Shake Rattle and Roll

So there was an earthquake in CA today that registered 5.8 on the Richter scale. I made calls to all my friends in CA to see if they are ok. Everybody is fine, just a little shaken up. I remember growing up in CA and how we had to do earthquake drills in school in addition to fire drills. You had to get under your desk and curl up in a tight little ball with your arms covering your head. Living in CA you grow up hearing that one day there is going to be “The Big One”. The earthquake of all earthquakes that will shake California so hard that it is going to break off and float into the sea. The island of California. So every time there is an earthquake and it shakes a little too long or a little too hard, you can see the concern in people’s faces. Because everybody is thinking Is this The Big One???

I left CA back in 1992. Before I moved away, I was temping at night in a bank building in downtown San Diego. It was a tall building maybe 50 stories. One night there was an earthquake. It shook and most people kept working. Small little quakes happen every now and then, no big deal. But it kept shaking and then it shook harder. It didn’t stop. You could feel the building sway and roll. It was a very scary experience. A few people screamed. People ran for the stairs. It was like a scene from one of those bad late 70’s disaster movies. I remember running down the stairs just praying to get my feet on the ground. When I got outside, there were people gathered around the building. There were sighs of relief and nervous laughter. I remember looking up at the skyscraper saying “I am so glad I am leaving CA, so I won’t have to go through any more earthquakes.” Some smart*** in the crowd says, “Well back East there are hurricanes.” And I say, well that’s true but I can get in a car and run from those. There is some advance warning. You have time to go to Home Depot and board up the house. There is time to grab the kids, the dog, some old pics and get out of dodge. With an earthquake there is no warning. They just come out of the blue. And they are scary. And when they are over, you always think Thank God that wasn’t The Big One.

DiorShow

I’ve broken down and done it. I’ve tried to fight it for months but it is on its way from Sephora. $24 dollars for a mascara. We are at war. Gas is over $4. I know it is a shame. I wait everyday for the rumble of the UPS truck. It will probably end up being just another black mascara. Sigh. Then again….this just might be the one!

UPDATE:

Well it came and…it is just another black mascara. No wow factor and I used CILS Booster XL as a base before applying. I am not impressed. It is nothing special.  The sample of the Sephora atomic volume mascara was more impressive.  I will definitely be purchasing this.  It lengthened my short little lashes like crazy.  And then there is Lancome Defincils and Clinique High Impact and High Definition which are my staples.  I will stick with these for now.

Where my girls at

I’ve always felt more comfortable being around men. Maybe it’s the residual tomboy who lives within me. Maybe it is because I grew up with a brother. I don’t know but I have always enjoyed friendships with men. I’ve also had close, meaningful relationships with women but have never dealt with a lot of women. Friendships with guys just always seemed to be less complicated (well, if they weren’t trying to get the booty). Woman can be “messy”. Gossipy. Jealous. So full of drama. So it was so refreshing to get together with other women last weekend and just laugh, have a few drinks and have a lot of fun. No husbands, no boyfriends, no kids. Just a bunch of women being giggly and silly.

It was a “divorce party” for one of my good girlfriends. It was actually her throwing the party to thank her girlfriends who have stood with her during her difficult divorce. A thank you if you will. A bunch of women, a vegetable tray, wings, margaritas, martinis, dirty jokes, nasty little secrets and lots of girl talk. I enjoyed my time with these women, all of whom I had just met besides the hostess. We plan on getting together and doing something again as a group. Somebody suggested a pole dancing class. Whatever it is, I am sure it is going to be a good time. I am looking forward to it:)

“Marc”aritas and Jesse

This weekend I hung out with some friends. We are a diverse group: male, female, black and white. We were having a few drinks, “Marc”aritas (cleverly named after our host). We sat out on his patio talking, chatting it up about different things. We talked about his legendary New Year’s Eve parties where all the neighbors in his gentrified Atlanta neighborhood are welcome. These parties bring together the yuppies, buppies, urban hipsters, casserole toting grandmas from the projects and Everybody else I hear. All are welcome. Marc is a white guy from Mississippi but his friends are more colorful than a bag of Skittles. Then we got off into deeper social issues like interracial relationships, gentrification and white flight. And Jesse. No last name needed.

