A new year, a new beginning. Oprah’s getting back on the weight loss wagon and trying to help us all do the same. In less than a month we’ll be rid of W. The winds of change are a’blowin’ . . .
I look at each new year as the chance to get things right. To do better than I did last year. That’s not to say that I succeed, but there’s something about a freshly minted year that makes me think I can.
So, what will I do differently in 2009? Well, I have some goals and some resolutions.
My number one resolution? I resolve to not try to change people. I won’t try to keep my co-workers from drinking day-old warmed over Starbucks coffee. I won’t try to make my husband do his fair share of the cooking because it’s never going to happen. I won’t try to make young parents in my family realize that the education of their children is far too important to leave primarily to the government. I won’t snipe back at family members who launch verbal attacks on me or my husband. I won’t try to get my brother to stop smoking. I won’t try to help solve people’s problems when they are resolutely entrenched in the pattern of behavior that results in those same problems. I can’t change other people, so the best I can do is change how I deal with them.
Which leads to my number two resolution: I won’t be around people who get on my nerves unless I’m being paid to do so. And it doesn’t take much to get on my nerves these days -- snarky family members, stupid people, self-made victims, you name it. And I won’t enable anyone either. Can’t seem to handle your money? Well, you can’t have any of mine. I’ve got my own debts.
Third, I will not organize anything that I wouldn’t want to attend myself. No family reunions, no cruises with people I wouldn’t want to be on land with for seven days, much less at sea with. I will back away from the calendaring function on Outlook and the task list on my phone. If BMNB or anyone else wants a get-together planned, they can pull out their Blackberries and handle their business.
Fourth, I resolve to have more fun. To hop on an Amtrak train just to watch the scenery go by. To watch “Ghosthunter” marathons I’ve recorded and lay fat and happy on my sofa. To get my hair and nails done, get massages, and get facials just because they make me feel good. To work on my novel in the library at the UCSF Med School just to see the panoramic views. To spend the Christmas holidays away from home, preferably in Maui.
As for goals, they are:
1) Lose 40 pounds.
2) Run the Bay-to-Breakers.
3) Finish my novel.
4) Organize my home.
5) Increase my savings to cover x months of expenses (the x is my business).
6) Pay off my credit cards.
Let’s see how it goes . . . . .
Don't Ever Ask A Black Man For ID On His Front Step
On the day before New Year’s Eve, BMNB and I had a, shall we say, curious encounter.
The weekend before, someone rang the doorbell twice, and both times there was no one at the door when I answered it. I thought it was just the neighborhood kids playing doorbell ditch.
The doorbell rang again on the day before New Year’s Eve. No one comes to see us without calling in advance since we live in the boonies, and no one had called us. “You get it,” I told BMNB. “I answered it twice this weekend and there was no one there.” I then did what the women in my family do when they come home from work: Run to the bathroom.
To say that the women in my family have weak bladders would be an understatement. My mother had a myriad of gastro-intestinal issues, a weak bladder being one of them. When my siblings and I sat around giving ourselves faux tribal names, I gave one of my older sisters the name “Princess Littlebladder.” She, in turn, gave me the name, “She Who Is Bitch.” It could have gone either way.
Don’t laugh. My older brother: Destined to Disappoint. He gave himself that name. He’s in a committed relationship. We’re keeping our fingers crossed.
Anyhoo, while I was on the pot, I heard my husband having this conversation at the front door for far longer than should have occurred with a stranger. I thought, “What if the person at the door is some weirdo psychopath who has targeted my husband for murder? And I’m still upstairs sitting on the pot!” That was SO not the story I would want to tell – how my husband got murdered while I was, well, evacuating. And by now, I had moved on from my bladder to other parts. I could just imagine my husband’s Southern relatives comforting me at the funeral and handing me Ex-Lax. Not good. I had to, shall we say, speed up my process.
As I zipped, flushed, and washed my hands, I could hear BMNB coming up the stairs. “Some joker at the door wants me to show him my ID so I can prove to him that Mr. S isn’t here. I told him that even if I show him my ID, that doesn’t prove anything. He keeps asking me for ID, so I told him I needed to talk to you.”
BMNB has a long fuse. This guy was getting to the end of it. I was being called in to intervene.
You see, BMNB never loses sight of the fact that, even with his credentials and whatnot, he’s still a black man in America. As a black man in America, he provides information to strangers on a need-to-know basis. And clearly the guy at the door didn’t need to know, as far as BMNB was concerned.
Mr. S, the predecessor-in-interest in our house, was foreclosed on. In his wake, he left an unpaid electricity bill with PG&E -- our electricity was shut off the day we moved in because of Mr. S’ bill – an unpaid water bill that almost caused our water to get shut off, and now, an unpaid car note resulting in the guest at the front door trying to repossess his car or prove that Mr. S didn’t live here.
“He flipped me his badge. Well, I got a badge, too. Maybe I should show him my badge,” BMNB offered, clearly miffed.
