mention him to your new friends.
Be forewarned, though: If you are indeed sentenced to serve additional time, your new friends will probably do to you what you did to that thirteen year-old girl, but without the benefit of champagne, Quaaludes, or Vaseline for that matter. Enclosed please find a check for $10.00 to put on your books for the purchase of Vaseline and soap-on-a-rope. I think you’ll find they’ll come in right handy.
Again, our warmest wishes to you upon your anticipated return to California.
Yours very truly,
Black Woman Blogging
On behalf of the citizens of California, it is my pleasure to welcome you, albeit somewhat prematurely, back to California. We’ve been waiting for you for about thirty years or so, give or take. Your anticipated arrival was rather unexpected and left us woefully unprepared. I would try to greet you in person upon your arrival, but my understanding is that, for security purposes, you arrival via the federal government’s “Con-Air” airline will not be made public.
You will notice that many things have changed in California, and in the California prison system, since you left. The prison population is much larger, more diverse, and less tolerant of crimes against children. Given prison overcrowding, it is a well-known fact that the prisoners, not the guards, run the prisons. Given the crime to which you pleaded guilty, as well as your wealth, privilege, and your use of these attributes to enjoy a wonderful new life in Europe, you might find your next home and your new neighbors to be less than welcoming. Perhaps you can break the ice by regaling your new friends with tales of films you directed that they may have seen on a prison movie night. In light of your fugitive status – oh, pardon me, I mean “living in exile” – you will probably find yourself in close quarters with an element of society you’ve only seen in, well, films. As a director, I’m sure you’re more than adept at dealing with difficult people.
You will also find that the California criminal justice system has changed. You will be far more likely to face a woman judge now than probably at any time during California’s history. Not good odds for you. You’re also far more likely to face a non-white judge. That may not work well for you, either. But with friends like Martin Scorsese and Woody Allen to attest to your changed character and brilliant film career abroad, maybe your judge will sentence you to time served. On second thought, given Woody’s penchant for young, daughter-like girls, you might not want to have him as a character witness or mention him to your new friends.
Be forewarned, though: If you are indeed sentenced to serve additional time, your new friends will probably do to you what you did to that thirteen year-old girl, but without the benefit of champagne, Quaaludes, or Vaseline for that matter. Enclosed please find a check for $10.00 to put on your books for the purchase of Vaseline and soap-on-a-rope. I think you’ll find they’ll come in right handy.
Again, our warmest wishes to you upon your anticipated return to California.
Yours very truly,
Black Woman Blogging
The Hard Part Isn't That They Leave You
Today is the 11th anniversary of my mother's passing. And right now, a friend of mine is dealing with losing a parent to cancer as I did on this day eleven years ago. I've given all the usual advice about giving your loved one permission to let go and how parents will hang on even while suffering if they are afraid for the children or spouse they're leaving behind. What I didn't say was this:
The hard part isn't that they leave you; it's that they leave you behind.
Losing a parent is like having a hole ripped in your heart. And more likely than not, the person you would have looked to most to help you through such grief is the very parent who left you behind. The sage advice, the comfort, even the comfort food -- gone. You're on your own to pick up the pieces of your life and carry on.
It's funny -- as I've gotten older, I realize that there is no one on the planet that I hate so much that I would wish upon them the death of a parent. Even when people I don't particularly care for lose a parent, I become all mushy and supportive. Other than the loss of a child or a spouse, I can't imagine a more profound grief.
I remember saying to my mother in my mind shortly after her passing, "I understand that you have to go. Just don't leave me behind. Take me with you so I don't have to go through what I know I can't handle."
But it wasn't to be. Because it wasn't meant to be.
My mother used to always say that no one brings a child into the world to have them suffer; you bring them into the world that they may live their lives to the fullest. She was big on us children living a bigger and more full life than hers -- traveling, going to college, aspiring to big things. She always wanted more for us than what she had for herself. So the best that I can do -- that any child can do, for that matter -- to honor the passing of a parent is to live the life they gave you to the fullest.
Rest in peace, SWIE.
The hard part isn't that they leave you; it's that they leave you behind.
Losing a parent is like having a hole ripped in your heart. And more likely than not, the person you would have looked to most to help you through such grief is the very parent who left you behind. The sage advice, the comfort, even the comfort food -- gone. You're on your own to pick up the pieces of your life and carry on.
It's funny -- as I've gotten older, I realize that there is no one on the planet that I hate so much that I would wish upon them the death of a parent. Even when people I don't particularly care for lose a parent, I become all mushy and supportive. Other than the loss of a child or a spouse, I can't imagine a more profound grief.
