Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Kid Nation
Tonight was the last night of Kid Nation. I believe I watched all of them, some twice, and I must say I loved this show. It wasn’t at all what I expected--which was a junior version of Survivor. I have so much hope for the future after meeting this kids. I hope CBS gives us an update on what the children got as compensation for participating. Since there was a limited amount of Gold Stars I hope all the kids were given something to put in their college funds. In the end I even liked Taylor!
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Priorities
Here's something I wish somebody would have told my husband before we got married. If you come upon your wife, sitting on the bed naked and she was doing the exact same thing before you went to take your shower, then obviously you have stumbled upon her critical (say it with me) sitting-on-the-bed-naked time!
If he stops her to say things like "Why aren't you dressed?" or "We have to be there in an hour." He's cutting into her sitting-on-the-bed-naked time and he's the one causing the problem!
Every woman knows the cleaning out the purse time comes after the sitting-on-the-bed-naked time and questions only slow down the process.
Consider this message a public service.
If he stops her to say things like "Why aren't you dressed?" or "We have to be there in an hour." He's cutting into her sitting-on-the-bed-naked time and he's the one causing the problem!
Every woman knows the cleaning out the purse time comes after the sitting-on-the-bed-naked time and questions only slow down the process.
Consider this message a public service.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Waitresses Be Advised
My husband is a flirt and, for the most part, I couldn’t care less. When I thought I had it, I was a better flirt. If I feels he’s getting carried away and some poor women is actually believing him, I’ll rein him in. I’ve watched him in action at many gatherings over the years. What’s really funny is when he flatters an aggressive woman and she responds in kind; that’s when he’ll say something like, “I want you to meet my wife,” and he’ll break away to find me so I can save him. I can always tell when this has happened because the woman’s expression is so confused. Also, soon after my arrival the innocent woman starts moving toward a slow burn. I can’t blame her, who wants to feel played?
This was background to what I’m really peeved about. Have you seen the commercial where a busty waitress is cleaning a table in front of a young couple? I believe it’s a Carl’s Jr. ad for buffalo wings. She leans over and makes sure the man is getting a good eyeful. The woman in the couple is annoyed, but she handles it well. She handles it much better than I would have and I’m really not inclined to deal with the small stuff. But this woman is flirting BIG. She telling the man’s date that she (the date) doesn’t matter. I would have a hard time controlling the urge to hurt that woman.
So let this be a warning to you busty waitresses out there. He doesn’t want you, I’m not threatened, but you will not disrespect me like that!
This was background to what I’m really peeved about. Have you seen the commercial where a busty waitress is cleaning a table in front of a young couple? I believe it’s a Carl’s Jr. ad for buffalo wings. She leans over and makes sure the man is getting a good eyeful. The woman in the couple is annoyed, but she handles it well. She handles it much better than I would have and I’m really not inclined to deal with the small stuff. But this woman is flirting BIG. She telling the man’s date that she (the date) doesn’t matter. I would have a hard time controlling the urge to hurt that woman.
So let this be a warning to you busty waitresses out there. He doesn’t want you, I’m not threatened, but you will not disrespect me like that!
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Come Back My Love
Something very wrong has happened to my dreams. I never would’ve expected this, not in a million years.
First a little background.
I might not know what African tribe I descended from, but I do know I come from a long line of horny people on my father’s side. I’m not saying I was a witness and certainly not a victim; I was just a nosy kid and I heard things–okay? I was interested in most things sexual, albeit on mostly an intellectual level, during my formative years. I made it my business to be around when the stories were being told. I wanted to know exactly how things--fit.
I was the girl who checked out the Kinsey Reports, both of them.* This was no small feat for a twelve year old because these tomes were kept behind the checkout counter and they had to be requested and signed out. And my aunt worked at the library and she talked to my mother at least twice a day. In case you never read the Kinsey reports, they were about as exciting as the Oxford Dictionary, but I scanned each volume carefully. I don’t know if my aunt ever found out that I borrowed them. I can’t imagine something happening at that library that my aunt didn’t know. Reading was scared in my household and there was very little censorship. My father read everything he touched and he believed if you were old enough to understand it, read it and “we’ll talk about it later.” Looking back on it now, I think my aunt probably told my parents and they decided it okay for me to read them because I probably wouldn’t understand most of it. They were right.
So you see the fact that many of my dreams over the years had a sexual component was a given. It was in the DNA. That has changed. These dreams are slowly changing from sexual to action/adventure. I still wake up exhausted, but it’s a different kind of exhaustion. The movie star who was once my dream lover has become my sidekick. We spend our nights together now fighting crime. It’s enough to make a sexual being sick. I want him back! In my bed, on the beach, in the private airplane and especially in that limousine. And I want him to leave that sword he’s been carrying around lately at home! I’m not that old yet–am I?
*Sexual Behavior in the Human Male (1948) and Sexual Behavior in the Human Female (1953)
First a little background.
I might not know what African tribe I descended from, but I do know I come from a long line of horny people on my father’s side. I’m not saying I was a witness and certainly not a victim; I was just a nosy kid and I heard things–okay? I was interested in most things sexual, albeit on mostly an intellectual level, during my formative years. I made it my business to be around when the stories were being told. I wanted to know exactly how things--fit.
I was the girl who checked out the Kinsey Reports, both of them.* This was no small feat for a twelve year old because these tomes were kept behind the checkout counter and they had to be requested and signed out. And my aunt worked at the library and she talked to my mother at least twice a day. In case you never read the Kinsey reports, they were about as exciting as the Oxford Dictionary, but I scanned each volume carefully. I don’t know if my aunt ever found out that I borrowed them. I can’t imagine something happening at that library that my aunt didn’t know. Reading was scared in my household and there was very little censorship. My father read everything he touched and he believed if you were old enough to understand it, read it and “we’ll talk about it later.” Looking back on it now, I think my aunt probably told my parents and they decided it okay for me to read them because I probably wouldn’t understand most of it. They were right.