“Yes, Honey, maybe you should. I’m sure a Homeland Security badge outranks a repossessor’s badge anyday.”
BMNB ruminated for a moment. “Nah, better not. I’m not acting in my official capacity.” Nothing like a security clearance to slow a brotha’s roll.
I went down stairs and found a white guy with a hoodie, numerous earrings, a goatee, a soul patch, and a shaved head waiting on my front porch for me with a clipboard. He looked like, well, a criminal. And he certainly wasn’t someone BMNB was going to show ID to just because he asked.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m a repossessor. If I don’t see some ID to prove that Mr. S isn’t here, my boss is going to just keep sending me back here to confirm that Mr. S’s car isn’t here.”
“But clearly, neither I nor my husband look as if we could be Mr. S.” Mr. S had an Asian name.
“I know, ma’am, but I need some kind of proof.”
“But you can tell that the cars in our driveway aren’t the car you’re looking for, can’t you?”
“Yes, and I’ve already looked in your garage and can see that you’re not hiding the car.”
WTF? Note to self: Change garage door to one without windows when we’re flush with cash.
“Well, I can tell you my husband isn’t going to show you any ID. I’ve got something better though – how about a deed?”
“You have a copy of your deed?”
“Yes, and let me go upstairs and get it for you.”
With that, I shut the door and ran upstairs to my office. We had just received a copy of our recorded deed a few days before Christmas.
“See, you can tell that the address on the deed is the same as the one for this house. And these names? These names are our names. You can see that the deed was recorded on October 23, 2008 – would you like to write down the document number for your records?”
“No, ma’am, just seeing it is good enough. I’ll tell my boss that Mr. S doesn’t live here anymore. You see, it’s just that I have folks to report to . . . “
“Yes, we get it. We have folks we have to report to, too.”
“Thanks, ma’am.” With that, he left.
BMNB was still put out, though. The idea of some “joker” rolling up to his front door and asking him for ID? He wasn’t having it. And when I think about it from his point of view, I get it.
As a black man in America, BMNB knows that there are certain situations he can’t allow himself to be caught up in. He knows that if he’s accused of something by someone of another race, chances are that person will be believed over him, no matter how incredible that person is. He’s suffered the indignities of having white women refuse to get on an elevator when they see he’s the only one riding, or having them get on and clutch their handbags for dear life if they do. Like Barack Obama, he’s been unable to hail a cab in major cities, even when he’s suited and booted. Having been raised by a black Southern father, BMNB was made hip to the harsh realities of being a black man in America at a very early age. I remember as a child some of the things even my black Southern father would say to my brothers, things I’m sure white fathers don’t say to their sons, like, “Don’t run at night. People will think you stole somethin’.”
Even though, technically speaking, BMNB is part of an arm of law enforcement, he distrusts law enforcement. This is from someone who has had to defend correctional officers. This is from someone who also had his entire Stanford African American fraternity chapter thrown up against cop cars and frisked for no other reason than the fact that they were a group of black men out at night in Palo Alto.
So, that repossessor? He didn’t have a chance. He wasn’t getting nothin’ out of BMNB. Hell, even I don’t know how much is in BMNB’s savings account. Why? ‘Cause he works on a need-to-know basis. When I need some money, he MIGHT let me know how much he has, if I have a need to know.
I would urge those in the car repossession business to take some cultural sensitivity training. Don’t ever ask a black man you don’t know for ID when you’re standing on HIS doorstep.
The weekend before, someone rang the doorbell twice, and both times there was no one at the door when I answered it. I thought it was just the neighborhood kids playing doorbell ditch.
The doorbell rang again on the day before New Year’s Eve. No one comes to see us without calling in advance since we live in the boonies, and no one had called us. “You get it,” I told BMNB. “I answered it twice this weekend and there was no one there.” I then did what the women in my family do when they come home from work: Run to the bathroom.
To say that the women in my family have weak bladders would be an understatement. My mother had a myriad of gastro-intestinal issues, a weak bladder being one of them. When my siblings and I sat around giving ourselves faux tribal names, I gave one of my older sisters the name “Princess Littlebladder.” She, in turn, gave me the name, “She Who Is Bitch.” It could have gone either way.
Don’t laugh. My older brother: Destined to Disappoint. He gave himself that name. He’s in a committed relationship. We’re keeping our fingers crossed.
Anyhoo, while I was on the pot, I heard my husband having this conversation at the front door for far longer than should have occurred with a stranger. I thought, “What if the person at the door is some weirdo psychopath who has targeted my husband for murder? And I’m still upstairs sitting on the pot!” That was SO not the story I would want to tell – how my husband got murdered while I was, well, evacuating. And by now, I had moved on from my bladder to other parts. I could just imagine my husband’s Southern relatives comforting me at the funeral and handing me Ex-Lax. Not good. I had to, shall we say, speed up my process.
