Sunday, July 31, 2011

My Twitter Rant/The Dream of a Writer

Last night, I went on a Twitter rant about advice I would give my younger self. One tidbit I said I would impart: Never, ever quit your job without having another one lined up. While I do regret quitting my job, I half-heartedly believe that piece of advice. Why? Because I don’t think the idea for my first book would have come to me if I didn’t quit my job. And I know I wouldn’t have found the time to write my first novel while I was employed because I’ve never been good at multi-tasking.

For as long as I can remember, I have been a writer. When I was twelve, a lady from my church gave me my first journal. Since then, I haven’t been able to put the pen down. Most of what I wrote was poetry, something I delved into so I could explore (and make sense of) my turbulent emotions. As a teenager, I called myself writing a “teenmance” about a black girl in an interracial relationship. Needless to say, I never finished it, so I gave up on the idea of being a novelist because I thought I didn’t have anything to say that I could devote an entire book to.

It wasn’t until I quit my job as a development coordinator that the idea for my first novel, A Recipe for Disaster, came to me and it poured forth from the core of my soul. I was proud beyond belief because I finally COMPLETED a book I had started. A Recipe for Disaster was about the office politics that took place at a law firm called Pittman, Lowe and Robbins. One of the main characters was a poor, white woman, and the bigwigs in New York who read it couldn’t get past Brittany. That novel never got published, but it is (and will always be) my baby.

Then Zaire’s Place came to me. Again, the bigwigs in New York passed it over even though many of them praised my writing. Of course they were worried about a market for it and how much money it would make. And with Rebecca being a white racist, I’m sure they had issues with that. So I put Zaire’s Place away and almost gave up on my dream of becoming a published author, but a friend from the past popped up and urged me to keep going. I resurrected the query letter and submitted it to smaller publishers. It was All Things That Matter Press that saw the potential for Zaire’s Place

Don’t worry. I’m going somewhere with telling you this story. My point is this (and it’s my favorite quote): “In the end, it all works out. If it hasn’t worked out, then it’s not the end.” I know this quote is true because of my experience. If I never would have quit my job, I never would have found it in me to write a full-length novel. If I never would have been homeless for a few months, I never would have stayed with that friend who urged me to pursue my dream of being a published author.

Of course this is not the end of my journey. Really…it’s just getting started. But no matter how it goes, I will always remember that it’s not the end until it has worked itself out. And that’s the thing I would tell my younger self.

Friday, July 29, 2011

Trickin'...I Understand Your Why

Yesterday, I was driving home from an appointment when I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks. A woman got out of the car in front of me and I had to do a double-take. She had on powder-blue shorts that displayed her entire ass, the little piece of fabric that separated her butt cheeks was virtually non-existent. Obviously, she was trickin’ and had just serviced her John.

I couldn’t help but stare as she went on the curbside, waiting to be picked up again. When our eyes met, she rolled hers…a look that said, “Bitch, don’t judge me.” If she only knew.

No, I wasn’t judging her. Actually, I was thinking about all the things that led her from where she was to where she is now. I was thinking about her life…what happened to make her start trickin’? Judging by her body movements, she definitely had a drug habit. But I began to wonder if she had children…a child that was waiting for her to come home. A child that told her, “Mommy, I’m hungry.” Was she tricking so she could take care of that innocent little kid who had no idea what was going on? All these questions danced around in my mind as I pondered her situation.

The lessons I have learned the hard way these past few years have taught me not to be so judgmental of other people’s decisions because I could have been them. I could have been the drug addict. I could have been the prostitute. I could have been the mentally ill person who went on a shooting spree. It’s only by the grace of a higher power that I’m not.

No, I wasn’t judging her at all. Even though I couldn't see myself doing it, I could understand her “why”.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Ms. Misfit

I have always been a misfit. You know…the awkward one…the one who doesn’t quite fit in no matter where they go. There was no place where my social standing was more apparent than in high school. People would talk about me in whispers that happened to be loud enough for me to hear. “She has a nice body, but…” or “She’s so smart, but…” There was always the “but”, and most of the time the “but” either referred to the way I talked or the way I looked. “She talks like a white girl.” “She think she's white.” “She’s ugly.” “Yo, she got a lazy eye.” All those comments were the bane of my existence and tore my fragile psyche apart. 

I felt out of place around black folk the most. Black people have no qualms telling you about yourself to your face or gossiping about you behind your back. I know, I know…you would say all races do this, but I’m not part of all races. I’m part of the black race, so I can only speak from that perspective. Typically, white people put on a façade for the sake of niceities, but black folk tell it like it is and we are often our own worse enemy. I see it all the time when we hate on one another because of the never-ending variety of skin tones we possess, our hair, etc.