So you see the fact that many of my dreams over the years had a sexual component was a given. It was in the DNA. That has changed. These dreams are slowly changing from sexual to action/adventure. I still wake up exhausted, but it’s a different kind of exhaustion. The movie star who was once my dream lover has become my sidekick. We spend our nights together now fighting crime. It’s enough to make a sexual being sick. I want him back! In my bed, on the beach, in the private airplane and especially in that limousine. And I want him to leave that sword he’s been carrying around lately at home! I’m not that old yet–am I?
*Sexual Behavior in the Human Male (1948) and Sexual Behavior in the Human Female (1953)
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
No, Guns Do Kill People
I watch and I enjoy The View, it. The women remind me of my weekly writers critique group where we evaluate world events before we read our new chapters. I don’t always agree with Rosie O Donnell, but I don’t always agree with myself. There’s plenty of things I’ve said and written about in the past and I’ve since changed my mind. I reserve that right, God isn’t finished with me.
Today on the View I felt Rosie’s pain as she said we will never get gun control in this country, the gun lobbies are just too powerful. Rosie loves children, I can tell–it takes one to know one. She openly speaks about the depression she fell into after Columbine. I understand, the same thing happened to me. It wasn’t the first time either. I was very young during Kent State, but I believe I suffered my first depression then. I’m not using depression to mean a little sadness. Clinical depression runs in my family and I know what depression means.
I’m hoping Rosie is wrong on this one. Like Joy Behar pointed out, this week we have two amendments that need to be reviewed and revised.
Let’s review. The first amendment prohibits the federal legislature from making laws that establish religion (the "Establishment Clause") or prohibit free exercise of religion (the "Free Exercise Clause"), laws that infringe the freedom of speech, infringe the freedom of the press, limit the right to assemble peaceably, or limit the right to petition the government for a redress of grievances.
Some say the Don Imus incident is a first amendment issue.
The second amendment declares the necessity for "a well regulated militia", and prohibits infringement of "the right of the people to keep and bear arms."
As I write this, it’s the day after the Virginia Tech massacre that left 33 people dead.
As the mother of three children, each of whom left the state to attend college, this tragedy hits close. I feel deeply for those parents who thought the worst thing they had to worry about was the occasional bad grade, the freshmen fifteen (pounds) and constantly warning them to stay out of cars with drunk drivers.
I know what’s coming and I’m going to work this time to avoid the depression that’s lurking in the periphery. The Constitution can be amended, it has been amended 17 times since final ratification of the Bill of Rights in 1791. There is no way the founding fathers envisioned a world of automatic weapons that could mow down so many people in so little time. There were real threats in 1791 that haven’t existed in our world for a long time. If we ever needed them, we don’t need the guns anymore, folks. Study the rest of the world, they don’t have the guns and they don’t have massacres like what we saw yesterday.
Recent courts have already interpreted the second amendment to say that it (the second Amendment) guarantees a collective right of political organizations to form militias, not an individual
right to a firearm. We can and should make that fact clearer with revision.
We must let our representatives know we don’t want the guns in our country anymore. Let’s start today.
Today on the View I felt Rosie’s pain as she said we will never get gun control in this country, the gun lobbies are just too powerful. Rosie loves children, I can tell–it takes one to know one. She openly speaks about the depression she fell into after Columbine. I understand, the same thing happened to me. It wasn’t the first time either. I was very young during Kent State, but I believe I suffered my first depression then. I’m not using depression to mean a little sadness. Clinical depression runs in my family and I know what depression means.
I’m hoping Rosie is wrong on this one. Like Joy Behar pointed out, this week we have two amendments that need to be reviewed and revised.
Let’s review. The first amendment prohibits the federal legislature from making laws that establish religion (the "Establishment Clause") or prohibit free exercise of religion (the "Free Exercise Clause"), laws that infringe the freedom of speech, infringe the freedom of the press, limit the right to assemble peaceably, or limit the right to petition the government for a redress of grievances.
Some say the Don Imus incident is a first amendment issue.
The second amendment declares the necessity for "a well regulated militia", and prohibits infringement of "the right of the people to keep and bear arms."
As I write this, it’s the day after the Virginia Tech massacre that left 33 people dead.
As the mother of three children, each of whom left the state to attend college, this tragedy hits close. I feel deeply for those parents who thought the worst thing they had to worry about was the occasional bad grade, the freshmen fifteen (pounds) and constantly warning them to stay out of cars with drunk drivers.
I know what’s coming and I’m going to work this time to avoid the depression that’s lurking in the periphery. The Constitution can be amended, it has been amended 17 times since final ratification of the Bill of Rights in 1791. There is no way the founding fathers envisioned a world of automatic weapons that could mow down so many people in so little time. There were real threats in 1791 that haven’t existed in our world for a long time. If we ever needed them, we don’t need the guns anymore, folks. Study the rest of the world, they don’t have the guns and they don’t have massacres like what we saw yesterday.
Recent courts have already interpreted the second amendment to say that it (the second Amendment) guarantees a collective right of political organizations to form militias, not an individual
right to a firearm. We can and should make that fact clearer with revision.
We must let our representatives know we don’t want the guns in our country anymore. Let’s start today.
Let's Share That Contract
I’ve had a lot of jobs. I guess most people my age and older can say that, but the only job I was trained to do is teach. I’ve taught every grade level from preschool to a freshman psychology class at the University of Michigan. When my children were very young, I was the director of a preschool. In my twenties, I found myself with a little extra time so I used it to teach an adult education class two nights a week.