As I zipped, flushed, and washed my hands, I could hear BMNB coming up the stairs. “Some joker at the door wants me to show him my ID so I can prove to him that Mr. S isn’t here. I told him that even if I show him my ID, that doesn’t prove anything. He keeps asking me for ID, so I told him I needed to talk to you.”
BMNB has a long fuse. This guy was getting to the end of it. I was being called in to intervene.
You see, BMNB never loses sight of the fact that, even with his credentials and whatnot, he’s still a black man in America. As a black man in America, he provides information to strangers on a need-to-know basis. And clearly the guy at the door didn’t need to know, as far as BMNB was concerned.
Mr. S, the predecessor-in-interest in our house, was foreclosed on. In his wake, he left an unpaid electricity bill with PG&E -- our electricity was shut off the day we moved in because of Mr. S’ bill – an unpaid water bill that almost caused our water to get shut off, and now, an unpaid car note resulting in the guest at the front door trying to repossess his car or prove that Mr. S didn’t live here.
“He flipped me his badge. Well, I got a badge, too. Maybe I should show him my badge,” BMNB offered, clearly miffed.
“Yes, Honey, maybe you should. I’m sure a Homeland Security badge outranks a repossessor’s badge anyday.”
BMNB ruminated for a moment. “Nah, better not. I’m not acting in my official capacity.” Nothing like a security clearance to slow a brotha’s roll.
I went down stairs and found a white guy with a hoodie, numerous earrings, a goatee, a soul patch, and a shaved head waiting on my front porch for me with a clipboard. He looked like, well, a criminal. And he certainly wasn’t someone BMNB was going to show ID to just because he asked.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m a repossessor. If I don’t see some ID to prove that Mr. S isn’t here, my boss is going to just keep sending me back here to confirm that Mr. S’s car isn’t here.”
“But clearly, neither I nor my husband look as if we could be Mr. S.” Mr. S had an Asian name.
“I know, ma’am, but I need some kind of proof.”
“But you can tell that the cars in our driveway aren’t the car you’re looking for, can’t you?”
“Yes, and I’ve already looked in your garage and can see that you’re not hiding the car.”
WTF? Note to self: Change garage door to one without windows when we’re flush with cash.
“Well, I can tell you my husband isn’t going to show you any ID. I’ve got something better though – how about a deed?”
“You have a copy of your deed?”
“Yes, and let me go upstairs and get it for you.”
With that, I shut the door and ran upstairs to my office. We had just received a copy of our recorded deed a few days before Christmas.
“See, you can tell that the address on the deed is the same as the one for this house. And these names? These names are our names. You can see that the deed was recorded on October 23, 2008 – would you like to write down the document number for your records?”
“No, ma’am, just seeing it is good enough. I’ll tell my boss that Mr. S doesn’t live here anymore. You see, it’s just that I have folks to report to . . . “
“Yes, we get it. We have folks we have to report to, too.”
“Thanks, ma’am.” With that, he left.
BMNB was still put out, though. The idea of some “joker” rolling up to his front door and asking him for ID? He wasn’t having it. And when I think about it from his point of view, I get it.
As a black man in America, BMNB knows that there are certain situations he can’t allow himself to be caught up in. He knows that if he’s accused of something by someone of another race, chances are that person will be believed over him, no matter how incredible that person is. He’s suffered the indignities of having white women refuse to get on an elevator when they see he’s the only one riding, or having them get on and clutch their handbags for dear life if they do. Like Barack Obama, he’s been unable to hail a cab in major cities, even when he’s suited and booted. Having been raised by a black Southern father, BMNB was made hip to the harsh realities of being a black man in America at a very early age. I remember as a child some of the things even my black Southern father would say to my brothers, things I’m sure white fathers don’t say to their sons, like, “Don’t run at night. People will think you stole somethin’.”
Even though, technically speaking, BMNB is part of an arm of law enforcement, he distrusts law enforcement. This is from someone who has had to defend correctional officers. This is from someone who also had his entire Stanford African American fraternity chapter thrown up against cop cars and frisked for no other reason than the fact that they were a group of black men out at night in Palo Alto.
So, that repossessor? He didn’t have a chance. He wasn’t getting nothin’ out of BMNB. Hell, even I don’t know how much is in BMNB’s savings account. Why? ‘Cause he works on a need-to-know basis. When I need some money, he MIGHT let me know how much he has, if I have a need to know.
I would urge those in the car repossession business to take some cultural sensitivity training. Don’t ever ask a black man you don’t know for ID when you’re standing on HIS doorstep.
Happy 2009 -- Keep Your Head To The Sky
Happy New Year!
Well, 2008 is drawing to a close. What a year it was!
Barack Obama – who knew? A skinny kid with a funny name will become our 44th POTUS. I voted for him to be president of the Harvard Law Review. Who knew I would be voting for him for President of the United States? God is good, all the time!
