Though we all don’t speak the same languages one thing me and my sistas around the globe have in common is that we are all forced to endure visits from Cousin Ruby or Aunt Flo during that dreaded “time of the month.” No matter what continent we live on we all ride the hormonal roller coaster for five to seven days during which time we are moody, exhausted, edgy, and generally not to be “messed” with---bottom line we have issues!
Way, way back in the days of the Old Testament a woman’s period was described as an “issue” of blood. And along with the condition came what I considered to be a pretty raw deal. Our biblical sistas seemed to get no love while having their monthly “issue.” They were considered unclean and could not enjoy their normal lives for the entire time that their "issues" flowed. Just think Mary, Martha, Ruth and all the rest were likely not allowed have contact with their families or friends while on their periods. They were not to be touched, perhaps even had to live in some type of isolation. It just didn’t seem right for these pious, loving, and hardworking women to be treated with such contempt because of something that they could not control. Add this to the fact that our Old Testament sistas couldn’t own property and that their worth in society was solely tied to their fathers and/or husbands and I was totally outdone. I simply didn’t understand why God would allow his daughters to suffer such discrimination.
But then I got to thinking about today’s modern sista. We all know her, she’s the one who is always burning up the candle at both ends, never taking a moment for herself. Ding! Ding! That’s when it hit me! My spiritual imagination took flight and into focus came a totally different view of the “issue.” I realized that our biblical sistas actually enjoyed a luxury that most of us do not---a mandatory monthly vacation! What a concept! Every 30 days, give or take a few, they could look forward to up to week of just chillin'. They got a free pass on ALL of their wifely and womanly duties. No washing, herding sheep or spinning fabric. No one to annoy, frustrate or ask them for anything. As my spiritual imagination continued to soar I envisioned my biblical sistas giving each other a wink and a nod, or a low five as their monthly “issue” drew near. I imagined them fighting back a grin trying not to appear too eager as they quietly tucked their favorite scented oils, loin cloths, tunics, some olive oil, bread and grapes into a satchel and journeyed off to their designated area of isolation. And the moment they were all alone with God I imagine them bursting into a happy dance accompanied by joyful shouts of “Thank you Lord! Thank you!” Let the mandatory vacation begin! It would be a week of complete peace, quiet, relaxation and rejuvenation. Come on now! Who wouldn’t love that once a month?
Being one of the worn out and weary, multi-tasking mommas of today means that we rarely take time to find a moment to just breathe let alone spend some quality time with ourselves. We are the queens of putting ourselves on the back burner and I bet our biblical sistas were the same way. So I’m thinking God made it impossible for them to neglect themselves. In the end, and as He so often does, the Big Guy took what seemed like an awful "issue" and turned it around for good. So my spiritual imagination tips its hat to the Big Guy as well as my biblical sistas and gives me a whole new perspective on how to handle my next monthly “issue.”
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
"Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly!"
A few months ago I decided that I needed to make a genuine effort to clean up my potty mouth. I admit that colorful and well placed expletives are often seamlessly woven into my everyday conversation with family and friends. A “WTF” here and a “WTF” there is par for my discourse. Once, the “S” word even slipped out of my mouth after hearing an incredible testimony at Women’s Bible Study. I, like everyone else, was stunned. To my great relief the ladies erupted into laughter. My potty mouth had unintentionally served a purpose lifting the tension of a very emotional moment.
Figuring that wouldn’t always be the case I decided to come up with a more clever way to express myself. I definitely appreciate the sentiment of, “Whiskey, Tango, Firefox” but it just isn’t me. It’s way too military and hardly original. But come on, we all need to be able to self-medicate with our own “WTF” bomb during times of distress or disbelief. So I settled on, “Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly!” A definite rip off, but suits my quirky personality just fine. With that in mind here are a few situations that have set me off on a “Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly” tangent or two. I’m sure some of you will relate…
For instance, when the skies have darkened, blinding rain is beating down and fierce winds are gusting about---but all of the local weather people only seem interested in touting their Doppler 4000 gizmos, Next Rad do-hickeys, or Sky Tracking gadgets while I’m yelling, “Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly just tell me if funnel clouds are spinning my way people!”
Or after weeks of working out like an Olympic hopeful, sticking to my diet and living for my one cheat day. I roll up to Church’s Chicken feining for just one deep fried, high fat, steroid filled chicken wing and the chick inside the squawk box says, “Baby, we’re out of chicken wings.” “Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly!” Rolling my eyes in utter disbelief I growl to my husband, “How is Church’s “Chicken” out of chicken wings on a Saturday afternoon?”
Then there are celebrities like Tiger Woods or Michael Vick who’ve made amazingly bad choices and paid the price with endless public humiliation, loss of sponsors and revenue, and even jail time---the media clamors non-stop for some kind of public apology. But when the apology is given the blood suckers are still not satisfied. They whine that the apologies are not heartfelt enough. The celebs are not contrite enough. If the celeb sheds a tear, the apology is considered fake. If they don’t then they’re cold and insincere. “Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly people! Get a life and stop acting as if your fecal matter has a pleasant aroma!”
Or when a client wants a rush job and you get it done better and even faster than expected. But it still takes 30 days for your invoice to clear accounting. “Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly! Why can’t the check ever be cut as quickly as the job was completed?”
And finally I’ll leave you with one of my personal favorites. Son: “Man, you’re losing weight Mom.” Me: “You really notice?” Son: “Yea, you don’t look nearly as pregnant as you used to.” Or, Son: “Why are you working out so much? What do you need to look good for anyway? Me: “Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly! Really?”