I remember saying to my mother in my mind shortly after her passing, "I understand that you have to go. Just don't leave me behind. Take me with you so I don't have to go through what I know I can't handle."
But it wasn't to be. Because it wasn't meant to be.
My mother used to always say that no one brings a child into the world to have them suffer; you bring them into the world that they may live their lives to the fullest. She was big on us children living a bigger and more full life than hers -- traveling, going to college, aspiring to big things. She always wanted more for us than what she had for herself. So the best that I can do -- that any child can do, for that matter -- to honor the passing of a parent is to live the life they gave you to the fullest.
Rest in peace, SWIE.
Find Mitrice Richardson Search Party 9/26 8:00 am
I could get all into the press reports about the circumstances of Mitrice Richardson's disappearance after being released from custody from the Los Angeles Sheriff's Department. I could go all ballistic about Matt Lauer calling her parents by their first names and asking whether Mitrice was "street smart," which I doubt he would have asked of Elizabeth Smart's parents or any white parents for that matter. I could go all out talking about how the authorities' search for Mitrice pales in comparison to the search for Natalee Holloway by American authorities, and Natalee wasn't even lost in America.
I could, but it doesn't matter right now. Mitrice has been missing for a week. She's somebody's daughter, somebody's grandchild, and whatever the circumstances are surrounding her disappearance, she needs to be found. Now.
A search party for Mitrice Richardson has been organized for 8:00 am today. For more information, please see
http://www.findmitrice.info/search-team-info
Please share this information far and wide, especially with folks in the Los Angeles area. If you can't be part of the search, you can spread the word to those who can. Let's bring this young woman home to her family.
I could, but it doesn't matter right now. Mitrice has been missing for a week. She's somebody's daughter, somebody's grandchild, and whatever the circumstances are surrounding her disappearance, she needs to be found. Now.
A search party for Mitrice Richardson has been organized for 8:00 am today. For more information, please see
http://www.findmitrice.info/search-team-info
Please share this information far and wide, especially with folks in the Los Angeles area. If you can't be part of the search, you can spread the word to those who can. Let's bring this young woman home to her family.
No More Vanity Candidates
Former eBay CEO Meg Whitman has declared her candidacy for governor of California.
Whoopdee shit.
Former Hewlett-Packard CEO Carly Fiorina may declare her run for the U.S. Senate seat now occupied by Senator Barbara Boxer.
Whoopdee freakin' doo.
Maybe it's because I was born and raised here, maybe it's because I'm a fifth generation Californian, but I've decided that given the desperate straits California is in, I'm done with vanity candidates.
What is a vanity candidate, you say? A vanity candidate is a candidate who has no government experience whatsoever and assumes they can not only succeed in an elected position, but succeed in one of the highest elected positions possible, to wit, Governor Ronald Reagan and Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger.
The problem I have with vanity candidates for governor is this: If you have no experience working in or with a deliberative body, how are you going to get the two-thirds votes needed every year to pass a budget in California?
As much as I respect the accomplishments of Meg Whitman, IMHO, her experience does not translate. Hell, eBay doesn't even have inventory, a supply chain, or stores to manage. It does not have a vast sales force. eBay freakin' sells other people's shit -- over the Internet, no less. Has Meg Whitman ever had to get a majority or two-thirds of 120 ideological yahoos to agree on legislation? If she hasn't, why should she get to have on-the-job training at the expense of millions of Californians? The stakes are just too high to have someone without some form of legislative experience sitting in the governor's office. When a CEO misses earnings targets, shareholders and board members are affected, maybe even employees. When the governor can't get a budget passed on time and the government shuts down because it runs out of money, in-home caregivers, small businesses that contract with the government, and millions dependent on the smooth functioning of this now dysfunctional state are affected.
The stakes are too high.
And did I miss something, but wasn't Carly Fiorina fired? Now, I've "mutually agreed to part" with a job or two, but I didn't then try to run for the U.S. Senate or Governor. Again, the problem I have with Meg Whitman is the same problem I have with Fiorina -- lack of legislative experience, either in trying to get something through a legislature or being part of one. The stakes aren't as high with this position, but I don't think Fiorina's experience translates any more than Whitman's.
If Whitman and Fiorina really want to serve the public, why don't the do as Clint Eastwood did and start small -- run for mayor, city council, school board, etc. Why don't they get their government experience somewhere where they can do the least amount of damage if they fail. Earn our respect for their new accomplishments in government, then run for governor or the U.S. Senate.
The stakes are just too high.
And if you think I'm being political, for the record, I'm not feeling Gavin Newsom for governor, either. Schtupping your friend's wife? I can't get past the eeeewwwww factor. It's not quite John Phillips or Woody Allen-esque, but it's kinda close.