Back in high school, I was the target of snickers, hurtful gestures, nasty comments. It was always because I didn’t have the up-to-date fashions, couldn’t afford to get my hair done in the latest styles, or sometimes it was because I refused to keep up with the “in” thing. So what did I do? I found like-minded black people…black people like me—those who were on the fringes, who didn’t fit in—those who cared more about what you were on the inside, rather than how you looked on the outside. They often had one trait that society deemed “wrong” with them…bad acne, overweight, etc. We formed our own little clique, a clique where all of us could feel at home.

Then I went to college and my circle expanded. I came across people from other races who were on the outside of their own cultural circles and we bonded, attracted to each other like magnets. One was a gay white man, another was an awkward Jewish girl, a heavy-set Latino guy, a nerdy black guy…the list goes on. We formed our own little group where we loved one another regardless of our background.

I no longer have the desire to fit in…to be part of the in-crowd. Well, actually, I never had the desire to be part of their circle. I may have been envious of the perks they got: the invitations to parties, the admiration of society, etc., but I didn’t really have the desire to fit in with them because I knew they were in a perpetual (yet futile) race to stay popular, something I wasn’t interested in doing.

Let me end by saying that I love my race. I just wish we could be more open to those of us who don’t fit the bill of the “perfect prototype” that many people admire: the video vixen, the baller, etc. Let’s expand our notion of what we can and should be. I’m glad I was part of the misfit circle. I wouldn’t be the wonderful person I am on the inside (as well as the outside) if I wasn’t part of that group…a group of misfits.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Got Religion? Nope

Okay, ya’ll…I know I have a potty mouth and all, but I make no apologies for that. However, this post is going to be different because it is a subject that I hold near and dear to my heart: the subject of believing in a higher power other than yourself. So cursing doesn’t belong here (even though when I’m angry I have been known to use God and a swear word in consecutive succession). I don’t care what you call that higher power (the Universe, Jehovah, Allah, etc.); what matters to me is that you believe in something—something that helps you make sense of the things that happen in this crazy, chaotic world.

I used to be religious, but now I’m spiritual. What does that mean? It means that I am disenchanted with the idea of organized religion, so I choose not to go to church in order to worship my Creator. As a spiritual person, I believe that I am just as close to God as the Bible-toting churchgoer who screws everybody over when he’s not within the confines of the “Lord’s house”. It means that I commune with my Creator through nature, through meditation and through treating others how I would like to be treated.

These past few years have been rough for me and it is my spiritual foundation that has kept me going. I can find inspiration in a song, in a quote, in a note that a friend gives me. I no longer look at one source of inspiration for my strength (religion), nor do I see religion as the “end all, be all” way to worship my Maker. 

So, in closing, I want to leave you with two songs. Now, I know Alicia Keys was talking about her personal relationship with a man when she wrote “No One”, but when I sing it, I think of my relationship with God, my higher power. The same thing goes with Sade’s “By Your Side”. It is my higher power who has been by my side through my homeless episodes, through me having my precious baby girl, through me being unemployed. And for that, I say thank you, Lord, and I don’t need to be in a church to praise Him.

Alicia Keys
"No one"

"By Your Side"

Saturday, July 23, 2011

It Irks Me When...

Unfortunately, idiots dump their trash in the alley
behind my house and this is what it looks like.

It was the perfect spring afternoon. We were on our way to grab something to eat and I was feeling good. He was the assistant director of a non-profitsmart, tall, really dark, geeky (just how I like them). He made me hear wedding bells and I’m not even a fan of marriage…never believed that two people can remain linked for eternity. That day, the birds were chirping away in my universe because I was so dang happy. And then he did “it”, and I could hear that proverbial record scratch as everything around me paused. No he didn’t just throw that piece of trash out his car window! I thought. Oh sh*t. Yes, he did. I told him how I felt right on the spot, but I tried to lace my words with kindness so as not to offend someone I was just getting to know.

I can’t stand a litterer. There’s nothing that says you just don’t give a f*ck than throwing trash on what God has blessed us with—this Earth. To me, littering is like sh*tting where you sleep. You wouldn’t take a dump where you lay your head, now would you? So why do people dump trash in their neighborhood, in their town, in the seas, etc.?

Right now, I live in Brooklyn, Maryland, and it’s one of the dirtiest places I have ever lived. Littering is like a virus that majority of the residents here have caught. To them, it’s nothing to throw their garbage bags full of trash in the alley where rats and other creatures can rip them apart in search of food. You got bulk trash? Well, just throw it in the alley. Everyone else does it, they must tell themselves, because I see mattresses, bedroom dressers, everything, in our alleys.