Okay now it's your turn. What are some of your Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly moments?
Figuring that wouldn’t always be the case I decided to come up with a more clever way to express myself. I definitely appreciate the sentiment of, “Whiskey, Tango, Firefox” but it just isn’t me. It’s way too military and hardly original. But come on, we all need to be able to self-medicate with our own “WTF” bomb during times of distress or disbelief. So I settled on, “Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly!” A definite rip off, but suits my quirky personality just fine. With that in mind here are a few situations that have set me off on a “Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly” tangent or two. I’m sure some of you will relate…
For instance, when the skies have darkened, blinding rain is beating down and fierce winds are gusting about---but all of the local weather people only seem interested in touting their Doppler 4000 gizmos, Next Rad do-hickeys, or Sky Tracking gadgets while I’m yelling, “Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly just tell me if funnel clouds are spinning my way people!”
Or after weeks of working out like an Olympic hopeful, sticking to my diet and living for my one cheat day. I roll up to Church’s Chicken feining for just one deep fried, high fat, steroid filled chicken wing and the chick inside the squawk box says, “Baby, we’re out of chicken wings.” “Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly!” Rolling my eyes in utter disbelief I growl to my husband, “How is Church’s “Chicken” out of chicken wings on a Saturday afternoon?”
Then there are celebrities like Tiger Woods or Michael Vick who’ve made amazingly bad choices and paid the price with endless public humiliation, loss of sponsors and revenue, and even jail time---the media clamors non-stop for some kind of public apology. But when the apology is given the blood suckers are still not satisfied. They whine that the apologies are not heartfelt enough. The celebs are not contrite enough. If the celeb sheds a tear, the apology is considered fake. If they don’t then they’re cold and insincere. “Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly people! Get a life and stop acting as if your fecal matter has a pleasant aroma!”
Or when a client wants a rush job and you get it done better and even faster than expected. But it still takes 30 days for your invoice to clear accounting. “Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly! Why can’t the check ever be cut as quickly as the job was completed?”
And finally I’ll leave you with one of my personal favorites. Son: “Man, you’re losing weight Mom.” Me: “You really notice?” Son: “Yea, you don’t look nearly as pregnant as you used to.” Or, Son: “Why are you working out so much? What do you need to look good for anyway? Me: “Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly! Really?”
Okay now it's your turn. What are some of your Watermelon, Tomato, Fruit Fly moments?
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Mother's Day "Grays"
This past Mother’s Day I was faced with a daunting personal dilemma. However, I must admit that this dilemma was totally centered on nothing more than my vanity but it was daunting none-the-less. It all started about ten years or so ago as my 30’s began to fade into the history books. I became traumatized by the emergence of one, then two, then sixty or seventy gray hairs. They didn’t have the decency to evenly distribute themselves throughout my crowing glory. Oh no! My very rude grays conducted a full on frontal assault along my hairline. Before I knew it I appeared to have aged ten years in a matter of days. Eventually I realized if I didn’t take action I could easily be mistaken for, of all things, someone my age!
Like many other women, who are willing to be honest, the emergence of the “grays” shook me to my very core. I felt as though I was standing on the continental divide of my life with my self-proclaimed “naturally youthful appearance” on one side and my uhm, “less-youthful” appearance on the other. Whenever I looked into the mirror, which was often, the grays stood strong and unified taunting me mercilessly. I was sure support hose and pureed meals were soon to follow. I was forced to accept the harsh and cruel fact that a significant portion of my self-proclaimed “naturally youthful appearance” would no longer be, well, natural. Instead it would forever more come out of a box. Thus I became a regular in the hair color section of the beauty supply store. But finding the perfect hair color gave me fits. For years I experimented with a variety of ‘blacks,’ ‘blonds’ and finally ‘reds’ to cover those unrelenting grays. Ultimately it was my better half, who had been dragged into one beauty supply store too many, who ended the years of agony when he picked up a box of Cream of Nature Permanent Bronze Copper 6.4 hair color. The hair color angels had finally smiled upon me. There was magic inside that box!
In order to keep the magic alive I often purchased several boxes of my Bronze Copper 6.4 at a time. That way I was sure to be ready when the grays launched their monthly attack. Well the night before Mother’s Day I was utterly stunned to see an entire cluster of grays gathered front and center just above my hairline. Where on earth had they come from? There had been no sign of them that morning. I surely would have noticed this very large gathering. I moved a few of my locs around and low and behold the grays had totally infiltrated the front of my head. No worries though. I confidently reached into the cabinet under the sink for my box of magic. O-M-G! Nothing! I dropped to my knees and frantically shuffled through bottles of shampoos and conditioners. My heart pounded as I realized I was out of Bronze Copper 6.4. No magic. So now what? It was late no beauty supply stores were open. It was hours before Mother’s Day, a day when all self respecting mothers want to be appreciated, exude charm and confidence, feel sexy and darn it, look youthful! So here I am faced with the unthinkable possibility of having to actually look my age. Oh the horror! I deserved so much better especially on Mother’s Day.
After moping around the bathroom I nearly resigned myself to my fate. I figured I would just have to “woman up” and deal with the situation. But, duh, I was so caught up in my own vanity that I wasn’t thinking clearly. Once I regained my senses I realized I didn’t have to “woman up” at all. I had totally forgotten that Mother’s Day was “hat” day my church. Better yet, my girlfriend had loaned me a cute straw hat to sport if I could make it work. You betcha I could make it work! Mother’s Day morning, off to church I went, proudly rocking the cute straw hat, tiled to the side. It had allowed me to win another battle against those hostile grays and oh yes, keep my self-proclaimed “naturally youthful appearance” in tact!