The irony is the black members of our group were more critical of Jesse. Marc believed that we were a little harsh in our attacks on Jesse. He believed that Jesse has made some missteps but believes he is sincere in his goals and should be respected for his work toward civil rights from the 60’s til now. Where I agree with Marc that we should acknowledge “the good” Jesse has done or has tried to do, I also think he has become a divisive figure and a lot of what he says and does is more damaging and dangerous to those he claims to be speaking for. I believe that he is used by Fox News to fan the flames of racism and division that they are famous for. They despise him, yet have him on it seems almost every week like a circus clown. They whistle and he comes running, why, because I am sure they compensate him for his time.

For the record, he does not speak for me and I believe the majority of black people would say the same. I resent that he and Mr. Sharpton have somehow been elected the spokesmen for black people. We do not share one voice. We have varying visions, goals, outlooks and opinions. Every time something happens or there is an issue involving a black person, a microphone is thrust in either of their faces. Their opinions should be seen as their own not the opinions of a race of people. And when Jesse is on there speaking, these days is he speaking up for equal rights or just looking for something to babble about because he has bills to pay. Like, maybe his child support payments. You can’t chase the ambulance so to speak, or jump on every trivial issue because if you do, you lose your credibility and that is what Jesse does and continues to do.

But Marc is right. He made me remember that I did grow up looking at Jesse with a sense of pride. I will give him his respect for standing and marching during some very difficult times. For speaking up when many would or could not. For trying to right some of the many wrongs. That still exist by the way. But while he may have once had a purpose and was pure in his goals and intentions, I personally believe those days are past. Jesse is like an old dog. You may not be ready to put him to sleep but everyone agrees that it is time to put him out in the yard and tie him up to a tree.

But we sat, sipping on margaritas, chatting it up. Late into the night, in the neighborhood where Martin Luther King once walked. Male and female. Black and white. We talked about many things. Painful. Real. Honest. King would be proud.

Playing hooky, Cabbage Patch kids and the dark haired girl on Three’s Company

I am gonna tell this story and my brother is probably gonna kill me if he ever reads it. He doesn’t know I blog yet but maybe one day I’ll tell him. Anyway, he went through this phase when he was about in 3rd grade where he wanted a Cabbage Patch doll. You’re probably thinking why is a 8 or 9 year old boy wanting a doll. But you don’t understand, we are talking about a Cabbage Patch Doll and this is the early 80’s. And if you were around you remember. If you are too young to remember, ask your mother or grandmother. They remember. They probably beat somebody down at the mall to get you one. Everybody wanted one of these things. White, black, young, old, rich or poor. They were the hottest thing out there. Think about the I- phone madness and lines but with waaay more madness. I mean, I think people were killed for these dolls. For real.

So my best friend and neighbor Princess gets a coveted Cabbage Patch doll and what does she do? She brings it over to show off (cough, uh excuse me), I mean show her new doll. This did nothing but fuel my brother’s desire to have one of these things. Me, I could have given two cents. I didn’t understand all the hoopla and if you ever saw one you might understand. This one was named “Olivette Agnes” according to her birth certificate. I can’t believe I remember the name. She had the standard fat, cherub like hard plastic face (okay they were kinda cute), yellow yarn hair which was looked like a short, nappy afro and stamped across her butt was the name Xavier Roberts. Princess even had a diaper on ole Olivette. Follow me, I am taking you somewhere with this:)

So fast forward maybe a few months. My mother got a call from our school stating my brother had missed some days of school. My concerned mother and angry Marine father (oh I have tons of material on him) interrogate me about this. Being the oldest, I was supposed to provide the answers and explanations whenever something went down. But I was stumped on this one. I told my parents I was as confused as they were. I mean, he got on the school bus with me everyday. So my parents did what any concerned parents would do, they set my brother up. They got up like any regular day, let us go off to school, they went to work but…they decided to pop up at the house around lunch time. Busted. Little Mr. Man was at the house. So my parents are quite upset. They go off on my brother and tell him he better get to school everyday. Everything is back to normal until the phone bill comes. Over $300!! (remember it’s the 8O’s). My grandma lived almost 2 hrs away in LA but only a few of the calls were long distance to her. The bulk of the calls were to Georgia. Georgia!! We didn’t know anybody in Georgia.