Whoopdee shit.
Former Hewlett-Packard CEO Carly Fiorina may declare her run for the U.S. Senate seat now occupied by Senator Barbara Boxer.
Whoopdee freakin' doo.
Maybe it's because I was born and raised here, maybe it's because I'm a fifth generation Californian, but I've decided that given the desperate straits California is in, I'm done with vanity candidates.
What is a vanity candidate, you say? A vanity candidate is a candidate who has no government experience whatsoever and assumes they can not only succeed in an elected position, but succeed in one of the highest elected positions possible, to wit, Governor Ronald Reagan and Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger.
The problem I have with vanity candidates for governor is this: If you have no experience working in or with a deliberative body, how are you going to get the two-thirds votes needed every year to pass a budget in California?
As much as I respect the accomplishments of Meg Whitman, IMHO, her experience does not translate. Hell, eBay doesn't even have inventory, a supply chain, or stores to manage. It does not have a vast sales force. eBay freakin' sells other people's shit -- over the Internet, no less. Has Meg Whitman ever had to get a majority or two-thirds of 120 ideological yahoos to agree on legislation? If she hasn't, why should she get to have on-the-job training at the expense of millions of Californians? The stakes are just too high to have someone without some form of legislative experience sitting in the governor's office. When a CEO misses earnings targets, shareholders and board members are affected, maybe even employees. When the governor can't get a budget passed on time and the government shuts down because it runs out of money, in-home caregivers, small businesses that contract with the government, and millions dependent on the smooth functioning of this now dysfunctional state are affected.
The stakes are too high.
And did I miss something, but wasn't Carly Fiorina fired? Now, I've "mutually agreed to part" with a job or two, but I didn't then try to run for the U.S. Senate or Governor. Again, the problem I have with Meg Whitman is the same problem I have with Fiorina -- lack of legislative experience, either in trying to get something through a legislature or being part of one. The stakes aren't as high with this position, but I don't think Fiorina's experience translates any more than Whitman's.
If Whitman and Fiorina really want to serve the public, why don't the do as Clint Eastwood did and start small -- run for mayor, city council, school board, etc. Why don't they get their government experience somewhere where they can do the least amount of damage if they fail. Earn our respect for their new accomplishments in government, then run for governor or the U.S. Senate.
The stakes are just too high.
And if you think I'm being political, for the record, I'm not feeling Gavin Newsom for governor, either. Schtupping your friend's wife? I can't get past the eeeewwwww factor. It's not quite John Phillips or Woody Allen-esque, but it's kinda close.
Some Things That Are Just Plain Wrong . . . .
"Project Runway" in Los Angeles. Why would you film a show about fashion in L.A. when you could film it in the fashion capital of the world -- New York?
Elderly people on Medicare protesting against a public option for health care reform. Duh! You already have the public option and you just don't want to share. Haters.
Even more wrong: Elderly people on Medicare, on scooters with oxygen tanks, protesting against a public option for health care. My tax dollars more than likely paid for their public option to get a scooter and an oxygen tank.
NeNe Leakes on "The Real Housewives of Atlanta." She's entertaining to watch, but she stirs the pot. All drama leads back to her. And Kim just can't catch a break.
California's Legislature and Governor. Tore up from the floor up. One of the world's largest economies and its government had to issue IOU's. Hell, I don't even accept IOU's from family anymore.
Little people prostitutes. I'm not making this up. My niece saw one on Watt Avenue. Perhaps I've been watching too much "Little People, Big World," but life is hard enough, no pun intended, for little people without having to do that for a living. But, as one of my siblings remarked, "Well, at least she doesn't have to kneel."
Platform stiletto heels. When are we women going to say "no" to the fashion industry and its vast conspiracy to hobble women's feet? Nothing says "Me love you long time" like a pair of platform stiletto heels. Why not go all out and make them clear heels, throw a goldfish and some water in them, and slide down the stripper pole? Any woman who actually has to be on her feet for any length of time should just stop with this madness.
Even more wrong: Peep-toe platform stiletto heels worn by a woman with a bunion. Haven't you done enough damage already? Don't you think we can see that big toe of yours pointing 15 degrees to the right? Just stop the madness. Enough already. You know who you are.
Kyra Sedgwick without an Emmy for "The Closer." I mean, Glenn Close is good and all, but this is just wrong. I've never seen a lackluster performance from this woman on this show.
Health care reform without a public option. Anything else is just B.S. Health care reform should lower costs and cover everyone. I just don't see the other options doing this. The market has already screwed health care up, so the government can't do any worse.