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
"Readin', Writin', and Rithmatic' Again!"
When I shoved off on my blogging journey I idealistically gave myself a weekly deadline. No matter what, I would produce a blog a week and become prolific! My grand plan for blog stardom got off to an impressive start. I nailed my first three deadlines and then BAM! The wheels fell off of my ride. What’s really frustrating is that I didn’t miss the fourth deadline because I was procrastinating. Nope I missed it because of school. Not college or some deep and enriching post graduate program—but high school. You see when I participated in the spawning of a child (also known as “the boy”) I had no idea that when said child began his formal education that I too would be dragged kicking and screaming back into the classroom forced to do the K-12 grind all over again!
I consider myself to be a relatively intelligent person. For the most part I did well in school once I got the hang of it. There was that brief stint in elementary school when my report cards were plagued with “N’s” for ‘Needs Improvement.’ Admittedly it took me a few grades to catch on to the fact that my teachers actually wanted me to listen when they spoke, or to write on the paper they gave me instead of my desk. But by about the fourth grade, or so, I finally got the hang of things. Keeping in mind my early academic challenges I purposely married a reasonably intelligent man assuming we’d have a reasonably intelligent child or better yet a phenom who would blow the hinges off of class room doors with his super intelligence. Initially the boy appeared to be bright. He learned quickly, had excellent verbal and cognitive skills and was very creative. But the strangest thing happened when the child entered high school. I was horrified to watch as he mysteriously began losing brain cells. They vanished at such a rapid pace that not even Nobel scientists could comprehend it, let alone produce the miracle drug to reverse the boy’s tragic condition. Suddenly he was unable to comprehend the simplest of directions let alone complete daily assignments or study for exams. I am amazed that he managed to make it from one class to another without assistance. In the meantime my blogging got pushed to the back burner as I was forced to nurse the child and study for on my 10th grade finals again!
Where did I go wrong? I followed all of those parental manuals that told me to read to him nightly, set regular study times and oh my favorite, supervise him until he can work independently. As if! I’ve been waiting years for that ‘works well independently’ thing to kick in on a consistent basis. I’m keeping up my end of the deal doing everything a dedicated, responsible and incredibly paranoid mother is required to do. I’ve met all of his teachers and stay in touch with them via email, I check his grades daily and homework nightly, I make sure the child gets the medically recommended 8 hours of sleep at night and a hot, homemade breakfast each morning! During the first semester the A’s and B’s appear regularly. He emulated all of the characteristics of a bright student on his way to success in high school. All of my concerns about his poor organization habits, daydreaming, procrastinating and forgetting to turn in assignments were momentarily washed away. I thought, “Wow”, all of those lectures from the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th and 9th grade had finally taken root. I slacked off on the grade checks and actually began relying on my “brain cell deteriorating disease stricken” teenage boy to provide accurate and reliable information about what he is supposed to be doing in school. Talk about being a damn fool! When I regained my senses and checked his grades I was dumbfounded at how A’s and B’s had become C’s, D’s and even F’s. This can’t be! I kept checking the name and student number to be sure I hadn’t stumbled on to some other unfortunate child’s progress report. It’s was pointless though, Power School doesn’t lie even though I desperately wanted it to.
So now an ominous cloud now looms over the second half of the boy’s school year. It hails down a steady shower of yelling, punishments, lectures and of course joint studies. I spend countless hours trying to succeed where modern medicine has failed and reverse the loss of brain cells by pounding English, History, Science and Math (tutor required) facts and information into his head and, more importantly, trying to convince the boy that pretending the work doesn’t exist will NOT make it go away. It’s mentally exhausting especially as I wait with bated breath for the grades to come in. On the bright side I’ve definitely upped my skill level for shows like Jeopardy and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire by at least 90%. I can rattle off details about Stalin’s totalitarian government in Russia, offer in-depth literary analysis of The Scarlett Letter and The Grapes of Wrath or explain Newton’s Three Laws of Motion at the drop of a hat. I’m a walking trivia championship waiting to happen. But as a mom, turned high school drop-in, I’m more concerned about whether the boy will actually have enough brain cells to get him through the rest of the 10th grade let alone the 11th and 12th grades. I know I can’t be alone in my agony. I’m sure other, otherwise bright and talented children, currently suffer from this brain cell deterioration disease (right?) At this point I can only continue to study and pray that the disease reverses its path soon so we, I mean he can graduate.
I consider myself to be a relatively intelligent person. For the most part I did well in school once I got the hang of it. There was that brief stint in elementary school when my report cards were plagued with “N’s” for ‘Needs Improvement.’ Admittedly it took me a few grades to catch on to the fact that my teachers actually wanted me to listen when they spoke, or to write on the paper they gave me instead of my desk. But by about the fourth grade, or so, I finally got the hang of things. Keeping in mind my early academic challenges I purposely married a reasonably intelligent man assuming we’d have a reasonably intelligent child or better yet a phenom who would blow the hinges off of class room doors with his super intelligence. Initially the boy appeared to be bright. He learned quickly, had excellent verbal and cognitive skills and was very creative. But the strangest thing happened when the child entered high school. I was horrified to watch as he mysteriously began losing brain cells. They vanished at such a rapid pace that not even Nobel scientists could comprehend it, let alone produce the miracle drug to reverse the boy’s tragic condition. Suddenly he was unable to comprehend the simplest of directions let alone complete daily assignments or study for exams. I am amazed that he managed to make it from one class to another without assistance. In the meantime my blogging got pushed to the back burner as I was forced to nurse the child and study for on my 10th grade finals again!