I started studying writing when I was still an elementary school student. I got my first subscription to Writers Digest when I was twelve. I even worked in the school library where my children went to elementary school before feeling qualified to attempt my first juvenile novel. I guess you could say my vocation is teaching and my passion is writing (and reading).
I say all this to qualify what I’m about to say. I write books for and about children. I read children’s book, I have children, I was trained to teach children and I’ve studied how to write for children. I have picture books that I’ve written so long ago they’ve never made it to my hard drive. No problem, I’ve got more than enough on my hard drive to pay off all the college loans my three children incurred while I was trying to get a contract.
This week while we were all talking, debating, and arguing about Imus, an article in my local paper almost slipped by me without notice; Ex-Spice Girl Geri Halliwell is writing a series of children's books for release next year. After my initial ex-what? Geri-who? I read the article and learned that yet another celebrity, and I used the term celebrity loosely, has “earned” my dream. “Geri Halliwell has landed a six-book publishing deal with Macmillan to chronicle the animated adventures of Ugenia Lavender, a bold and assertive 9-year-old girl who balances everyday school life with solving mysteries and working her way out of fantastic situations.”
A six book deal? Yes, a six book deal.
It’s hard enough for any author to get a book contract without sacrificing the children’s book category to celebrities. I understand why these celebrities keep getting these deals. Some of them must sell well. Why do they sell? Because they are well-written and useful additions to a young person’s life? Probably not, although I will admit that I have read a few that weren’t terrible and one or two that were well done. They sell because the celebrities can get interviews that other writers can’t. Interviews translate to sales.
I propose a solution. I am volunteering myself as a cowriter for celebrities interested in breaking into the apparently lucrative children’s market. You, dear celebrity are free to appear on any or all talk show interviews, schedule book signings at your own discretion and I will stay home and write or “cowrite.” I will split the advance and royalaties with you fifty-fifty. If it was never about the money and you don’t want a split, suit yourself. Also, you’re free to donate your portion to charity.
Let’s start the sign up sheet with me.
I started studying writing when I was still an elementary school student. I got my first subscription to Writers Digest when I was twelve. I even worked in the school library where my children went to elementary school before feeling qualified to attempt my first juvenile novel. I guess you could say my vocation is teaching and my passion is writing (and reading).
I say all this to qualify what I’m about to say. I write books for and about children. I read children’s book, I have children, I was trained to teach children and I’ve studied how to write for children. I have picture books that I’ve written so long ago they’ve never made it to my hard drive. No problem, I’ve got more than enough on my hard drive to pay off all the college loans my three children incurred while I was trying to get a contract.
This week while we were all talking, debating, and arguing about Imus, an article in my local paper almost slipped by me without notice; Ex-Spice Girl Geri Halliwell is writing a series of children's books for release next year. After my initial ex-what? Geri-who? I read the article and learned that yet another celebrity, and I used the term celebrity loosely, has “earned” my dream. “Geri Halliwell has landed a six-book publishing deal with Macmillan to chronicle the animated adventures of Ugenia Lavender, a bold and assertive 9-year-old girl who balances everyday school life with solving mysteries and working her way out of fantastic situations.”
A six book deal? Yes, a six book deal.
It’s hard enough for any author to get a book contract without sacrificing the children’s book category to celebrities. I understand why these celebrities keep getting these deals. Some of them must sell well. Why do they sell? Because they are well-written and useful additions to a young person’s life? Probably not, although I will admit that I have read a few that weren’t terrible and one or two that were well done. They sell because the celebrities can get interviews that other writers can’t. Interviews translate to sales.
I propose a solution. I am volunteering myself as a cowriter for celebrities interested in breaking into the apparently lucrative children’s market. You, dear celebrity are free to appear on any or all talk show interviews, schedule book signings at your own discretion and I will stay home and write or “cowrite.” I will split the advance and royalaties with you fifty-fifty. If it was never about the money and you don’t want a split, suit yourself. Also, you’re free to donate your portion to charity.
Let’s start the sign up sheet with me.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Borat Wasn't the Problem
I watched Borat on DVD this weekend. My husband and I have date night every Saturday and we usually use that time to go see a movie. I’m telling you this to let you know we had an opportunity of see it at a theater near us. We saw the trailers week after week. I don’t really remember, but I’m sure we did discuss it the week it came out. I’m also sure neither of us ever considered it seriously. I don’t like slapstick or jokes that don’t include all the players. My husband has other issues that would preclude him from watching such a movie, but I won’t go into it because this is my blog.
I didn’t laugh one time and I don’t remember smiling. The bits were much funnier in telling someone about them than in watching them. What really struck me more than anything else was the incredible patience Americans had with this “Kazakhstanian” visitor, in spite of his stupidity and crudeness, as they carefully explained the anti-Semitic racist American way.
At least a third of the time when I go out into the world to ask strangers anything, the best I can hope for is silent disdain. I have a degree from one of the top ten colleges in the country, I’m neat and clean in public, and I don’t speak loud or rudely. I can’t think of one of his bits that wouldn’t have gotten me arrested at the very least. For my husband and two sons, also well kept college graduates, they would have been shot anywhere in this country doing at least two of Borat’s stunts. How do I know this? Because Black men have been shot by the police doing much less.
I’m not saying the movie was anti-Semitism or racist, I don’t believe it was. It was satire or parody. Sacha Baron Cohen has a firm grasp of American’s underbelly. In one scene, a dinner party of genteel Southern attendees, Borat says and does things that should have gotten him booted long before dessert. The party included Newt Gingrich and his wife. What finally upsets the host and Gingrich so much that he jumps up and takes his immediate leave? Borat’s “date” for the evening arrives, an overweight Black woman that Borat identifies as a prostitute. They saw her and immediately announced that diner was over and Borat had to leave. The prostitute was friendly and mild mannered. She wasn’t banishing a weapon or using loud and or crude language; she just appeared at the door.