And the trash STINKS from here to holy heaven. I hate when I walk pass a street lined with trash and instead of inhaling fresh air, I am greeted by the smell of urine mixed with garbage that the trash collectors haven’t picked up in weeks. There’s this stupid rule in Baltimore that your trash has to be in a trash can in order to be picked up. If it’s in a bag, the city will leave it there. Well, if I were the mayor, I would rather have the garbage picked up (trash can or not) rather than lying there for weeks on end to rot in the scorching sun. What does that say about Brooklyn…about Baltimore in general?!

I am the type of person who will put my trash in my purse and hold it all day until I find a trashcan just to avoid littering. Littering is so unclassy. And those who do it are like scum because they don’t value anything they come in contact with, especially our planet, their city, their neighborhood. 

So what happened to Mr. Successful? Oh, he turned out to be a jerk. If I would have seen his littering as a sign to run the other way, I wouldn’t have had to find out the hard way what type of person he really was. I could have saved myself eight precious months. And the trash he threw out the window? Unfortunately, it’s probably in the ocean somewhere still tormenting God’s beautiful creatures.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Zaire's Place

For all those people wondering what Zaire's Place is about, the blurb* for the back cover is below. I can't wait until I give birth to my baby!

When thirty-four year old Charlene Wilson discovers she is dying, she makes the biggest move of her life and leaves her abusive husband. Not knowing how many days she has left, she is determined to spend them in peace. She turns to Zaire's Place to find comfort.

Aisha Carter can be found at the center of every conflict at Zaire's Place. While she plots disruption, Aisha finds herself on an alternate path that takes her on a course she never imagined.

Rebecca Reich was raised in a prejudiced home and has issues with black people. A fish out of water at Zaire's Place, a predominantly African-American shelter for abused women, she is forced to rethink the lessons of her youth.

Zaire's Place explores the relationships among these women as their lives converge. Discover what happens as they make decisions, large and small, that will impact the rest of their lives.

*This is the latest edited version (August 2011)

Saturday, July 16, 2011

My Love/Hate Relationship with Chris Brown

Seeing Chris Brown on the Today Show made me swoon even though he had a Milli Vanilli moment. When Chris Breezy first burst onto the scene, I fell in love. My co-workers teased me for crushing on such a young boy, but my infatuation persisted regardless of what anyone had to say. “You like that teeny-bopper,” they teased. “Yup,” I said without a hint of guilt in my voice as I continued to listen to and buy his music. I fell in love with his dance moves, his smooth silky voice, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit that I was a cougar in love with a boy almost half my age.

Then the Rihanna thing happened. My emotions went from love, to shock, to feeling betrayed and then to anger. I stayed angry for a very long time, too. I, myself, was the victim of a domestic violence incident at the age of 19, and once you experience something like that, it never dies within you. So when I saw Rihanna’s face, I cringed and viewed Chris Brown as a monster. It hurt to even look at him, which was tough because at the time I was seeing someone who was a dead ringer for Chris Brown, but that’s another story for another day.

So here you have this woman (me) who was a victim of domestic violence who was in the middle of writing a book about domestic violence who was confronted with her idol being an abuser. How does one handle that? At the time, I wouldn’t listen to his music on the radio, I put his CDs that I owned away and refused to buy anymore of his music. But then time went on and after a year or so, he truly seemed sorry for what he did. Should he have to suffer for the rest of his life for a mistake he made? I asked myself. I know I’ve made plenty of mistakes that people would probably stone me for if they knew about them. Just admitting that to myself made me begin to slowly forgive him. But, at the same time, it felt like cognitive dissonance. How do I support the fight against domestic violence and like him at the same time—the epitome of the abuser? I wondered.

When his career began to take a turn for the better, I was secretly rooting for him. After all, he IS a fellow Taurus born one day after me (on May 5th). I rooted for him because he deserved a second chance, and at the time I, too, was hoping for a second chance in my life. I felt like his kindred spirit. I just wanted him to learn his lesson so my support for him would not be in vain.

I still haven’t resolved the cognitive dissonance I feel for crushing on him the way that I do…cognitive dissonance that reached a pinnacle when I tried to decide whether or not to follow him on Twitter (I eventually did).  But here’s to hoping he will keep his promise and never hit another woman again (or throw chairs out windows). One of his biggest fans is praying that he keeps his promise. If he doesn’t, well…

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

The Neighborly War

I’m going through a little sumthin’ sumthin’ right now. On Saturday night my car was involved in a hit and run accident. Coming outside to find your car in ruins is one of the worst things a person can go through, especially when it was sitting outside your house parked!

I’ll be honest with you, when I saw my poor Lizzy in shambles, I cried like a baby and didn’t care who saw me. As my tears flooded, a young guy walked up to me and said, “I know who hit your car. He lives right there and he was drunk.” He pointed at the house. Turns out it was the neighbor who lives directly across from me. He had hit my car in the middle of the night and kept going hoping I wouldn’t find out. Because he parks on our side street, I never would have noticed the damage to his car if the young guy didn’t tell me. Plus, I never would have thought a NEIGHBOR would have done something so foul. To make a long story short, the culprit admitted he hit my car when I confronted him, but he later recanted his story after thinking about the consequences of his confession. 