Dad: “Who are all these calls to in Georgia?”

Mom: “He told me he was calling looking for Cabbage Patch dolls.”

Dad: “In Georgia, what the…”

Mom: “That’s where Xavier Roberts lives.”

Dad: “Who the hell is Xavier Roberts?”

Mom: “The man whose name is on the dolls booty, he is the man who makes the dolls.”

Dad: “What about these calls to LA?”

Mom: “He was calling to speak to Janet.”

Dad: “Who the hell is Janet?”

Mom: “You know.. the dark haired girl on Three’s Company.”

(crickets)

Dad the Marine. Who screams in the faces of troops all day for a living. Puts the phone bill down. Doesn’t say a word and goes into the bedroom and closes the door.

True story.

My brother had ditched school to call around the country looking for Cabbage Patch dolls. He had called information, located a number to Babyland General Hospital which was in Cleveland, Georgia and is home to Xavier Roberts the inventor of the Cabbage Patch dolls. You have to admit, he was pretty clever for a kid in the 3rd grade and determined. My mother questioned him about the calls to LA. He admitted he had been calling ABC studios several times a day asking to speak to “Janet”. In essence stalking Joyce DeWitt, the actress on Three’s Company. He said he asked to speak to “Jack” too but he wasn’t around. He swore that he kept calling and one day she got on the phone to explain she was working but would send a picture. He even said she called him Sweetie. We were huge fans of the show and watched every episode. I wanted to believe my brother but this just seemed too far fetched. He was normally a pretty good kid but ditching school and now lying about talking to “Janet”. This was going too far.

A few weeks later an autographed photo of “Janet” um Joyce DeWitt came to the house. It had his name and said something about hugs and kisses and was signed. My mom, Dad the Marine and I all sat with our mouths open, scratching our heads. My brother, with a smile on his face; part satisfaction, part I told you so, took his autographed photo of “Janet” walked past us and went to hang it on his bedroom wall. We all sat looking at each other. Crickets.

And in case you’re wondering. My brother eventually got a Cabbage Patch doll. He was a little bald, African American baby. I’m sorry, Black baby (remember it’s the 80’s). My brother named him Sidney.

Going Bare Down There

I’ve been thinking about getting a Brazilian wax. You know…Going bare down there. All off. Smooth as a baby’s bottom. Bald. My girlfriend and I were getting our eyebrows threaded a few months ago and the subject came up as we were reading the price list. Brazilian wax-$35.

My friend- “You ever did that?”

Me: “No, have you?”

My friend-”No.”

Me: “You want to?” “We can have a shot of Hen. I’ll hold your hand.”

My friend- “Girl, No!” she said clutching her purse giving me the side eye.

Getting my (Vagina- too textbook, thing/privates-too 6th grade and then there’s the P word which I can only bring myself to say in the throws of passion. And even then I feel like I am being a bad girl,wink) waxed is on my summer to do list along with a beach vacation and list of books I want to read. Let’s put it out there, I have never really done any kind of maintenance in that area (yes, we are dangerously going in that TMI area:) But I’ve always had that adventurous streak, you know that I’ll try anything once mentality. So why haven’t I? Okay, I’ll say it, I’m a little scared. I think about the discomfort of my eyebrows being done x20 and in a much more sensitive area.

Look, I am no wimp and I am no stranger to pain. Ten years ago I gave birth to an eight lb. baby with no epidural. I repeat NO EPIDURAL!!! It was medieval. No numbing of the lower body, no stick to bite down on. So having the hair on my “girl” ripped off after being covered in hot wax should be a walk in the park huh? I tell myself this but the hair still stands up on my arm as I think about it. But more than being scared, there is just something about the thought of letting some strange woman who is not my doctor, look at, put her hands on and snatch the hair off of my _______(fill in the blank with your word of choice).