Don’t get me wrong, I would not have wanted this women to show up at my door under the same circumstances; but had she been acting the way she did in the movie, even dressed as inappropriately, I could not have been so rude. And that goes for her white or Asian counterpart. That women showing up, in my mind, was the most benign thing Borat did at the party–unless black folks at your dinner party is a deal-breaking problem.
I hope there’s a black film maker out there working on his own version of Borat. I’m not sure how it can be done without putting the main actor in harms way, but I hope somebody figures it out. I do hope the film company will check in with the police first in each city they visit. They’ll have a hard enough time dodging the bullets of the good everyday citizens and shopkeepers.
I didn’t laugh one time and I don’t remember smiling. The bits were much funnier in telling someone about them than in watching them. What really struck me more than anything else was the incredible patience Americans had with this “Kazakhstanian” visitor, in spite of his stupidity and crudeness, as they carefully explained the anti-Semitic racist American way.
At least a third of the time when I go out into the world to ask strangers anything, the best I can hope for is silent disdain. I have a degree from one of the top ten colleges in the country, I’m neat and clean in public, and I don’t speak loud or rudely. I can’t think of one of his bits that wouldn’t have gotten me arrested at the very least. For my husband and two sons, also well kept college graduates, they would have been shot anywhere in this country doing at least two of Borat’s stunts. How do I know this? Because Black men have been shot by the police doing much less.
I’m not saying the movie was anti-Semitism or racist, I don’t believe it was. It was satire or parody. Sacha Baron Cohen has a firm grasp of American’s underbelly. In one scene, a dinner party of genteel Southern attendees, Borat says and does things that should have gotten him booted long before dessert. The party included Newt Gingrich and his wife. What finally upsets the host and Gingrich so much that he jumps up and takes his immediate leave? Borat’s “date” for the evening arrives, an overweight Black woman that Borat identifies as a prostitute. They saw her and immediately announced that diner was over and Borat had to leave. The prostitute was friendly and mild mannered. She wasn’t banishing a weapon or using loud and or crude language; she just appeared at the door.
Don’t get me wrong, I would not have wanted this women to show up at my door under the same circumstances; but had she been acting the way she did in the movie, even dressed as inappropriately, I could not have been so rude. And that goes for her white or Asian counterpart. That women showing up, in my mind, was the most benign thing Borat did at the party–unless black folks at your dinner party is a deal-breaking problem.
I hope there’s a black film maker out there working on his own version of Borat. I’m not sure how it can be done without putting the main actor in harms way, but I hope somebody figures it out. I do hope the film company will check in with the police first in each city they visit. They’ll have a hard enough time dodging the bullets of the good everyday citizens and shopkeepers.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Heads in Trees
Years ago a friend said, when he was a little boy, he used to hang out with the old guys. He figured one day one of them would slip and say something that would reveal to him, once and for all, what black folks had done to whites to make them hate us so much. I remember thinking he’d been wasting his time. First of all, there was no one thing beyond our continued presence here after the job was done. The cotton had been picked, the buildings built, the houses cleaned and the babies raised–now go home! Secondly he was hanging out with the wrong group. If he really wanted to know the real deal about anything, he should have been hanging out with the old women. I love old black women. Is there any other group on the planet who can cut through the crap with greater precision?
I’ve had a hero for years in an old sister girl who’d been accosted in her home. I saw her on the evening news. She shot and killed the intruder. An interviewer asked her was she sorry she killed him. The camera zoomed in as the stately grandmother thought about it.
“Well, I woke up and he was standing over me in my bedroom. I didn’t invite him and I didn’t know him. What we got to talk about?”*
What indeed.
I’ve got a new hero, maybe not to replace Stately Grandmother but to add to the pack. My daughter and I were channel surfing on Friday, the day before St. Patrick’s day. We stopped on a news item, I assume, that showed a group of mostly black folks standing around a big tree. The interviewer gave the microphone to a young person who claimed a leprechaun had been spotted in the tree. As I’m sure you can imagine, that got my attention. The interviewer went to several people all claiming to have seen said leprechaun. The interviewer wasn’t convinced. Finally he stuck the mike into the car window of an older black woman. I don’t know if she was coming or going, but she certainly wasn’t standing around joining in the festive atmosphere.
What did she think?
“It was probably some crackhead that got hold of some bad stuff and climbed a tree.”
So there you have it. If you really want to know ask an old sister girl.
*(not my endorsement of guns. She could've used a knife)
I’ve had a hero for years in an old sister girl who’d been accosted in her home. I saw her on the evening news. She shot and killed the intruder. An interviewer asked her was she sorry she killed him. The camera zoomed in as the stately grandmother thought about it.
“Well, I woke up and he was standing over me in my bedroom. I didn’t invite him and I didn’t know him. What we got to talk about?”*
What indeed.
I’ve got a new hero, maybe not to replace Stately Grandmother but to add to the pack. My daughter and I were channel surfing on Friday, the day before St. Patrick’s day. We stopped on a news item, I assume, that showed a group of mostly black folks standing around a big tree. The interviewer gave the microphone to a young person who claimed a leprechaun had been spotted in the tree. As I’m sure you can imagine, that got my attention. The interviewer went to several people all claiming to have seen said leprechaun. The interviewer wasn’t convinced. Finally he stuck the mike into the car window of an older black woman. I don’t know if she was coming or going, but she certainly wasn’t standing around joining in the festive atmosphere.
What did she think?
“It was probably some crackhead that got hold of some bad stuff and climbed a tree.”
So there you have it. If you really want to know ask an old sister girl.
*(not my endorsement of guns. She could've used a knife)
Sunday, March 11, 2007
I've been invited to blog by "Mother" on her site Chittlin's and Chopsticks. The invitation couldn't have come at a better time because I woke up this morning thinking about motherhood. Okay, I wake up most mornings thinking about my kids so that wasn't a big stretch. This morning I was thinking about washing my hair and the fact that I'm having problems with my right arm.