Where did I go wrong? I followed all of those parental manuals that told me to read to him nightly, set regular study times and oh my favorite, supervise him until he can work independently. As if! I’ve been waiting years for that ‘works well independently’ thing to kick in on a consistent basis. I’m keeping up my end of the deal doing everything a dedicated, responsible and incredibly paranoid mother is required to do. I’ve met all of his teachers and stay in touch with them via email, I check his grades daily and homework nightly, I make sure the child gets the medically recommended 8 hours of sleep at night and a hot, homemade breakfast each morning! During the first semester the A’s and B’s appear regularly. He emulated all of the characteristics of a bright student on his way to success in high school. All of my concerns about his poor organization habits, daydreaming, procrastinating and forgetting to turn in assignments were momentarily washed away. I thought, “Wow”, all of those lectures from the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th and 9th grade had finally taken root. I slacked off on the grade checks and actually began relying on my “brain cell deteriorating disease stricken” teenage boy to provide accurate and reliable information about what he is supposed to be doing in school. Talk about being a damn fool! When I regained my senses and checked his grades I was dumbfounded at how A’s and B’s had become C’s, D’s and even F’s. This can’t be! I kept checking the name and student number to be sure I hadn’t stumbled on to some other unfortunate child’s progress report. It’s was pointless though, Power School doesn’t lie even though I desperately wanted it to.
So now an ominous cloud now looms over the second half of the boy’s school year. It hails down a steady shower of yelling, punishments, lectures and of course joint studies. I spend countless hours trying to succeed where modern medicine has failed and reverse the loss of brain cells by pounding English, History, Science and Math (tutor required) facts and information into his head and, more importantly, trying to convince the boy that pretending the work doesn’t exist will NOT make it go away. It’s mentally exhausting especially as I wait with bated breath for the grades to come in. On the bright side I’ve definitely upped my skill level for shows like Jeopardy and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire by at least 90%. I can rattle off details about Stalin’s totalitarian government in Russia, offer in-depth literary analysis of The Scarlett Letter and The Grapes of Wrath or explain Newton’s Three Laws of Motion at the drop of a hat. I’m a walking trivia championship waiting to happen. But as a mom, turned high school drop-in, I’m more concerned about whether the boy will actually have enough brain cells to get him through the rest of the 10th grade let alone the 11th and 12th grades. I know I can’t be alone in my agony. I’m sure other, otherwise bright and talented children, currently suffer from this brain cell deterioration disease (right?) At this point I can only continue to study and pray that the disease reverses its path soon so we, I mean he can graduate.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
"Me, Myself and Wee Ree"
Beyoncé works hers to death. Dr. Jekyll hid his for good reasons and I’ve finally decided to embrace mine and show her some love. I’m talking about the alter ego, better known as “the other I” or the “second self.” Whatever you want to call it, the alter ego is capable of taking you to the highest of heights or the lowest of lows. Beyoncé’ alter, Sasha Fierce, is just that a fierce, confident, sexy powder keg of energy that explodes in every performance. On the other hand Dr. Jekyll’s alter Mr. Hyde was a cruel violent fool who stalked the streets of London at night. Well if I am to be completely honest I must say, my ‘second self’ falls somewhere between Sasha Fierce and Mr. Hyde (though I have not stalked the streets of London--yet.) Her name is “Wee Ree” and apparently she has pranced around my psyche for some time causing me to do and say things that, when retold to me by others, have left me utterly stunned.
I’m not sure if it’s my small stature or something I inherited from generations of determined and industrious ancestors who had to overcome adversity to survive but I do have a bit of an aggressive nature. Okay maybe it’s more than a bit, at times it can be a ‘lotta bit,’ and after giving it much thought I now realize that 99% of that aggression actually belongs to “Wee Ree.” As you can tell by her name she is small but feisty. I have to give my husband credit for finally naming her. After listening to one of my many rants about some social injustice or another he stared at me for a few moments and said, “I will call you Wee Ree.” I shot him a questioning look and he went on to explain that in another life “Wee Ree” was on the way to the top of her game in Vaudeville. She was a tap dancing queen. But her rising star came crashing down after someone criticized her performance. Wee Ree lost her ever loving mind and spewed a wicked string of insults and expletives that left many scarred for life. She not only lost her job, but her temper kept her from ever being a serious contender in show business again. Yes, I know, Wee Ree has serious anger management issues. So of course I failed to see the connection between the two of us. I mean I can’t even tap dance!
But when I looked back I realized there had been times when Wee Ree had taken over and ran “my” mouth leaving a wake of destruction. Like the time when I worked as a reporter at WHBQ TV in Memphis. The General Manager called a staff meeting and asked us to share our opinions and concerns about how the news department was being run. Well at that time in my life (mid 20’s) I definitely had not mastered the art of tact and diplomacy and doing so had certainly never been on Wee Ree’s “to do list.” So when it was my turn to speak I was stunned to hear myself unloading with both barrels about all of the problems in our department and how the GM himself was not living up to the promises he’d made. Now I know Wee Ree was doing all of the talking. But at that time I wasn’t sure what had gotten into me or how to stop it. Once she started I just couldn’t shut her up. I noticed the GM getting hot under the collar but Wee Ree didn’t. She kept right on tossing one critical bomb after another. When it was over Wee Ree was satisfied. I, on the other hand, was mortified and with good reason. A few weeks later there was a huge round of layoffs and yours truly was one of the first to get a pink slip. Wee Ree just rolled her eyes, turned up her lips and acted like nothing had ever happened. She was ready to move on to her next adventure while I was worried about finding a new job.