I’ve read other people’s experiences on the web and in magazines and they almost all say that the end result is worth the embarrassment and the pain. So… the only way I’ll ever know is if I do it. And I am gonna do it. The adventurous side of me won’t let it go. I have to see what it’s like. One of these days, I am gonna take a good soak, go have a margarita (ok, two) and I am going to do it. And this time I won’t forget to bring a stick.

Umm Umm Good!!!

I saw a commercial last week that showed a demonstration of this dessert. It looked simple to make and delicious, so I decided to try it tonight. It was indeed simple to make and it is sooooooo good!! There are no words. It is light and sweet but not too sweet. The cookies give it a little texture and breaks up the strawberry taste. I love the Cool Whip topping!

STRAWBERRY WHIPPED SENSATION

Ingredients

• 4 cups fresh strawberries, divided
• 1 (14 ounce) can sweetened condensed milk
• 1/4 cup lemon juice
• 1 (8 ounce) carton whipped topping, thawed, divided
• 8 chocolate sandwich style cookies, finely chopped
• 1 tablespoon butter, melted

Directions

1. Line 8 x 4 inch loaf pan with foil. Mash 2 cups of strawberries in large bowl. Stir in condensed milk, juice and 2 cups of the whipped topping; pour into pan.
2. Top with combined chopped cookies and butter; press into mixture. Cover.
3. Freeze at least 6 hours. To serve, invert onto plate. Remove foil. Frost with remaining whipped topping. Top with remaining strawberries, sliced.

Serves 12 Here is our version

You gotta brush your tongue

“You gotta brush your tongue, that is where the funk in your breath comes from. You gotta hack all that s*** up. Just brushing your teeth is not gonna get it.”

Bruno on oral hygiene

I remember..

I remember when: I believed in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. I remember when I believed adults had it all figured out and knew all the answers. I remember when I thought clouds were like cotton. I remember when I thought that 35 years old was old. I remember when I thought my mother was God like. I remember when I thought that spinach made you strong.

And baby makes 3… but you can “Kiss my Placenta”

I read last week that Erykah Badu was pregnant with her third baby. She is the mother of 10 year old Seven from Andre Benjamin of Outkast and has a 4 year old daughter reportedly from rapper D.O.C. (those from the West Coast may be more familiar with him). The report was she is pregnant with baby #3 from daddy #3 ( I will refrain from calling them her “baby daddies”:)

When I read the pregnancy rumors, my first thought was “Damn Erykah, what are you doing?” What are you thinking?” Not in condemnation but the way you would ask your younger sister or girlfriend who continued to have babies, unmarried and by multiple men. More hurt and confused than mad. I guess I also always had this notion that Erykah was on a higher level of consciousness or righteousness because of the content of her music. So when she had baby # 2 with a different man, unmarried, I began to question her authenticity. Thinking “man this chick is not walking the talk.” Her having babies from different men was not fitting into my idealized view of who she was supposed to be. It was not fit for a goddess.

Let’s be clear that I am a fan of Erykah Badu and her music. I recently saw her at a show here in Atlanta. I think she is gifted and is one of the best artists out here. If you have ever seen her live, you would know this. Check out some of her performances on You Tube if you get a chance. Genius. I love her spirit, her energy. I have also always admired her colorful personality and her courage to be “different”. The hair, the clothes. Her ability to walk to the beat of her own drum. So her response to people critical of her pregnancy was surprising to me. The tone of her post was explanatory at times, angry at others (Kiss My Placenta!) and extremely hurt. I always thought she really didn’t give a damn what people said and thought. Obviously she does. I guess she is human like the rest of us. And Erykah is lashing out because as a human being, it hurts to be condemned or attacked when you are doing the best that you can. We are all trying to figure out this thing called Life and it is obvious that Erykah is also.

Sorry E for judging you. My house is made of glass and I am putting down my stones. You have to do you whether the masses agree or not. And I know that you will. I believe your heart is in the right place even through the difficult choices. We all fall short. We all fall down and often make choices for ourselves that don’t fit into how others see us or how they think we should be living our lives. I will always be a fan and support you as an artist. I wish you the best with your pregnancy and on your journey through this thing called Life. Hold it down.