I asked my husband to wash it for me and he immediately made excuses. He's usually pretty good about helping me with things, but I understood his refusal. You see, in years past, that whole "help me wash my hair," was--how can I put this delicately--a coded foreplay invitation. His refusal was based on the fact that he was sorting clothes to wash. The only thing on his mind was his work wardrobe. I could have explained that I really needed help but the thought sounded like too much effort when I ran it past my brain.
By the way, I have a unique relationship with the sentient being I call my brain. It a fun place that goes off in myriad directions and paths without any input from me. I know I've sounded crazy or arrogant trying to explain to people that I like the way my brain thinks. It's not that at all because I have no control over it. Like a toddler it's forever doing and saying things that I didn't expect, couldn't have anticipated, and often find embarrassingly "cute."
Anyway, the brain said don't explain to husband just go find somebody else to help you. I said, "yes, master," and off I went. I have two kids at home right now, our 25 year old son, Geoffrey and our 27 year old daughter, Regina. Geoff is a twin, his brother lives in Austin, Texas. If any mother has more helpful, wonderful, sons I haven't met them.
Geoff's bedroom door was open and he was putting on a shirt over his tee shirt. I asked him. He said he was on his way to a Kings basketball game, but he would do it when he comes home. He kissed me and took his leave.
I hadn't seen my daughter yet this morning. It was time to confer with the brain. Regina is a wonderful child too. Anybody that likes her will tell you she has a very giving heart. But people never explain a person's heart unless it's something the casual observer can't see. Brain told me to wait and see what kind of mood she was in first. She just appeared to let her puppy outside. I asked, she said yes. She never once looked at my hair like she was wondering how to wash the snakes.
Aren't kids great? I love motherhood.
I asked my husband to wash it for me and he immediately made excuses. He's usually pretty good about helping me with things, but I understood his refusal. You see, in years past, that whole "help me wash my hair," was--how can I put this delicately--a coded foreplay invitation. His refusal was based on the fact that he was sorting clothes to wash. The only thing on his mind was his work wardrobe. I could have explained that I really needed help but the thought sounded like too much effort when I ran it past my brain.
By the way, I have a unique relationship with the sentient being I call my brain. It a fun place that goes off in myriad directions and paths without any input from me. I know I've sounded crazy or arrogant trying to explain to people that I like the way my brain thinks. It's not that at all because I have no control over it. Like a toddler it's forever doing and saying things that I didn't expect, couldn't have anticipated, and often find embarrassingly "cute."
Anyway, the brain said don't explain to husband just go find somebody else to help you. I said, "yes, master," and off I went. I have two kids at home right now, our 25 year old son, Geoffrey and our 27 year old daughter, Regina. Geoff is a twin, his brother lives in Austin, Texas. If any mother has more helpful, wonderful, sons I haven't met them.
Geoff's bedroom door was open and he was putting on a shirt over his tee shirt. I asked him. He said he was on his way to a Kings basketball game, but he would do it when he comes home. He kissed me and took his leave.
I hadn't seen my daughter yet this morning. It was time to confer with the brain. Regina is a wonderful child too. Anybody that likes her will tell you she has a very giving heart. But people never explain a person's heart unless it's something the casual observer can't see. Brain told me to wait and see what kind of mood she was in first. She just appeared to let her puppy outside. I asked, she said yes. She never once looked at my hair like she was wondering how to wash the snakes.
Aren't kids great? I love motherhood.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
TO REG WITH LOVE
My husband woke me this morning with a Valentine greeting and a box of chocolates on my pillow. It was a great way to start the day. In years past he bought me big hearts with multiple layers of the chocolates that he knows I crave. It’s probably safe to call me a chocolaholic, I certainly love the stuff. This year I’m on Weight Watchers, I’m sure that caused him a moment of consternation, but he choose well. The box is big enough, but there are only ten chocolates (yes, I counted them). That’s enough to not feel deprived and more than I would (or should) eat in one sitting.
It’s funny how this couple thing works. I’m sure there were people taking bets on the day we got married, our parents and siblings leading the pack. We are opposites in many ways, but we are not polar opposites–I prefer to think of us as complimentary opposites. He forces me to look at the world in a different wonderful way.
My thoughts tend to be as far out there as a thought can go, Reggie is the straight and not so wide. He’s rarely narrow in his beliefs just typical and normal. I guess my friends are like me because I didn’t know I was strange until I met him. It makes sense, why would I choose friends to which I couldn’t relate.
The love of my life and I are so different. Here’s an example; A few years back we went to a concert for two musical groups that were popular when we were in our twenties. By the way, you haven’t partied until you’ve jammed with a bunch of fifty and sixty year olds trying to recaptured their youth. Things got hot and a bunch of old girls started jumping (as much as somebody’s grandma can jump) on stage. We were sitting in the second row from the stage and we saw a tall slim man dressed in all black stop at the foot of it. From a standing still position he jumped straight up on the stage.
“Wow,” we both said in unison. “That guy must really be. . .”
“Strong,” Reggie said.
“A vampire,” I said.
We both looked at each other. I can imagine what he was thinking, but I was fairly certain I’d just seen a real blood sucking vampire joining the Isley Brothers onstage. Who else could fly straight up five feet off the ground?
Reggie just smiled, shook his head at me and went back to grooving. I kept my eye on that vampire until he disappeared in a crowd of women that were being ushered off the stage. And I do mean disappeared.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Sweetheart.
It’s funny how this couple thing works. I’m sure there were people taking bets on the day we got married, our parents and siblings leading the pack. We are opposites in many ways, but we are not polar opposites–I prefer to think of us as complimentary opposites. He forces me to look at the world in a different wonderful way.