President Obama calling Kanye West a jackass. Yes, Kanye showed his behind. But it wasn't worthy of presidential comment or piling on. Plus, it violated the Barber Shop Rule: Thou shalt not dog another brother out except in the barber shop.
Burying Michael Jackson more than two months after his death. Hell, even a good roast will get freezer burn after two months. What were they waiting for? It's not like he was going to come back if they waited long enough.
Birthers. Ignorance + access to art and sign supplies at the Dollar Tree = Birthers. If ever there were a case for making college free, they are it.
Old men wearing hip-hop clothing. All the Buddha bellies out there, wave your hands like you just don't care . . .and grow up and buy a grown-ass suit. You no longer get to wear a hoodie after 30.
Elderly people on Medicare protesting against a public option for health care reform. Duh! You already have the public option and you just don't want to share. Haters.
Even more wrong: Elderly people on Medicare, on scooters with oxygen tanks, protesting against a public option for health care. My tax dollars more than likely paid for their public option to get a scooter and an oxygen tank.
NeNe Leakes on "The Real Housewives of Atlanta." She's entertaining to watch, but she stirs the pot. All drama leads back to her. And Kim just can't catch a break.
California's Legislature and Governor. Tore up from the floor up. One of the world's largest economies and its government had to issue IOU's. Hell, I don't even accept IOU's from family anymore.
Little people prostitutes. I'm not making this up. My niece saw one on Watt Avenue. Perhaps I've been watching too much "Little People, Big World," but life is hard enough, no pun intended, for little people without having to do that for a living. But, as one of my siblings remarked, "Well, at least she doesn't have to kneel."
Platform stiletto heels. When are we women going to say "no" to the fashion industry and its vast conspiracy to hobble women's feet? Nothing says "Me love you long time" like a pair of platform stiletto heels. Why not go all out and make them clear heels, throw a goldfish and some water in them, and slide down the stripper pole? Any woman who actually has to be on her feet for any length of time should just stop with this madness.
Even more wrong: Peep-toe platform stiletto heels worn by a woman with a bunion. Haven't you done enough damage already? Don't you think we can see that big toe of yours pointing 15 degrees to the right? Just stop the madness. Enough already. You know who you are.
Kyra Sedgwick without an Emmy for "The Closer." I mean, Glenn Close is good and all, but this is just wrong. I've never seen a lackluster performance from this woman on this show.
Health care reform without a public option. Anything else is just B.S. Health care reform should lower costs and cover everyone. I just don't see the other options doing this. The market has already screwed health care up, so the government can't do any worse.
President Obama calling Kanye West a jackass. Yes, Kanye showed his behind. But it wasn't worthy of presidential comment or piling on. Plus, it violated the Barber Shop Rule: Thou shalt not dog another brother out except in the barber shop.
Burying Michael Jackson more than two months after his death. Hell, even a good roast will get freezer burn after two months. What were they waiting for? It's not like he was going to come back if they waited long enough.
Birthers. Ignorance + access to art and sign supplies at the Dollar Tree = Birthers. If ever there were a case for making college free, they are it.
Old men wearing hip-hop clothing. All the Buddha bellies out there, wave your hands like you just don't care . . .and grow up and buy a grown-ass suit. You no longer get to wear a hoodie after 30.
Margaret and Helen and Doubting My Racial Identity
When I come across something really cool, I can't help but share it. I recently came across two really cool blogs -- Margaret and Helen and Stuff White People Like. The first has me LMAO, the second has me doubting how black Black Woman Blogging really is.
I was told about Margaret and Helen by my niece, the Single Parent Goddess. Margaret and Helen are in their eighties and have been friends for over sixty years. Margaret writes more of the blog than Helen, and their blog entries include, "Sarah Palin Called a Family Meeting and the Rabbit Lived", "Pat Buchanan Is A Cracker" and "Life's a Bitch . . . and So Is Dick Cheney." I hope they don't mind me linking to their blog, but I've been LMAO reading it and I just had to share.
I came across Stuff White People Like by doing a Google search of blogs that have been turned into books. This is one of them -- it has a list of about 128 things white people like, like coffee, Barack Obama, yoga, breakfast places, public radio, study abroad, farmer's markets, and writer's workshops. The problem is, yours truly likes those things, too.
Maybe I'm really White Woman Blogging?
I was told about Margaret and Helen by my niece, the Single Parent Goddess. Margaret and Helen are in their eighties and have been friends for over sixty years. Margaret writes more of the blog than Helen, and their blog entries include, "Sarah Palin Called a Family Meeting and the Rabbit Lived", "Pat Buchanan Is A Cracker" and "Life's a Bitch . . . and So Is Dick Cheney." I hope they don't mind me linking to their blog, but I've been LMAO reading it and I just had to share.