Wee Ree is also extremely competitive. My husband and I love to play racquetball and the games get very intense with a lot of trash talking flying back and forth. During one particular match we had a volley that went on for at least two minutes or so. It was a heated battle. The match was on the line. I was determined not to lose. We battled back and forth each hitting one incredible shot after another. Then my husband fired a sweet, low shot. The ball was barely an inch off the floor. I dove but missed it! I had lost! Instantly I could feel the anger swell inside of me. Wee Ree was putting Vaseline on her face and taking off her earrings. My husband immediately began trash talking and taunting me mercilessly. Then he did it. He made the mistake of turning his back to me and walking away. Wee Ree pounced! Before I knew what was happening she ran up and slammed the racquet into his back and then, just like that, the heifer vanished. My husband winced and froze in pain and disbelief. I dropped the racquet and covered my mouth. I was wide eyed with shock and shame. “You hit me!” He slowly turned and shook his head. “I can’t believe you just hit me in anger.” All I could do was apologize over and over begging for his forgiveness. Wee Ree didn’t give it a second thought.
On the other hand having a second self isn’t all bad. While Wee Ree has put me in more than a few dicey situations, she has also gotten me out of a few. When I began my very first reporting job at WLNS TV in Lansing, Michigan my very first assignment was a live shot. I’d worked in radio but had never actually done a live shot on television. Though I did my best to remain calm I was terrified that I’d make a fool of myself and the news director would decide he’d made a mistake and fire me. But as my photographer counted me down to the live shot my “gurl” Wee Ree showed up and reminded me that I was more than equipped to do my job and do it well. She calmed my nerves, took the quiver out of my voice and kept me completely focused. My first television live shot was smooth, polished and informative which gave me creditability among my new colleagues and brought much praise from my boss.
More like Sasha Fierce and less like Mr. Hyde, Wee Ree is definitely a plus in my life. She’s given me the strength to get out of toxic relationships—in fact she’s up and ended them herself and demanded my compliance. When I’m down she gives me the strength to take another step and reminds me that having faith and working hard, not whining and complaining, is the only way to achieve my goals. More importantly Wee Ree has made me ‘okay’ with being me---loud, off-beat, opinionated but lots of fun (if I don’t say so myself.) Through the years she and I have gotten better in the “tact and diplomacy” department. But Wee Ree is always on deck ready to “keep it raw and real” whenever necessary. Luv ya gurl! So I encourage you to go on and embrace your 'second self' and enjoy the ride!
I’m not sure if it’s my small stature or something I inherited from generations of determined and industrious ancestors who had to overcome adversity to survive but I do have a bit of an aggressive nature. Okay maybe it’s more than a bit, at times it can be a ‘lotta bit,’ and after giving it much thought I now realize that 99% of that aggression actually belongs to “Wee Ree.” As you can tell by her name she is small but feisty. I have to give my husband credit for finally naming her. After listening to one of my many rants about some social injustice or another he stared at me for a few moments and said, “I will call you Wee Ree.” I shot him a questioning look and he went on to explain that in another life “Wee Ree” was on the way to the top of her game in Vaudeville. She was a tap dancing queen. But her rising star came crashing down after someone criticized her performance. Wee Ree lost her ever loving mind and spewed a wicked string of insults and expletives that left many scarred for life. She not only lost her job, but her temper kept her from ever being a serious contender in show business again. Yes, I know, Wee Ree has serious anger management issues. So of course I failed to see the connection between the two of us. I mean I can’t even tap dance!
But when I looked back I realized there had been times when Wee Ree had taken over and ran “my” mouth leaving a wake of destruction. Like the time when I worked as a reporter at WHBQ TV in Memphis. The General Manager called a staff meeting and asked us to share our opinions and concerns about how the news department was being run. Well at that time in my life (mid 20’s) I definitely had not mastered the art of tact and diplomacy and doing so had certainly never been on Wee Ree’s “to do list.” So when it was my turn to speak I was stunned to hear myself unloading with both barrels about all of the problems in our department and how the GM himself was not living up to the promises he’d made. Now I know Wee Ree was doing all of the talking. But at that time I wasn’t sure what had gotten into me or how to stop it. Once she started I just couldn’t shut her up. I noticed the GM getting hot under the collar but Wee Ree didn’t. She kept right on tossing one critical bomb after another. When it was over Wee Ree was satisfied. I, on the other hand, was mortified and with good reason. A few weeks later there was a huge round of layoffs and yours truly was one of the first to get a pink slip. Wee Ree just rolled her eyes, turned up her lips and acted like nothing had ever happened. She was ready to move on to her next adventure while I was worried about finding a new job.
Wee Ree is also extremely competitive. My husband and I love to play racquetball and the games get very intense with a lot of trash talking flying back and forth. During one particular match we had a volley that went on for at least two minutes or so. It was a heated battle. The match was on the line. I was determined not to lose. We battled back and forth each hitting one incredible shot after another. Then my husband fired a sweet, low shot. The ball was barely an inch off the floor. I dove but missed it! I had lost! Instantly I could feel the anger swell inside of me. Wee Ree was putting Vaseline on her face and taking off her earrings. My husband immediately began trash talking and taunting me mercilessly. Then he did it. He made the mistake of turning his back to me and walking away. Wee Ree pounced! Before I knew what was happening she ran up and slammed the racquet into his back and then, just like that, the heifer vanished. My husband winced and froze in pain and disbelief. I dropped the racquet and covered my mouth. I was wide eyed with shock and shame. “You hit me!” He slowly turned and shook his head. “I can’t believe you just hit me in anger.” All I could do was apologize over and over begging for his forgiveness. Wee Ree didn’t give it a second thought.