My thoughts tend to be as far out there as a thought can go, Reggie is the straight and not so wide. He’s rarely narrow in his beliefs just typical and normal. I guess my friends are like me because I didn’t know I was strange until I met him. It makes sense, why would I choose friends to which I couldn’t relate.
The love of my life and I are so different. Here’s an example; A few years back we went to a concert for two musical groups that were popular when we were in our twenties. By the way, you haven’t partied until you’ve jammed with a bunch of fifty and sixty year olds trying to recaptured their youth. Things got hot and a bunch of old girls started jumping (as much as somebody’s grandma can jump) on stage. We were sitting in the second row from the stage and we saw a tall slim man dressed in all black stop at the foot of it. From a standing still position he jumped straight up on the stage.
“Wow,” we both said in unison. “That guy must really be. . .”
“Strong,” Reggie said.
“A vampire,” I said.
We both looked at each other. I can imagine what he was thinking, but I was fairly certain I’d just seen a real blood sucking vampire joining the Isley Brothers onstage. Who else could fly straight up five feet off the ground?
Reggie just smiled, shook his head at me and went back to grooving. I kept my eye on that vampire until he disappeared in a crowd of women that were being ushered off the stage. And I do mean disappeared.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Sweetheart.
Monday, February 12, 2007
THE BIG CHILL
I was never much of a head, not even in college when I ran with a group known for their illegal consumption. It had nothing to do with my father and brother being in law enforcement, the seeds of which led me to the department of corrections and a first professional job as a Probation Officer. No, I just happen to have DNA that didn’t mix well with drugs and not at all with alcohol. As my Weight Watchers leader is fond of saying, “sugar is my drug of choice.” But there is one time each year, even now, when I think about putting a match to it–as we used to say. It’s during the showing of THE BIG CHILL.
I absolutely love that movie and I always have. Maybe it’s because the people, the friends, in that movie would have been at the University of Michigan while I was there; or maybe it’s the sound track and the wonderful writing has to have a lot to do with it. The writing is so special that, years ago, I wrote Lawrence Kasdan to tell him how much I related to his characters. I’ve always believe in giving flowers to somebody when they can smell them. I thought it would be meaningful to him to know that me, a black woman, with very little in common with his characters, could relate. I’m pleased to report that he wrote me back and, over the years, he has been willing to read several of my screenplays. I still list him as my favorite screenwriter whenever such a confession is required.
The movie is on now. The opening montage with I Heard It Through The Grapevine playing as the friends learn of Alex’s death and Kevin Coster is cut out of the greatest movie he ever would’ve been in and I’m thinking, ‘I wonder what would it feel like now, at my age, to put a match to one?’
I bet you thought this blog was going to be about the winter storms. Ha!
I absolutely love that movie and I always have. Maybe it’s because the people, the friends, in that movie would have been at the University of Michigan while I was there; or maybe it’s the sound track and the wonderful writing has to have a lot to do with it. The writing is so special that, years ago, I wrote Lawrence Kasdan to tell him how much I related to his characters. I’ve always believe in giving flowers to somebody when they can smell them. I thought it would be meaningful to him to know that me, a black woman, with very little in common with his characters, could relate. I’m pleased to report that he wrote me back and, over the years, he has been willing to read several of my screenplays. I still list him as my favorite screenwriter whenever such a confession is required.
The movie is on now. The opening montage with I Heard It Through The Grapevine playing as the friends learn of Alex’s death and Kevin Coster is cut out of the greatest movie he ever would’ve been in and I’m thinking, ‘I wonder what would it feel like now, at my age, to put a match to one?’
I bet you thought this blog was going to be about the winter storms. Ha!
Monday, January 22, 2007
It happened a week after MLK day
Something happened to my daughter that I hoped she would have been able to avoid. Like so many young people, she has friends all of the country. The group I’m writing about were high school friends who ventured out into the world for degrees and careers and they’ve made me and their parents proud. Of my daughter’s three distinct groups of friends, this one is the most diverse; there’s not two of them with the exact same racial or nationality combination.
A few of them ended up relocating to the same general area, about 300 miles away. They brought in newcomers.
“You’re going to love Rex (not his real name),” they told her.
“Nicest guy you ever want to meet.”
We always want our old friends to like our new friends.
The time came to visit, three hundred miles down the road. Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.
Did somebody forget to tell good ole Rex that my daughter is black, okay, African American? It really might not have come up with this group of young people.
“It was really strange,” she told me. “He wouldn’t even look at me. I tried 3 different times over four days and he just didn’t want to talk.”
Been there, my child, felt that, and I’ve got the extra layer of skin to prove it.
“Maybe he was just having a really bad weekend, but he seemed okay with everybody else,” she speculated–which is exactly what we do over and over again when we’re young, before we grow the extra layer of skin.
“Maybe,” I told her. I wasn’t ready to tell her my many “Rex” stories. There were the Rex friends, job interviews, stores, and even “great” restaurants that didn’t want my business.
I wanted her to enjoy the memories of her trip a little longer. Let’s not tell her about this entry.
A few of them ended up relocating to the same general area, about 300 miles away. They brought in newcomers.
“You’re going to love Rex (not his real name),” they told her.
“Nicest guy you ever want to meet.”
We always want our old friends to like our new friends.
The time came to visit, three hundred miles down the road. Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold.
Did somebody forget to tell good ole Rex that my daughter is black, okay, African American? It really might not have come up with this group of young people.
“It was really strange,” she told me. “He wouldn’t even look at me. I tried 3 different times over four days and he just didn’t want to talk.”
Been there, my child, felt that, and I’ve got the extra layer of skin to prove it.
“Maybe he was just having a really bad weekend, but he seemed okay with everybody else,” she speculated–which is exactly what we do over and over again when we’re young, before we grow the extra layer of skin.