I came across Stuff White People Like by doing a Google search of blogs that have been turned into books. This is one of them -- it has a list of about 128 things white people like, like coffee, Barack Obama, yoga, breakfast places, public radio, study abroad, farmer's markets, and writer's workshops. The problem is, yours truly likes those things, too.
Maybe I'm really White Woman Blogging?
To Patrick Swayze, Thanks for Everything! BWB
Let me just say right off the bat: I adore drag queens. Adore them. I adore men who appreciate the difficulty women go through trying to embody the idea of what femininity is, what with all the hair removal, foundational undergarments, hair gyrations, makeup application, etc., and not only embrace these tribulations but make them art and take them to a higher level. They make me feel like I have no excuse for being the beauty slacker that I am, except that they seem to enjoy all that preparation way more than I do. RuPaul, The Lady Chablis, Miss J. Alexander, God bless 'em.
I am reminded of drag queens because of the passing of Patrick Swayze. Most remember him for his turns in "Dirty Dancing" and "Ghost," but, being the drag queen fan that I am, I remember him most for his role of Vida Boheme in "To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar." In it, Swayze portrayed one of the most stunning drag queens I'd ever seen, even to this day. It wasn't that his makeup or hair were stunning -- they were -- it was his mannerisms. He seemed to capture femininity in a way that wasn't campy or overdone. It was like he understood women -- how we walk, how we hold our hands when we're talking, how we move. Like he got us.
And I'd like to think the part of Vida Boheme was in some way representative of the kind of person he was: Someone who stands up for others when he has little to gain for doing so. In "Wong Foo," Vida Boheme, along with her drag queen pal Noxeema (played by Wesley Snipes), and drag princess Chi-Chi (played by John Leguizamo), are stranded in a rural town waiting for a car part to arrive for their broken-down old-school Cadillac convertible. At the climax of the movie, the proprietress of the bed and breakfast where the drag queens are staying (played by Stockard Channing, who has the most beautiful eyes in the business second to Liz Taylor and just above Terrence Howard), is yet again being beaten by her abusive spouse. Vida, who herself had been abused, is no longer able to stand hearing the beating, intervenes on the woman's half, drops her voice into a manly range, and beats the crap out of the abusive husband. I'd like to think there are more people out there who would intervene when a man is beating the crap out of his wife. My heroes are people who reach out and help others, especially folks who can't stand up for themselves, when there's nothing for them to gain but the glory of giving. I don't own many movies, but "Wong Foo" is one of them for that reason. Oh, and the costumes.
Whoopi Goldberg credits Swazye for her Oscar win for Best Supporting Actress in "Ghost." I don't doubt it. Swayze could have easily gone all Hollywood and said and did nothing in support of Goldberg getting the part of Oda May in "Ghost" and getting the Oscar nomination. In what I would like to believe was his true nature, he stood up for and behind her even though he had absolutely nothing to gain. We all know that Whoopi should have won the Oscar for "The Color Purple." But the fact that this fellow actor threw the weight of his celebrity behind an actor he obviously felt was deserving of the movie industry's highest accolade when he had nothing to gain is what put Swayze in the hero category for me.
It might have been in his DNA. I was watching "Good Morning America" this week, and Debbie Allen appeared to publicize the remake of "Fame." She mentioned the loss of Patrick Swayze and how his mother gave her dance classes as a child when she couldn't afford them. I can't perfectly recall the story, but it was something to the effect of Allen staring in the window at Mrs. Swayze's dance studio in Houston and Mrs. Swayze asking Allen, "Little girl, what are you doing?" Allen replied that she couldn't take dance classes. "Little girl, can you dance?" Patrick's mother asked. "Yes, ma'am, I can dance." Patrick's mother told Allen to come back with her dance shoes for dance classes.
People who extend themselves to others with no hope of gain whatsoever. What a wonderful gene pool to be part of.
I enjoyed "Ghost" and "Dirty Dancing," but "Wong Foo" is the movie I want to remember Patrick Swayze by because I'd like to think that, even without the drag, he was the kind of person who would stand up for someone else less fortunate or less able to stand up for themselves.
What a wonderful life, a wonderful example.
To Patrick Swayze, thanks for everything! BWB
I am reminded of drag queens because of the passing of Patrick Swayze. Most remember him for his turns in "Dirty Dancing" and "Ghost," but, being the drag queen fan that I am, I remember him most for his role of Vida Boheme in "To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar." In it, Swayze portrayed one of the most stunning drag queens I'd ever seen, even to this day. It wasn't that his makeup or hair were stunning -- they were -- it was his mannerisms. He seemed to capture femininity in a way that wasn't campy or overdone. It was like he understood women -- how we walk, how we hold our hands when we're talking, how we move. Like he got us.