On the other hand having a second self isn’t all bad. While Wee Ree has put me in more than a few dicey situations, she has also gotten me out of a few. When I began my very first reporting job at WLNS TV in Lansing, Michigan my very first assignment was a live shot. I’d worked in radio but had never actually done a live shot on television. Though I did my best to remain calm I was terrified that I’d make a fool of myself and the news director would decide he’d made a mistake and fire me. But as my photographer counted me down to the live shot my “gurl” Wee Ree showed up and reminded me that I was more than equipped to do my job and do it well. She calmed my nerves, took the quiver out of my voice and kept me completely focused. My first television live shot was smooth, polished and informative which gave me creditability among my new colleagues and brought much praise from my boss.
More like Sasha Fierce and less like Mr. Hyde, Wee Ree is definitely a plus in my life. She’s given me the strength to get out of toxic relationships—in fact she’s up and ended them herself and demanded my compliance. When I’m down she gives me the strength to take another step and reminds me that having faith and working hard, not whining and complaining, is the only way to achieve my goals. More importantly Wee Ree has made me ‘okay’ with being me---loud, off-beat, opinionated but lots of fun (if I don’t say so myself.) Through the years she and I have gotten better in the “tact and diplomacy” department. But Wee Ree is always on deck ready to “keep it raw and real” whenever necessary. Luv ya gurl! So I encourage you to go on and embrace your 'second self' and enjoy the ride!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
"Eat It!"
So here’s the thing! And it’s the kind of thing that doesn’t really grate at your nerves until it’s too late and you’ve already been catapulted into the position of wife, mother and “head cook.” Before you know what’s happened you’re thrust into an agonizing daily battle with your husband and children about what they want to eat. What’s more, they actually have the gall to expect, no, demand that we multi-tasking moms waltz into the kitchen, snap open our Martha Stewart inspired recipe box and whip up meals that will delight their picky palates at a moment’s notice! How absurd! How wrong! How incredibly annoying!
After years of such torment I decided to do a little math (very little) in order to get a handle on how many meals I’ve been required to muster up since I became a Mom. I figure that’s the best place to start because when we got married, while I did cook for my husband, I felt absolutely no obligation to do so. And heaven knows he did not belly up to the kitchen table for the recommended three meals a day. I considered it a ‘wifey’ accomplishment if I managed to dish up at least one meal a day. For the rest we fed our faces at whatever restaurant tickled our fancy. Menus were plentiful and life was good. (Insert sound of screeching brakes here).
After giving birth, along with all of the mental, physical and chemical changes ravaging my body, I must have been infected with the ‘Uber Mom’ gene. Suddenly I was inexplicably compelled to make three meals a day. I had no idea of the horrors that lay ahead!
The Uber Mom, meal deal thing got off to a fairly good start because all of the child’s meals came from my bosom. Despite the intense pain and agony I was determined to let the child drain all of the breast milk that I had in me. But as it turned out my glands were poor providers. After a week or so of the breastfeeding debacle my poor son appeared shriveled and malnourished and I was completely frazzled. Finally, to my husband’s relief, my doctor demanded I shut down my meager mammary factory before the boy starved to death.
Suddenly the sun began to shine. As time went on I was pleased to find that feeding him formula and baby food wasn’t nearly as distressing as I'd thought it would be. I delighted in choosing cute little jars filled with fruit and veggie purees or filling bottles with formula and adding a dash of iron fortified dry cereal here and there. The boy gobbled down my concoctions and I proudly dubbed myself ‘Top Chef’. But alas the good times came to an end when the child along with his father grew tired of the tiny jars of strained peas and pureed apples and demanded regular food. Just like that my chef’s hat along with the pots and pans in my kitchen began to spin out of control.
By my calculations I’ve cooked 1,095 meals a year since my son was born for a grand total of 15,877.5 meals and counting during the boy’s 14.5 years. The numbers are staggering and you’d think someone would appreciate such a feat. But Nooo! They’re both ungrateful eaters. Always with the question, ‘what’s for dinner?’ As if I woke up with the day’s meal plan pasted on my forehead. I’m also subjected to the constant grumbles, such as, “There’s never anything “good” here to eat,” “Why is the chicken so dry!”, Or “Why do you use ground turkey instead of beef in the spaghetti?” “We hate wheat bread!” And, "Are you trying ANOTHER new recipe?!" Grrrrr and double Grrrr!
If that isn’t bad enough, once I manage to whip up something that I think will make them happy I’m subjected to extreme scrutiny. First there’s the secret exchange of glances between father and son. One signaling the other to peek into the pots on the stove and scout the meal. The scout quickly sends out a ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ based on the visual. This is followed by the sneaky taste test. When they think my back is turned the boy or his father quickly samples the main dish and relays a hearty thumbs up or thumbs down. If it is a thumbs up they eat with a sigh of relief and I even get a few compliments. But, if it is a thumbs down, I get a string of whiny complaints like ‘You used too much garlic’, ‘It’s too spicy’, or ‘I had a big lunch and wasn’t really hungry’. They choke down a forkful or two and about an hour or so later, father and son are suddenly struck by an overwhelming desire for Taco Bell or Mickey D’s. Grrr! It’s enough to make any multi-tasking mom manic.