On a sadder note, 2008 might be known as the Year the Laughter Died. We lost George Carlin and Bernie Mac. We also lost Isaac Hayes, too, even though he had stopped playing the role of “Chef” on Southpark a long time ago. Those Chef love songs used to make me so laugh so hard that I’d fall off my sofa.
We also lost all that was good and sexy from the 40’s and 50’s when we lost Eartha Kitt. My single girlfriends in Oakland would purr her famous line from “Boomerang” to our single guy friends just to mess with them: “Marrrrcuhhhhssss, I’m not wearing any pahhhhnnn—tieeees . . . .” And she’ll always be Catwoman to me, no apologies to Julie Newmar.
Although I wasn’t a Tim Russert acolyte, I did so miss his reporting during this election. He would have had a ball reporting on this one. Gone too soon, that one.
The economy is in the toilet, banks are getting bailed out while working folks are getting put out, and we’re a capitalist nation running largely on debt borrowed from a communist one. Who’da thunk it? And despite all the gloom and doom, I have the audacity to hope for better times ahead (nice tie-in, wouldn’t you say?).
On a personal note, I helped some kids in my family, I bought a house with BMNB and am FINALLY settled – my sister, the Writing Diva, declared it so – and I hope to finish either my novel or my self-help book in progress, run the Bay to Breakers, lose 40 pounds, and, if all goes well, adopt a child. Right now, I’ll settle for getting my garage cleaned out and my hair permed.
What do you have the audacity to hope for in the coming year? Whatever it is, I wish it for you as well as all the peace, prosperity and joy you can stand!
Happy 2009, y’all. In the words of those great philosophers, Earth, Wind and Fire, “Keep your head to the sky . . . . .”
Well, 2008 is drawing to a close. What a year it was!
Barack Obama – who knew? A skinny kid with a funny name will become our 44th POTUS. I voted for him to be president of the Harvard Law Review. Who knew I would be voting for him for President of the United States? God is good, all the time!
On a sadder note, 2008 might be known as the Year the Laughter Died. We lost George Carlin and Bernie Mac. We also lost Isaac Hayes, too, even though he had stopped playing the role of “Chef” on Southpark a long time ago. Those Chef love songs used to make me so laugh so hard that I’d fall off my sofa.
We also lost all that was good and sexy from the 40’s and 50’s when we lost Eartha Kitt. My single girlfriends in Oakland would purr her famous line from “Boomerang” to our single guy friends just to mess with them: “Marrrrcuhhhhssss, I’m not wearing any pahhhhnnn—tieeees . . . .” And she’ll always be Catwoman to me, no apologies to Julie Newmar.
Although I wasn’t a Tim Russert acolyte, I did so miss his reporting during this election. He would have had a ball reporting on this one. Gone too soon, that one.
The economy is in the toilet, banks are getting bailed out while working folks are getting put out, and we’re a capitalist nation running largely on debt borrowed from a communist one. Who’da thunk it? And despite all the gloom and doom, I have the audacity to hope for better times ahead (nice tie-in, wouldn’t you say?).
On a personal note, I helped some kids in my family, I bought a house with BMNB and am FINALLY settled – my sister, the Writing Diva, declared it so – and I hope to finish either my novel or my self-help book in progress, run the Bay to Breakers, lose 40 pounds, and, if all goes well, adopt a child. Right now, I’ll settle for getting my garage cleaned out and my hair permed.
What do you have the audacity to hope for in the coming year? Whatever it is, I wish it for you as well as all the peace, prosperity and joy you can stand!
Happy 2009, y’all. In the words of those great philosophers, Earth, Wind and Fire, “Keep your head to the sky . . . . .”
Trusting My Instincts: No More Fire Turkeys
I'm more of a cookbook cook than a real cook. As the saying goes, "Good cooks never measure." I'm an okay cook. I measure.
But most recipes are, at best, a blueprint for your own creativity. And when that blueprint seems all "cattywhampus," as they say down South, I often fail to trust my instincts and just ignore the recipe.
For example, I'm always looking for a better turkey recipe. I didn't realize that there were many ways to make a turkey until my 30's. Then again, I never had to make a turkey until my 30's. I had been faithful to the Silver Palate Cookbook's recipe for roasting a turkey because it had delivered faithfully -- a succulent, if slightly bland, turkey. I then came to expect that no matter what you did to it, turkey was just plain bland.
Then I found an interesting recipe in Real Simple magazine for a turkey with molasses, butter, salt and pepper blended together and stuffed under the turkey's skin. What a cool idea! The problem was, the recipe called for 1/4 cup of salt and 1/4 cup of pepper. Yes -- 1/4 CUP of pepper. I knew it had to be a typo. I searched and searched on Real Simple's website, and I think I even e-mailed someone there, but I could not find anything to confirm that it was a typo.
And so I made the turkey as called for. I didn't trust my instincts. I think even the heartiest Cajun or Creole would have puckered their cheeks upon tasting that uber-spicy turkey. The one-quarter cup of pepper had to be a typo. It just HAD to be.