And I'd like to think the part of Vida Boheme was in some way representative of the kind of person he was: Someone who stands up for others when he has little to gain for doing so. In "Wong Foo," Vida Boheme, along with her drag queen pal Noxeema (played by Wesley Snipes), and drag princess Chi-Chi (played by John Leguizamo), are stranded in a rural town waiting for a car part to arrive for their broken-down old-school Cadillac convertible. At the climax of the movie, the proprietress of the bed and breakfast where the drag queens are staying (played by Stockard Channing, who has the most beautiful eyes in the business second to Liz Taylor and just above Terrence Howard), is yet again being beaten by her abusive spouse. Vida, who herself had been abused, is no longer able to stand hearing the beating, intervenes on the woman's half, drops her voice into a manly range, and beats the crap out of the abusive husband. I'd like to think there are more people out there who would intervene when a man is beating the crap out of his wife. My heroes are people who reach out and help others, especially folks who can't stand up for themselves, when there's nothing for them to gain but the glory of giving. I don't own many movies, but "Wong Foo" is one of them for that reason. Oh, and the costumes.
Whoopi Goldberg credits Swazye for her Oscar win for Best Supporting Actress in "Ghost." I don't doubt it. Swayze could have easily gone all Hollywood and said and did nothing in support of Goldberg getting the part of Oda May in "Ghost" and getting the Oscar nomination. In what I would like to believe was his true nature, he stood up for and behind her even though he had absolutely nothing to gain. We all know that Whoopi should have won the Oscar for "The Color Purple." But the fact that this fellow actor threw the weight of his celebrity behind an actor he obviously felt was deserving of the movie industry's highest accolade when he had nothing to gain is what put Swayze in the hero category for me.
It might have been in his DNA. I was watching "Good Morning America" this week, and Debbie Allen appeared to publicize the remake of "Fame." She mentioned the loss of Patrick Swayze and how his mother gave her dance classes as a child when she couldn't afford them. I can't perfectly recall the story, but it was something to the effect of Allen staring in the window at Mrs. Swayze's dance studio in Houston and Mrs. Swayze asking Allen, "Little girl, what are you doing?" Allen replied that she couldn't take dance classes. "Little girl, can you dance?" Patrick's mother asked. "Yes, ma'am, I can dance." Patrick's mother told Allen to come back with her dance shoes for dance classes.
People who extend themselves to others with no hope of gain whatsoever. What a wonderful gene pool to be part of.
I enjoyed "Ghost" and "Dirty Dancing," but "Wong Foo" is the movie I want to remember Patrick Swayze by because I'd like to think that, even without the drag, he was the kind of person who would stand up for someone else less fortunate or less able to stand up for themselves.
What a wonderful life, a wonderful example.
To Patrick Swayze, thanks for everything! BWB
Taylor, Welcome to Serena's World
I’m not even going to try to defend it: What Kanye West said to Taylor Swift was wrong, just plain ol’ wrong, wrong as two left shoes. I doubt he would have behaved in the same manner toward any similar up-and-coming black female singer like Ciara or Jazmine Sullivan. I am of the humble opinion that race had something to do with it. Maybe you disagree. Had he tried the same mess with Alicia Keys, though, I bet she would have beat him with a Moon Man like he had stolen something. New Yorkers roll hard. I don’t mess with them.
In my humble opinion, Kanye’s use of Beyonce’s excellence to throw shade on Taylor Swift’s accomplishment is an all-too-common act: Someone diminishing or stealing your achievement because of your race. This type of behavior plays itself out on playgrounds, in classrooms, conference rooms, cubicles and cafeterias, on ball fields and on assembly lines all across America. That said, what Taylor Swift experienced was not any more wrong merely because she experienced it. This time, the shoe was on the other foot. But it was still the wrong shoe no matter what.
In other words: Taylor Swift, welcome to Serena Williams’ world.
I don’t think Serena Williams’ outburst was acceptable either, but was far more understandable than Kanye’s. The tennis world has been less than welcoming and accepting of the Williams sisters, and Lord knows they have endured far more than they’ve responded to or retaliated against. They’ve had their victories reduced to nothing more than the product of brute-like mannish strength, a parallel I’ve yet to see be drawn to white women in tennis, instead of a mixture of power, finesse, and strategy that they represent. Even John McEnroe has had the gall to criticize their behavior despite the fact that his misbehavior, although also criticized at the time, earned him the somewhat-adoring moniker, “Bad Boy of Tennis.” The sisters have been unfairly criticized as looking less than feminine, and I’ve recently seen comments on the internet calling them “monkeys.” Now, I remember when Serena rocked that black catsuit at the U.S. Open, it elicited the collective “Dayum!” heard from brothers ‘round the world. Even my brother, who is old enough to be Serena’s father, remarked that Serena “wasn’t no little girl anymore,” and he was particularly happy that she wasn’t HIS little girl, if you get my drift. Black folks’ definition of feminine does not exclude dark, large, shapely, or muscular. But I digress.