“Maybe,” I told her. I wasn’t ready to tell her my many “Rex” stories. There were the Rex friends, job interviews, stores, and even “great” restaurants that didn’t want my business.
I wanted her to enjoy the memories of her trip a little longer. Let’s not tell her about this entry.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Here's some old blogs from another location that I thought would work well here:
THE INK IS BLACK
About My Blog
Okay, here I go. . . I started writing my blog long before the word, or even the Internet existed. When I first moved to California, I wrote a proposal for a newspaper column that I was planning. I was tentatively calling it the Prodigal Daughter and offering it to my hometown newspaper, The Flint (Michigan) Journal. It would have been a tale of two cities, a comparison of the home I so throughly missed and my new location, Los Angeles. The exercise would force me, a person not known for my keen observations, to pay attention to my new digs in a constructive way. I was really hyped about it and ran the idea pass my brothers, and others still at home, during my many long distance calls. We all, friends and family alike, grew up in the church. The name Prodigal Daughter was not lost of any of them. What I heard in their deafening, underwhelmed, silence was a lack of interest.
I finally decided if my own peeps weren't interested in my witty repartee what chance did I have of interesting anybody else? I scrapped the project. But that didn't stop me from continuing to mentally write' an almost daily column which would today be called a Blog.
This blog will not be about comparing an old home with a new one--that ship has sailed. This blog will be about a woman who got her first subscription to a writers magazine when she was eleven, soon after she decided to become a writer. (A story I'll tell you later). This blog will be about what she's learned, about the business and the process, in the thirty years after that decision. Okay, forty years after that decision! Sometimes you'll have to dig deep to find out how it all relates to writing, but it will relate because it will be about me or of concern to me and I am a writer, not because somebody has paid me for my written words, but because I define myself that way.
I choose the title THE INK IS BLACK simply because we, African American people, are an important part of this country's history, arts and letters, literature and brain trust no matter how much some would venture to keep us out.
written 5-23-05
Recently, I read an article that described an editor as being a "savvy commercial fiction editor." I never know how to interpret that kind of information because I've often found that the person decribed as "liberal, open, progressive and even innovative" stops short of any of these adjectives when it comes to writings by and about Black or African Americans. I'm narrowing it down to people of color in this country because I've noticed a willingness, albeit slight, to publish blacks from other places.
I decided to test this editor's commercial savvy. I sent him a partial of a novel I represent. It's one of the new "hip hop" or urban novels. I've turned down every other novel in this genre sent to me because I'm limiting my involvement with agenting and I'm not overly fond of the genre, but this one is good. It's very well written and this author would be a good writer in any genre. I've decided to view urban fiction as a genre.
This year we're celebrating our tenth year as a literary agency. I haven't received a boiler plate rejection letter in at least five years. I'm talking about a rejection letter that is an obvious copy, short, signed by "the editors." I usually get personal notes and often suggestions about who to try. This savvy editor was so insulted by my submission he sent me a folded up, badly copied, nondescript, standard rejection.
I don't usually take rejections personally, but this one got me thinking. So often in my life I've heard some good news about a person, place, or thing only to learn later that that person, place or thing wasn't for me and people that look like me. What black person in this country can't remember the first time they realized that all the good will that can overflow from strangers is not often for them or people like them. I've had it appear across such seemly unrelated subjects: the new great hair product, the job counselor who's getting "everybody" jobs, the great new apartment complex, etc. Sometimes I think a simple "everybody except you," would be so much kinder.
written 5-29-05
There's a part of me that understands the Michael Jackson he claims to be. I know that sounds like double talk so let me explain. If he really is an adult who values the company of little people, children I certainly can understand it I am that person too. I come from a family that loves young people. My mother likes babies and I believe my daughter does too. I prefer to have them around when they're walking and trying to talk. I'm very good at interpreting baby talk, if I must say so myself. I'm equally skilled in talking to them, I call myself a baby whisperer. I love to take them somewhere and watch them discover something fun.
I'm thinking about all this now because I talked to my "best friend," Ahmyah today. She's four going on ten. When I ask to speak to her, her mother always laughs while she's handing her the telephone, but we take our conversations seriously. I asked her what she was doing and she replied, "I'm making music." She said it with such confidence, one would think she was directing a string quartet or writing a concerto, but I suspect she might have been banging on a pan when I called. I told her I went to Geoffrey's college graduation last week. Geoffrey is my son and her Godfather. She got very excited and told me that there's a new Geoffrey in her class at school. That's what I like about talking to kids, there's no hidden thoughts and it's usually fairly simple to follow the string of logic.
"Now you know two Geoffrey(s)" I said.
She thought about and said, "no, I know three. Remember Geoffrey the giraffe at my birthday party?"
Of course, Geoffrey the mascot for Toys R Us.
"Was that Geoffrey my uncle Geoff?" She asked.
That Geoffrey's presence has been a source of confusion for her since her birthday in January, this was not the first time she asked this question. I assured her again that Uncle Geoffrey wasn't there. He wouldn't have stayed hidden from her on her birthday if he'd been in town.
"Was it my daddy?" she asked.
This was her way of letting me know that she'd figured out that the giraffe was a person in a suit.
"No, that wasn't your daddy, but he was tall like your daddy, huh?" She agreed and laughed, probably remembering that her daddy was standing right next to her when Geoffrey the giraffe came in. She was pleased that I understood why she asked.
Kids are always happy when you understand them. I asked her when was she planning a visit. She promised me she would come over on Tuesday, which is a good thing because in the past she used to answer Friday. Apparently, she knows another day of the week. I probably won't see her; at four she's not setting her own calendar yet.
I love my weekly telephone chats with Ahmyah. I never have to prod, I know immediately if she's having a good day or something has made her sad. She lets me know what's new since we last spoke. I can understand any sane person wanting to be around little kids. I'll never understand any adult wanting to hurt them. I can understand an adult seeing pure love in a child. I'll never understand an adult seeing sexuality in a youngster.
