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.
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.
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