And I tried it again, thinking maybe I'd done something wrong. Again, I ended up with yet another fire turkey by not trusting my instincts. I had to go out and buy prepared turkey to bring to a family Thanksgiving dinner. To make matters worse, my mother-in-law had given me the turkey in the first place, trusting that I knew what I was doing. I sounded like an idiot trying to explain how I had bombed yet another turkey.
This year, I decided to trust my instincts and combine the best of both recipes: I combined 1/4 cup unsalted butter, 1/4 cup molasses, salt, pepper, sage and thyme to taste and, carefully separating the skin from the meat without tearing it, smeared the butter/molasses mixture all under the skin of the turkey. I then smeared the rest of the stick of unsalted butter on the outside of the turkey and seasoned it with salt, pepper, Mrs. Dash, and paprika to taste. I chopped up celery, onion, carrots and parsley and put it in the cavity and around the turkey, added a glass of water to promote broth production, put cheesecloth across the top of the turkey, placed it on a roasting rack in a roasting pan, and covered it with foil. It went in the oven at 325 degrees.
Then, using the basting technique from the Silver Palate recipe, I combined 1/4 cup corn oil with 1/4 melted unsalted butter and basted the turkey every half hour on the dot with the mixture until the turkey produced enough of its own juices to baste with. I continued basting every half hour on the dot, using a timer to remind me to get up.
I was amply rewarded with a turkey that was not only juicy, but flavorful. Why? Because I trusted my instincts. One-quarter cup of pepper? I don't think so. My instincts say otherwise, and I'm going to be better about trusting them in the future.
But most recipes are, at best, a blueprint for your own creativity. And when that blueprint seems all "cattywhampus," as they say down South, I often fail to trust my instincts and just ignore the recipe.
For example, I'm always looking for a better turkey recipe. I didn't realize that there were many ways to make a turkey until my 30's. Then again, I never had to make a turkey until my 30's. I had been faithful to the Silver Palate Cookbook's recipe for roasting a turkey because it had delivered faithfully -- a succulent, if slightly bland, turkey. I then came to expect that no matter what you did to it, turkey was just plain bland.
Then I found an interesting recipe in Real Simple magazine for a turkey with molasses, butter, salt and pepper blended together and stuffed under the turkey's skin. What a cool idea! The problem was, the recipe called for 1/4 cup of salt and 1/4 cup of pepper. Yes -- 1/4 CUP of pepper. I knew it had to be a typo. I searched and searched on Real Simple's website, and I think I even e-mailed someone there, but I could not find anything to confirm that it was a typo.
And so I made the turkey as called for. I didn't trust my instincts. I think even the heartiest Cajun or Creole would have puckered their cheeks upon tasting that uber-spicy turkey. The one-quarter cup of pepper had to be a typo. It just HAD to be.
And I tried it again, thinking maybe I'd done something wrong. Again, I ended up with yet another fire turkey by not trusting my instincts. I had to go out and buy prepared turkey to bring to a family Thanksgiving dinner. To make matters worse, my mother-in-law had given me the turkey in the first place, trusting that I knew what I was doing. I sounded like an idiot trying to explain how I had bombed yet another turkey.
This year, I decided to trust my instincts and combine the best of both recipes: I combined 1/4 cup unsalted butter, 1/4 cup molasses, salt, pepper, sage and thyme to taste and, carefully separating the skin from the meat without tearing it, smeared the butter/molasses mixture all under the skin of the turkey. I then smeared the rest of the stick of unsalted butter on the outside of the turkey and seasoned it with salt, pepper, Mrs. Dash, and paprika to taste. I chopped up celery, onion, carrots and parsley and put it in the cavity and around the turkey, added a glass of water to promote broth production, put cheesecloth across the top of the turkey, placed it on a roasting rack in a roasting pan, and covered it with foil. It went in the oven at 325 degrees.
Then, using the basting technique from the Silver Palate recipe, I combined 1/4 cup corn oil with 1/4 melted unsalted butter and basted the turkey every half hour on the dot with the mixture until the turkey produced enough of its own juices to baste with. I continued basting every half hour on the dot, using a timer to remind me to get up.
I was amply rewarded with a turkey that was not only juicy, but flavorful. Why? Because I trusted my instincts. One-quarter cup of pepper? I don't think so. My instincts say otherwise, and I'm going to be better about trusting them in the future.
Wishing You A Cozy Christmas
There aren’t a lot of Wal-Mart commercials that tug at my heartstrings. This year, they got me.
You’ve probably seen the commercial with the three small kids sneaking out of bed in an attempt to catch Santa while their mom comments that she bought all of them new pajamas – for sleeping, that is.
Yeah, they got me.
When I was a kid, my mom would buy each of us six kids a robe, slippers, and pajamas for Christmas. As a small child, this gift was a predictable part of Christmas and not the most exciting. What five year-old gets excited about clothes for Christmas?
