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!
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