THE INK IS BLACK
About My Blog
Okay, here I go. . . I started writing my blog long before the word, or even the Internet existed. When I first moved to California, I wrote a proposal for a newspaper column that I was planning. I was tentatively calling it the Prodigal Daughter and offering it to my hometown newspaper, The Flint (Michigan) Journal. It would have been a tale of two cities, a comparison of the home I so throughly missed and my new location, Los Angeles. The exercise would force me, a person not known for my keen observations, to pay attention to my new digs in a constructive way. I was really hyped about it and ran the idea pass my brothers, and others still at home, during my many long distance calls. We all, friends and family alike, grew up in the church. The name Prodigal Daughter was not lost of any of them. What I heard in their deafening, underwhelmed, silence was a lack of interest.
I finally decided if my own peeps weren't interested in my witty repartee what chance did I have of interesting anybody else? I scrapped the project. But that didn't stop me from continuing to mentally write' an almost daily column which would today be called a Blog.
This blog will not be about comparing an old home with a new one--that ship has sailed. This blog will be about a woman who got her first subscription to a writers magazine when she was eleven, soon after she decided to become a writer. (A story I'll tell you later). This blog will be about what she's learned, about the business and the process, in the thirty years after that decision. Okay, forty years after that decision! Sometimes you'll have to dig deep to find out how it all relates to writing, but it will relate because it will be about me or of concern to me and I am a writer, not because somebody has paid me for my written words, but because I define myself that way.
I choose the title THE INK IS BLACK simply because we, African American people, are an important part of this country's history, arts and letters, literature and brain trust no matter how much some would venture to keep us out.
written 5-23-05
Recently, I read an article that described an editor as being a "savvy commercial fiction editor." I never know how to interpret that kind of information because I've often found that the person decribed as "liberal, open, progressive and even innovative" stops short of any of these adjectives when it comes to writings by and about Black or African Americans. I'm narrowing it down to people of color in this country because I've noticed a willingness, albeit slight, to publish blacks from other places.
I decided to test this editor's commercial savvy. I sent him a partial of a novel I represent. It's one of the new "hip hop" or urban novels. I've turned down every other novel in this genre sent to me because I'm limiting my involvement with agenting and I'm not overly fond of the genre, but this one is good. It's very well written and this author would be a good writer in any genre. I've decided to view urban fiction as a genre.
This year we're celebrating our tenth year as a literary agency. I haven't received a boiler plate rejection letter in at least five years. I'm talking about a rejection letter that is an obvious copy, short, signed by "the editors." I usually get personal notes and often suggestions about who to try. This savvy editor was so insulted by my submission he sent me a folded up, badly copied, nondescript, standard rejection.
I don't usually take rejections personally, but this one got me thinking. So often in my life I've heard some good news about a person, place, or thing only to learn later that that person, place or thing wasn't for me and people that look like me. What black person in this country can't remember the first time they realized that all the good will that can overflow from strangers is not often for them or people like them. I've had it appear across such seemly unrelated subjects: the new great hair product, the job counselor who's getting "everybody" jobs, the great new apartment complex, etc. Sometimes I think a simple "everybody except you," would be so much kinder.
written 5-29-05
There's a part of me that understands the Michael Jackson he claims to be. I know that sounds like double talk so let me explain. If he really is an adult who values the company of little people, children I certainly can understand it I am that person too. I come from a family that loves young people. My mother likes babies and I believe my daughter does too. I prefer to have them around when they're walking and trying to talk. I'm very good at interpreting baby talk, if I must say so myself. I'm equally skilled in talking to them, I call myself a baby whisperer. I love to take them somewhere and watch them discover something fun.
I'm thinking about all this now because I talked to my "best friend," Ahmyah today. She's four going on ten. When I ask to speak to her, her mother always laughs while she's handing her the telephone, but we take our conversations seriously. I asked her what she was doing and she replied, "I'm making music." She said it with such confidence, one would think she was directing a string quartet or writing a concerto, but I suspect she might have been banging on a pan when I called. I told her I went to Geoffrey's college graduation last week. Geoffrey is my son and her Godfather. She got very excited and told me that there's a new Geoffrey in her class at school. That's what I like about talking to kids, there's no hidden thoughts and it's usually fairly simple to follow the string of logic.
"Now you know two Geoffrey(s)" I said.
She thought about and said, "no, I know three. Remember Geoffrey the giraffe at my birthday party?"
Of course, Geoffrey the mascot for Toys R Us.
"Was that Geoffrey my uncle Geoff?" She asked.
That Geoffrey's presence has been a source of confusion for her since her birthday in January, this was not the first time she asked this question. I assured her again that Uncle Geoffrey wasn't there. He wouldn't have stayed hidden from her on her birthday if he'd been in town.
"Was it my daddy?" she asked.
This was her way of letting me know that she'd figured out that the giraffe was a person in a suit.
"No, that wasn't your daddy, but he was tall like your daddy, huh?" She agreed and laughed, probably remembering that her daddy was standing right next to her when Geoffrey the giraffe came in. She was pleased that I understood why she asked.
Kids are always happy when you understand them. I asked her when was she planning a visit. She promised me she would come over on Tuesday, which is a good thing because in the past she used to answer Friday. Apparently, she knows another day of the week. I probably won't see her; at four she's not setting her own calendar yet.
I love my weekly telephone chats with Ahmyah. I never have to prod, I know immediately if she's having a good day or something has made her sad. She lets me know what's new since we last spoke. I can understand any sane person wanting to be around little kids. I'll never understand any adult wanting to hurt them. I can understand an adult seeing pure love in a child. I'll never understand an adult seeing sexuality in a youngster.
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