But as I got older, I came to appreciate the robe, slippers and pajamas because they represented coziness and warmth. Like a hug from my mom. As a older child, I would get ready for bed early just so I could put on my new nighttime togs and wiggle my toes in my new fuzzy slippers (hey, it was the 70’s – the slippers were always fuzzy). While I was in college, I would return to my drafty dorm room or apartment with my warm and cozy Christmas contraband.
As with all good things, the cozy Christmas gifts came to an end with my mom’s advancing illnesses and subsequent passing. I don’t think I’ve had anyone give me a new robe, slippers and nightgown for Christmas for more than fifteen or more years. And as much as I miss it, I think it should stay that way.
Because those gifts were a special thing from my mom to us. Receiving them from someone else would feel somewhat contrived. I’ve even given them to my sisters, and I don’t think it felt the same for me or for them. But it got me thinking – maybe next year, I should give a new robe, slippers and pajamas to a child for Christmas. A child of my own.
Details to follow.
Wishing you a cozy Christmas,
Black Woman Blogging
You’ve probably seen the commercial with the three small kids sneaking out of bed in an attempt to catch Santa while their mom comments that she bought all of them new pajamas – for sleeping, that is.
Yeah, they got me.
When I was a kid, my mom would buy each of us six kids a robe, slippers, and pajamas for Christmas. As a small child, this gift was a predictable part of Christmas and not the most exciting. What five year-old gets excited about clothes for Christmas?
But as I got older, I came to appreciate the robe, slippers and pajamas because they represented coziness and warmth. Like a hug from my mom. As a older child, I would get ready for bed early just so I could put on my new nighttime togs and wiggle my toes in my new fuzzy slippers (hey, it was the 70’s – the slippers were always fuzzy). While I was in college, I would return to my drafty dorm room or apartment with my warm and cozy Christmas contraband.
As with all good things, the cozy Christmas gifts came to an end with my mom’s advancing illnesses and subsequent passing. I don’t think I’ve had anyone give me a new robe, slippers and nightgown for Christmas for more than fifteen or more years. And as much as I miss it, I think it should stay that way.
Because those gifts were a special thing from my mom to us. Receiving them from someone else would feel somewhat contrived. I’ve even given them to my sisters, and I don’t think it felt the same for me or for them. But it got me thinking – maybe next year, I should give a new robe, slippers and pajamas to a child for Christmas. A child of my own.
Details to follow.
Wishing you a cozy Christmas,
Black Woman Blogging
Well, Hell, I've Got Some Shoes To Throw
An Iraqi journalist throws two shoes at the President as an insult, one of the highest insults in his culture. And the mainstream American press brands him "crazy."
The hell he is. If he's crazy, so am I.
First, what kind of punk-ass Secret Service do we have that anyone could get close enough to throw not one, but two shoes at the Leader of the Free World? I don't know who was on duty that day, but they need to be furloughed before the REAL President, Barack Obama, takes office. Those kinds of mistakes are not acceptable. Not at all.
However, if I had known that it was that easy to roll up on POTUS and show my discontent by throwing shoes, I, too, would have hurled some shoes. And I don't part with my shoes easily. But if it got the point across that this president, more than any in my recent 45 year-old memory, was a complete and total failure, then, yes, I would have hurled some shoes, too. For example:
* A pair of stack-heeled black pumps to the side of the head for lying about WMD and getting us into the Iraq morass in the first place.
* A pair of stinky Nike Airmax's for having the temerity to argue before the U.S. Supreme Court that the government has the power to detain anyone indefinitely without trial, habeas corpus be damned.
* A pair of pink stilleto slingbacks in the ear for sanctioning torture at Abu Ghraib. Only cowards use torture.
* A pair of worn-out hiking boots for not getting rid of Donald Rumsfeld earlier.
* A pair of worn-out house slippers for having nothing more to say or do about the economy other than to say, "I'm sorry." Just shuffle on out of the White House in these house slippers so a real leader can take charge of the economy.
* A pair of navy blue pointy-toed Nine West pumps to Alberto Gonzalez and Harriet Meiers for firing U.S. Attorneys for their unwillingness to play politics with their prosecutorial power.
* A pair of cheap Payless running shoes for sanctioning rendition. That's just wrong on so many levels.
* A pair of faux suede pumps for a false effort to curry favor with the African American community through the faith-based initiatives.
* A pair of pointy-toed ankle boots to the head of Dick Cheney. Hell, any shoe to the head of Dick Cheney will do.
* A pair of worn-out sandals for setting up Guantanamo and trying to defend its purpose.
* A pair of peep-toe pumps for outing Valerie Plame, saying that anyone in the Administration who had anything to do with it would be punished, and then commuting the sentence of Lewis "Scooter" Libby.
* A pair of ballerina flats for the Administration's flat response to Hurricane Katrina and all those who were displaced by it.