Enough! This vicious unending cycle has led me to only one conclusion--a strike! No longer will I be the victim of their fickle culinary whims. I am done rolling the dice on what to cook for dinner. They can spin the menu wheel and come up with the dinner of their choice. Finally I will have the chance to sit back and mete out overly dramatic critical analysis of each dish. Then I’ll calmly pick up my purse and make my way to my favorite sushi restaurant where I will eat in peace and savor every bite.
(P.S.--My strike lasted for a week and now hubby shares more of the cooking duties and the criticism. But he still absolutely refuses to step foot inside the grocery store!)
After years of such torment I decided to do a little math (very little) in order to get a handle on how many meals I’ve been required to muster up since I became a Mom. I figure that’s the best place to start because when we got married, while I did cook for my husband, I felt absolutely no obligation to do so. And heaven knows he did not belly up to the kitchen table for the recommended three meals a day. I considered it a ‘wifey’ accomplishment if I managed to dish up at least one meal a day. For the rest we fed our faces at whatever restaurant tickled our fancy. Menus were plentiful and life was good. (Insert sound of screeching brakes here).
After giving birth, along with all of the mental, physical and chemical changes ravaging my body, I must have been infected with the ‘Uber Mom’ gene. Suddenly I was inexplicably compelled to make three meals a day. I had no idea of the horrors that lay ahead!
The Uber Mom, meal deal thing got off to a fairly good start because all of the child’s meals came from my bosom. Despite the intense pain and agony I was determined to let the child drain all of the breast milk that I had in me. But as it turned out my glands were poor providers. After a week or so of the breastfeeding debacle my poor son appeared shriveled and malnourished and I was completely frazzled. Finally, to my husband’s relief, my doctor demanded I shut down my meager mammary factory before the boy starved to death.
Suddenly the sun began to shine. As time went on I was pleased to find that feeding him formula and baby food wasn’t nearly as distressing as I'd thought it would be. I delighted in choosing cute little jars filled with fruit and veggie purees or filling bottles with formula and adding a dash of iron fortified dry cereal here and there. The boy gobbled down my concoctions and I proudly dubbed myself ‘Top Chef’. But alas the good times came to an end when the child along with his father grew tired of the tiny jars of strained peas and pureed apples and demanded regular food. Just like that my chef’s hat along with the pots and pans in my kitchen began to spin out of control.
By my calculations I’ve cooked 1,095 meals a year since my son was born for a grand total of 15,877.5 meals and counting during the boy’s 14.5 years. The numbers are staggering and you’d think someone would appreciate such a feat. But Nooo! They’re both ungrateful eaters. Always with the question, ‘what’s for dinner?’ As if I woke up with the day’s meal plan pasted on my forehead. I’m also subjected to the constant grumbles, such as, “There’s never anything “good” here to eat,” “Why is the chicken so dry!”, Or “Why do you use ground turkey instead of beef in the spaghetti?” “We hate wheat bread!” And, "Are you trying ANOTHER new recipe?!" Grrrrr and double Grrrr!
If that isn’t bad enough, once I manage to whip up something that I think will make them happy I’m subjected to extreme scrutiny. First there’s the secret exchange of glances between father and son. One signaling the other to peek into the pots on the stove and scout the meal. The scout quickly sends out a ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ based on the visual. This is followed by the sneaky taste test. When they think my back is turned the boy or his father quickly samples the main dish and relays a hearty thumbs up or thumbs down. If it is a thumbs up they eat with a sigh of relief and I even get a few compliments. But, if it is a thumbs down, I get a string of whiny complaints like ‘You used too much garlic’, ‘It’s too spicy’, or ‘I had a big lunch and wasn’t really hungry’. They choke down a forkful or two and about an hour or so later, father and son are suddenly struck by an overwhelming desire for Taco Bell or Mickey D’s. Grrr! It’s enough to make any multi-tasking mom manic.
Enough! This vicious unending cycle has led me to only one conclusion--a strike! No longer will I be the victim of their fickle culinary whims. I am done rolling the dice on what to cook for dinner. They can spin the menu wheel and come up with the dinner of their choice. Finally I will have the chance to sit back and mete out overly dramatic critical analysis of each dish. Then I’ll calmly pick up my purse and make my way to my favorite sushi restaurant where I will eat in peace and savor every bite.
(P.S.--My strike lasted for a week and now hubby shares more of the cooking duties and the criticism. But he still absolutely refuses to step foot inside the grocery store!)
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Queen of Hugs!
I am blessed to have been born into a family filled with the most amazing women that God ever put on the planet. Their love, strength and beauty continue to shape my life in immeasurable ways. For instance, I have an older cousin on my mother’s side who is a ‘hugger.’ Cousin Debbie is no ordinary hugger. There is no such thing as a ‘simple embrace’ for her. To me, Cousin Debbie’s hugs have always reigned supreme in my family. Don’t get me wrong, I come from a long line of generous huggers. My mother and grandma could certainly serve up a heartfelt embrace with the best of them. But I’ve always felt Cousin Debbie took hugging to an entirely new level. She hugs with such gusto and passion that it literally takes your breath away. Cousin Debbie is without a doubt my ‘Queen of Hugs.’
When the Queen wraps someone in her arms it is as if they have absolutely no choice but to surrender to her. Her hugs are not obnoxious or abrasive. They are simply unforgettable. She always hugs tight and she always hugs long.