The world of tennis has had a hard time accepting that the Williams sisters are that good just because, well, they’re that good and they’re black. If they could find a way to Williams-proof the game of tennis the way the PGA has started Tiger-proofing golf courses, I’m sure they would. And, by the way, what’s up with that? I don’t recall the PGA “Golden Bear-proofing” or “Shark-proofing” golf courses before Tiger’s ascent to the top of the game. But for the fact that the NBA is over 70% black, they might have tried to Jordan-proof basketball, although I don’t think they could have given that Jordan could dunk from half-court. And look good doing it, I might add.
Well, as my parents, and many black parents, would put it, “Black folks cain’t have shit.” Now I know I’m not the only one with black parents who grew up hearing this turn of phrase. “Black folks cain’t have shit” refers to the idea that when we succeed, our successes are diminished, denied, or straight-out taken from us for no reason other than race. Now, if you grew up like I did with black parents who came up during the Great Depression, that phrase was usually followed by a litany of black achievements diminished or stolen by white folks: jazz, my grandfather’s property, credit for discovering the North Pole, rock and roll, Jackie Robinson from the Negro Leagues, the ironing board, the light bulb, you name it. I would hear that phrase, but I never thought it applied to me until I hit high school.
I was accepted to Stanford University in the spring of my senior year. I was particularly proud because I knew that Stanford was hard to get into. To my knowledge, I was the only student from my high school who had been accepted to Stanford that year, or in many years, for that matter. As word got out, many of my classmates came up to congratulate me, even one of our six valedictorians. As we sat down for lunch in the cafeteria, this valedictorian, a white girl, let me know what one of the other valedictorians, also a white girl, said about my achievement: “You only got in because you’re black.”
I was floored. This was from someone I actually liked, even though we weren’t close. This hater valedictorian, for lack of a better term, had a father who was a Stanford alum, and I think she assumed she had a lock on being admitted. I didn’t even see it coming. I had that, well, Taylor Swift look on my face. I couldn’t understand what instigated this animus. Everybody knew my record – I had already received a full ride to U.C. Berkeley and would later be admitted to the University of Chicago and Harvard, was ranked 11th in my class of over 300 students with a 3.89 GPA and straight A’s my junior year, had been student body president, played in the orchestra, band, and the all-city orchestra, had won numerous awards for my writing and academics, had scholarships up the yang, interned with the California State Assembly . . . .
And at the end of it all, the unexpected words of one very jealous white girl reduced all my achievements to nothing more than my race. Nothing but my race. It’s a good thing I had parents who told me otherwise, who lifted me up and told me that I had worked hard and earned all that I had achieved and deserved it.
Black folks cain’t have shit.
I know how Taylor Swift felt. I know how Serena Williams probably feels all the time. I know how that Rutgers Women’s Basketball Team felt after being called “nappy headed hos.” To have your accomplishments diminished or denied because of race is patently unfair, but it’s not any more unfair when it happens to pretty blond white girls.
I would imagine that, with each botched and unfair call, Serena Williams probably thought to herself, “I may lose this match on my own, but I’m damn sure not going to let you steal it from me. Not this time.”
Because black folks can have shit. And white folks can, too.
Oh, and memo to President Obama: The only friend you have in the media is Oprah. There is no “off the record” for you. You don’t have to comment on everything involving black people, even if asked. Lord knows, if President Bush had commented on everything involving white folks, he would have exhausted his limited vocabulary (“deciders,” anyone?). Some comments are best left expressed in the barber shop, if you know what I mean.
In my humble opinion, Kanye’s use of Beyonce’s excellence to throw shade on Taylor Swift’s accomplishment is an all-too-common act: Someone diminishing or stealing your achievement because of your race. This type of behavior plays itself out on playgrounds, in classrooms, conference rooms, cubicles and cafeterias, on ball fields and on assembly lines all across America. That said, what Taylor Swift experienced was not any more wrong merely because she experienced it. This time, the shoe was on the other foot. But it was still the wrong shoe no matter what.
In other words: Taylor Swift, welcome to Serena Williams’ world.