* A pair of clear heels for the lack of transparency in creating energy policy and in trying to deny global warming. Well, I don't really own any clear heels, but I'd buy some just for this purpose.
I could go on, but I'm starting to run out of shoes . . .
The hell he is. If he's crazy, so am I.
First, what kind of punk-ass Secret Service do we have that anyone could get close enough to throw not one, but two shoes at the Leader of the Free World? I don't know who was on duty that day, but they need to be furloughed before the REAL President, Barack Obama, takes office. Those kinds of mistakes are not acceptable. Not at all.
However, if I had known that it was that easy to roll up on POTUS and show my discontent by throwing shoes, I, too, would have hurled some shoes. And I don't part with my shoes easily. But if it got the point across that this president, more than any in my recent 45 year-old memory, was a complete and total failure, then, yes, I would have hurled some shoes, too. For example:
* A pair of stack-heeled black pumps to the side of the head for lying about WMD and getting us into the Iraq morass in the first place.
* A pair of stinky Nike Airmax's for having the temerity to argue before the U.S. Supreme Court that the government has the power to detain anyone indefinitely without trial, habeas corpus be damned.
* A pair of pink stilleto slingbacks in the ear for sanctioning torture at Abu Ghraib. Only cowards use torture.
* A pair of worn-out hiking boots for not getting rid of Donald Rumsfeld earlier.
* A pair of worn-out house slippers for having nothing more to say or do about the economy other than to say, "I'm sorry." Just shuffle on out of the White House in these house slippers so a real leader can take charge of the economy.
* A pair of navy blue pointy-toed Nine West pumps to Alberto Gonzalez and Harriet Meiers for firing U.S. Attorneys for their unwillingness to play politics with their prosecutorial power.
* A pair of cheap Payless running shoes for sanctioning rendition. That's just wrong on so many levels.
* A pair of faux suede pumps for a false effort to curry favor with the African American community through the faith-based initiatives.
* A pair of pointy-toed ankle boots to the head of Dick Cheney. Hell, any shoe to the head of Dick Cheney will do.
* A pair of worn-out sandals for setting up Guantanamo and trying to defend its purpose.
* A pair of peep-toe pumps for outing Valerie Plame, saying that anyone in the Administration who had anything to do with it would be punished, and then commuting the sentence of Lewis "Scooter" Libby.
* A pair of ballerina flats for the Administration's flat response to Hurricane Katrina and all those who were displaced by it.
* A pair of clear heels for the lack of transparency in creating energy policy and in trying to deny global warming. Well, I don't really own any clear heels, but I'd buy some just for this purpose.
I could go on, but I'm starting to run out of shoes . . .
No Excuses: If You're a Woman, Buy A House
It represents a significant portion of my take-home pay, yet it’s a bill I couldn’t be happier to pay.
It’s my mortgage payment. My first.
I’m happy to pay it because I realize a lot of people can’t make their mortgage payments these days. I’m happy to pay it because it will relieve the tax burden BMNB and I face as DINKs. I’m happy to pay it because I love my house and my neighborhood.
If I had known I was going to love making a mortgage payment this much, I wouldn’t have waited until I was 45 years old to buy a house.
And so, this is my message to all the women who read my blog: Don’t wait until you are married to buy a house. And definitely don’t wait until you’re 45. Ideally, don’t wait past 30.
In the intervening years since I graduated law school, I’ve missed out on the wealth accumulation that appreciated home equity means. Even despite the last couple of wacky real estate market years, home ownership, although not a bullet-proof method of wealth acquisition, is a substantial one over the long haul. The mortgage interest tax deduction is one that shouldn’t be overlooked, especially if you are a high wage earner.
I think of a classmate of mine who bought a house in Oakland as a single woman in the early ‘90s. Even with the recent market declines, the equity she’s probably accumulated over the last 15 or more years has to count for something, especially in the Bay Area real estate market.
While she was buying a house, I was making excuses: “I can’t afford a house by myself;” “I want to wait until I know for certain where I will be long term;” “I want to wait until I’m married so we’ll have two incomes going toward a mortgage.”
All B.S.
First, for starters, you buy what you can afford. I may not have been able to afford a house in Oakland at the time, but I probably could have afforded a condo in San Leandro. Hey, some piece of real estate, within reason, is better than none at all.
Second, you don’t wait until you’re married. Yeah, it’s all nice and good if you are, but women have to make financial decisions independent of their marital status. Statistically speaking, most of us will outlive any husband we marry anyway, so you need to start accumulating wealth for the long haul that will support you in your waning days when, chances are, you'll be by yourself. This is the same whether you marry or don’t.
Third, even if you don’t know where you’ll end up geographically because of your career, you can always buy something, rent it out if you move, and then buy another house. FHA loans allow for this, and I would imagine that others do, too. BMNB has property in another state, but that didn’t stop him from buying this house with me. Now he has an interest in two properties because he was smart enough to buy something while he was single. He’s now renting out his other property, so someone else essentially (or mostly) pays that mortgage. Sweet. Equity accumulation on someone else’s dime. I wish I had been that financially confident.