When I was a kid the Queen’s need to cling would, at times, catch me off guard and just plain frustrate me. Whether it was a special family gathering or she was just stopping by. Whether I had seen her the day before or hadn’t seen her in a while, her Highnesses’ huge hugs were always filled with the lust for life that radiated from the beauty in her soul. But, being a kid all of that meaning was totally lost on me. I just thought the Queen needed to chill and relax her grip a bit. Surely she knew hugging with such force could injure a small child. Well, if she knew, she did not care because the Queen is no respecter of persons when it comes to hugs. She dishes them out to everyone the same. Me, my brother, my mother, her mother, her aunts, her husband, her children, her sisters, and I would guess even her cherished Rottweilers are not spared from the Queen’s long, snug and breathless hugs. It’s as if she’s determined to take a piece of you away with her from each embrace.
But here’s the thing, while I may have felt smothered by those hugs as a child I began to feel differently when I became a young woman. Leaving home, going off to college and living on my own gave me a much more realistic view of the world. People and situations weren’t always so pretty. I cherished my independence but for the first time in my life I truly began to realize the importance of having a loving family who had my best interest at heart. My maternal grandmother raised me and my brother after our parents divorced and our mother became ill. My grandmother’s plate was always full with work and taking care of my mother. So, unlike a lot of of my friends, there weren’t many opportunities for family to visit and hang out with me in college on the weekends. I only saw family when I came home for the summer or holiday breaks.
It was during those visits that I found myself eagerly anticipating our family gatherings and especially a visit with the Queen. I suddenly needed to feel Cousin Debbie wrap me in her well-toned arms, press me into her bosom, rock me from side to side, while rubbing and patting my back and warmly sighing, “Hmmmmm!” Now, instead of wishing the embrace would end, I was honored to give the Queen her due. I held on a little longer and squeezed a little tighter. I needed to fill up on the love and energy that she poured into each embrace and I needed her to know how much I appreciated her love.
However, it was not until I became a wife and mother that I was able to truly understand what fuels the Queen’s warm hearted hugs. I am blessed to now realize what the Queen must have learned from, her parents, and the rest of our family. It’s really a simple concept. Absolutely nothing is promised. Therefore, no hug is to ever be wasted. The Queen’s hugs, just like the ones I now give to my family and friends, ooze love and support. The Queen’s hugs always told me, “You’re beautiful, you’re special, I’m so glad you’re here.” They whispered, “Do your best, do what is right, don’t give up.” Most of all, the Queen’s hugs comforted me and lifted my spirit shouting, “I love you from the bottom of my heart.” So with every hug that I am blessed to give to another, I do my best to channel Cousin Debbie as my heart sings, “All Hail the Queen of Hugs!”
When the Queen wraps someone in her arms it is as if they have absolutely no choice but to surrender to her. Her hugs are not obnoxious or abrasive. They are simply unforgettable. She always hugs tight and she always hugs long.
When I was a kid the Queen’s need to cling would, at times, catch me off guard and just plain frustrate me. Whether it was a special family gathering or she was just stopping by. Whether I had seen her the day before or hadn’t seen her in a while, her Highnesses’ huge hugs were always filled with the lust for life that radiated from the beauty in her soul. But, being a kid all of that meaning was totally lost on me. I just thought the Queen needed to chill and relax her grip a bit. Surely she knew hugging with such force could injure a small child. Well, if she knew, she did not care because the Queen is no respecter of persons when it comes to hugs. She dishes them out to everyone the same. Me, my brother, my mother, her mother, her aunts, her husband, her children, her sisters, and I would guess even her cherished Rottweilers are not spared from the Queen’s long, snug and breathless hugs. It’s as if she’s determined to take a piece of you away with her from each embrace.
But here’s the thing, while I may have felt smothered by those hugs as a child I began to feel differently when I became a young woman. Leaving home, going off to college and living on my own gave me a much more realistic view of the world. People and situations weren’t always so pretty. I cherished my independence but for the first time in my life I truly began to realize the importance of having a loving family who had my best interest at heart. My maternal grandmother raised me and my brother after our parents divorced and our mother became ill. My grandmother’s plate was always full with work and taking care of my mother. So, unlike a lot of of my friends, there weren’t many opportunities for family to visit and hang out with me in college on the weekends. I only saw family when I came home for the summer or holiday breaks.
It was during those visits that I found myself eagerly anticipating our family gatherings and especially a visit with the Queen. I suddenly needed to feel Cousin Debbie wrap me in her well-toned arms, press me into her bosom, rock me from side to side, while rubbing and patting my back and warmly sighing, “Hmmmmm!” Now, instead of wishing the embrace would end, I was honored to give the Queen her due. I held on a little longer and squeezed a little tighter. I needed to fill up on the love and energy that she poured into each embrace and I needed her to know how much I appreciated her love.
However, it was not until I became a wife and mother that I was able to truly understand what fuels the Queen’s warm hearted hugs. I am blessed to now realize what the Queen must have learned from, her parents, and the rest of our family. It’s really a simple concept. Absolutely nothing is promised. Therefore, no hug is to ever be wasted. The Queen’s hugs, just like the ones I now give to my family and friends, ooze love and support. The Queen’s hugs always told me, “You’re beautiful, you’re special, I’m so glad you’re here.” They whispered, “Do your best, do what is right, don’t give up.” Most of all, the Queen’s hugs comforted me and lifted my spirit shouting, “I love you from the bottom of my heart.” So with every hug that I am blessed to give to another, I do my best to channel Cousin Debbie as my heart sings, “All Hail the Queen of Hugs!”
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