I don’t think Serena Williams’ outburst was acceptable either, but was far more understandable than Kanye’s. The tennis world has been less than welcoming and accepting of the Williams sisters, and Lord knows they have endured far more than they’ve responded to or retaliated against. They’ve had their victories reduced to nothing more than the product of brute-like mannish strength, a parallel I’ve yet to see be drawn to white women in tennis, instead of a mixture of power, finesse, and strategy that they represent. Even John McEnroe has had the gall to criticize their behavior despite the fact that his misbehavior, although also criticized at the time, earned him the somewhat-adoring moniker, “Bad Boy of Tennis.” The sisters have been unfairly criticized as looking less than feminine, and I’ve recently seen comments on the internet calling them “monkeys.” Now, I remember when Serena rocked that black catsuit at the U.S. Open, it elicited the collective “Dayum!” heard from brothers ‘round the world. Even my brother, who is old enough to be Serena’s father, remarked that Serena “wasn’t no little girl anymore,” and he was particularly happy that she wasn’t HIS little girl, if you get my drift. Black folks’ definition of feminine does not exclude dark, large, shapely, or muscular. But I digress.
The world of tennis has had a hard time accepting that the Williams sisters are that good just because, well, they’re that good and they’re black. If they could find a way to Williams-proof the game of tennis the way the PGA has started Tiger-proofing golf courses, I’m sure they would. And, by the way, what’s up with that? I don’t recall the PGA “Golden Bear-proofing” or “Shark-proofing” golf courses before Tiger’s ascent to the top of the game. But for the fact that the NBA is over 70% black, they might have tried to Jordan-proof basketball, although I don’t think they could have given that Jordan could dunk from half-court. And look good doing it, I might add.
Well, as my parents, and many black parents, would put it, “Black folks cain’t have shit.” Now I know I’m not the only one with black parents who grew up hearing this turn of phrase. “Black folks cain’t have shit” refers to the idea that when we succeed, our successes are diminished, denied, or straight-out taken from us for no reason other than race. Now, if you grew up like I did with black parents who came up during the Great Depression, that phrase was usually followed by a litany of black achievements diminished or stolen by white folks: jazz, my grandfather’s property, credit for discovering the North Pole, rock and roll, Jackie Robinson from the Negro Leagues, the ironing board, the light bulb, you name it. I would hear that phrase, but I never thought it applied to me until I hit high school.
I was accepted to Stanford University in the spring of my senior year. I was particularly proud because I knew that Stanford was hard to get into. To my knowledge, I was the only student from my high school who had been accepted to Stanford that year, or in many years, for that matter. As word got out, many of my classmates came up to congratulate me, even one of our six valedictorians. As we sat down for lunch in the cafeteria, this valedictorian, a white girl, let me know what one of the other valedictorians, also a white girl, said about my achievement: “You only got in because you’re black.”
I was floored. This was from someone I actually liked, even though we weren’t close. This hater valedictorian, for lack of a better term, had a father who was a Stanford alum, and I think she assumed she had a lock on being admitted. I didn’t even see it coming. I had that, well, Taylor Swift look on my face. I couldn’t understand what instigated this animus. Everybody knew my record – I had already received a full ride to U.C. Berkeley and would later be admitted to the University of Chicago and Harvard, was ranked 11th in my class of over 300 students with a 3.89 GPA and straight A’s my junior year, had been student body president, played in the orchestra, band, and the all-city orchestra, had won numerous awards for my writing and academics, had scholarships up the yang, interned with the California State Assembly . . . .
And at the end of it all, the unexpected words of one very jealous white girl reduced all my achievements to nothing more than my race. Nothing but my race. It’s a good thing I had parents who told me otherwise, who lifted me up and told me that I had worked hard and earned all that I had achieved and deserved it.
Black folks cain’t have shit.
I know how Taylor Swift felt. I know how Serena Williams probably feels all the time. I know how that Rutgers Women’s Basketball Team felt after being called “nappy headed hos.” To have your accomplishments diminished or denied because of race is patently unfair, but it’s not any more unfair when it happens to pretty blond white girls.
I would imagine that, with each botched and unfair call, Serena Williams probably thought to herself, “I may lose this match on my own, but I’m damn sure not going to let you steal it from me. Not this time.”
Because black folks can have shit. And white folks can, too.
Oh, and memo to President Obama: The only friend you have in the media is Oprah. There is no “off the record” for you. You don’t have to comment on everything involving black people, even if asked. Lord knows, if President Bush had commented on everything involving white folks, he would have exhausted his limited vocabulary (“deciders,” anyone?). Some comments are best left expressed in the barber shop, if you know what I mean.
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