So, if you’re a woman, young or otherwise, and using any of the above excuses to avoid buying a house, I call B.S.
If you have another excuse, like bad credit or low income, then I say to you, make a plan to address these issues and prepare to buy a house, especially if you have children. The equity in your home doesn’t just represent potential retirement savings; it represents college tuition payments or the downpayment on your child’s home. It is this intergenerational wealth transfer that makes the difference for generations to come. It is, IMHO, one of the reasons why black wealth is still outpaced by white wealth in this country – given that our forebears were redlined and discriminated out of the housing market during periods of substantial housing booms – the ‘50s and ‘60s – the accumulation and passing down of equity wealth hasn’t been as common in our race as in others.
You can improve credit over time. You can also get low downpayment loans through the FHA (3%). But the wealth accumulation you are missing out on over the long term while renting -- now, that's going to be harder to make up.
Remember, as a woman, either through choice, death, or otherwise, chances are you will be single in your older years and entirely dependent on the financial choices you make now for your income in the future. Choose wisely. Don’t do like I did.
To get help getting your credit together, go to creditboards.com.
For information on FHA loans, go to FHA.gov.
Okay, no excuses. Get ready and buy a house. You owe it to yourself as a woman.
It’s my mortgage payment. My first.
I’m happy to pay it because I realize a lot of people can’t make their mortgage payments these days. I’m happy to pay it because it will relieve the tax burden BMNB and I face as DINKs. I’m happy to pay it because I love my house and my neighborhood.
If I had known I was going to love making a mortgage payment this much, I wouldn’t have waited until I was 45 years old to buy a house.
And so, this is my message to all the women who read my blog: Don’t wait until you are married to buy a house. And definitely don’t wait until you’re 45. Ideally, don’t wait past 30.
In the intervening years since I graduated law school, I’ve missed out on the wealth accumulation that appreciated home equity means. Even despite the last couple of wacky real estate market years, home ownership, although not a bullet-proof method of wealth acquisition, is a substantial one over the long haul. The mortgage interest tax deduction is one that shouldn’t be overlooked, especially if you are a high wage earner.
I think of a classmate of mine who bought a house in Oakland as a single woman in the early ‘90s. Even with the recent market declines, the equity she’s probably accumulated over the last 15 or more years has to count for something, especially in the Bay Area real estate market.
While she was buying a house, I was making excuses: “I can’t afford a house by myself;” “I want to wait until I know for certain where I will be long term;” “I want to wait until I’m married so we’ll have two incomes going toward a mortgage.”
All B.S.
First, for starters, you buy what you can afford. I may not have been able to afford a house in Oakland at the time, but I probably could have afforded a condo in San Leandro. Hey, some piece of real estate, within reason, is better than none at all.
Second, you don’t wait until you’re married. Yeah, it’s all nice and good if you are, but women have to make financial decisions independent of their marital status. Statistically speaking, most of us will outlive any husband we marry anyway, so you need to start accumulating wealth for the long haul that will support you in your waning days when, chances are, you'll be by yourself. This is the same whether you marry or don’t.
Third, even if you don’t know where you’ll end up geographically because of your career, you can always buy something, rent it out if you move, and then buy another house. FHA loans allow for this, and I would imagine that others do, too. BMNB has property in another state, but that didn’t stop him from buying this house with me. Now he has an interest in two properties because he was smart enough to buy something while he was single. He’s now renting out his other property, so someone else essentially (or mostly) pays that mortgage. Sweet. Equity accumulation on someone else’s dime. I wish I had been that financially confident.
So, if you’re a woman, young or otherwise, and using any of the above excuses to avoid buying a house, I call B.S.
If you have another excuse, like bad credit or low income, then I say to you, make a plan to address these issues and prepare to buy a house, especially if you have children. The equity in your home doesn’t just represent potential retirement savings; it represents college tuition payments or the downpayment on your child’s home. It is this intergenerational wealth transfer that makes the difference for generations to come. It is, IMHO, one of the reasons why black wealth is still outpaced by white wealth in this country – given that our forebears were redlined and discriminated out of the housing market during periods of substantial housing booms – the ‘50s and ‘60s – the accumulation and passing down of equity wealth hasn’t been as common in our race as in others.
You can improve credit over time. You can also get low downpayment loans through the FHA (3%). But the wealth accumulation you are missing out on over the long term while renting -- now, that's going to be harder to make up.
Remember, as a woman, either through choice, death, or otherwise, chances are you will be single in your older years and entirely dependent on the financial choices you make now for your income in the future. Choose wisely. Don’t do like I did.
To get help getting your credit together, go to creditboards.com.
For information on FHA loans, go to FHA.gov.
Okay, no excuses. Get ready and buy a house. You owe it to yourself as a woman.
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