Needless to say, this has ignited a war. A war where the word motherf*cker was thrown at him along with God in the same sentence when he tried to say, “For all I know, you hit my car.” Are you for serious?!!! “God is gonna get you, motherf*cker!” I screamed.  This story is still developing as I type and naturally I’ll keep you posted, but what is going down made me think about a short story I wrote back in 2008 that I won second place in a contest for. Since then, I would like to think that I've grown as a writer, but I want to share it anyway. It’s called The Neighborly War and, unfortunately, my neighbor has just ignited The Neighborly War Part II. Sit back and enjoy and I’ll keep you posted about the real-life drama as it unfolds.

The Neighborly War


T.C. Galltin
            For months, I watched them closely.  That’s how I knew that bright red gas guzzling Ford Explorer belonged to their son.  Bright red.  How fitting.  Something flashy for a young boy who wanted to go around impressing the ladies.  In my mind that hunk of environmentally threatening junk seemed as big as a fire engine sitting in my spot…my only visitor spot. 
            I could feel the heat emanating from the warm concrete and playing with the soles of my slippered feet.  After years of ambling about, holes threatened to rip the fabric apart but were unsuccessful.  Soon I knew the holes would win and force me to buy a new pair.  Any other day I would have noticed how good the warmth touching my feet felt, but today I was on a mission as my feet shuffled along the pavement.  Swoosh. Swoosh.  My steps got quicker the closer I got. 
Although the comfortable spring air was caressing my skin, I refused to be coddled because I knew the nice weather would slowly disappear.  Eventually it would be replaced by the warm (soon to be oppressive) heat that’s so typical in the Baltimore area where I have endured 39, almost 40, sticky summers.  As a child, I never noticed.  Isn’t it funny how you begin to notice everything as an adult…the quick passage of time, the heat, the cold…but those things barely register when you’re going about your life as a kid?  I’m gonna be 40.  Damn.  They say 40 is the new 20…or is that 40 is the new 30?  I don’t know.  I tend to get mixed up.  I swear I must be on the path to Alzheimer’s.
I glanced at the SUV again as I made my way up the walkway to their small rowhouse.  Like Siamese twins, our houses shared the same walls.  I knocked long and hard, skipping the preliminary friendly knock…the one in which you lightly tap the door as you politely wait.  No answer.  I knocked harder.  It was in the morning so I couldn’t understand why no one was there to greet me.  I knew they didn’t leave the house until or so to go to work and college.  At least I suspected that’s where their boy was going.  Sometimes when I saw him he would be carrying a hunter green backpack and all so I figured he must be in college, right?  Too old for high school. 
I readjusted my robe and glanced around the spotless block in Federal Hill.  The scent of the beginning of summer welcomed my nose.  I breathed deeply and rubbed the thick fabric of the pink terry cloth robe.  Come on.  Where in the hell are they? I thought, rolling my eyes.  Open the goddamn door. 
“Can I help you?”
He was tall, dark and…I hate to say it because it’s so cliché…handsome.  But that wasn’t going to stop me.  I was used to his good looks by now after seeing him out my window over the past few months.  Plus, he had a wife and I wasn’t interested in playing the role of the homewrecker.  That’s never been my style.  He and his wife were close to my age, it appeared.  Their son, I suspected, was probably 18 or 19.
“You’re parked in my visitor spot.  You need to move your car,” I said.  Of course I already knew they didn’t have any additional parking spaces.  One car was in the garage out back.  The other was parked in their allotted visitor spot.  I could care less where they moved it.  I just wanted them to get it out of my space.  Jesse would come over soon enough and he was going to be furious.  Especially late at night and having to drive around and find another spot.  I wasn’t going to let that happen.
“I’m sorry about that, Ms…”
            The last thing I wanted to do was exchange salutations.
“Jenkins.  Tammy Jenkins,” I reluctantly said, smoothing the stray hairs on my head down.
“Robert Smith,” he said. 
Did I even ask him?  I looked at him carefully, squinting my brown eyes.  I could feel my nose itch.  That wasn’t a good sign.
“Ms. Jenkins, my son moved back in with us late last night because he and his roommate had an argument.  I guess he needed a parking spot and used yours,” Robert said, scratching his arm which happened to be the color of dark chocolate.  He brought his massive hand up and readjusted his glasses with his pointer finger.  “I’ll have him move it.”
“Good,” I said turning around to go back home.  I could hear the door close behind me as I walked away.  I went into the house and got ready for work in a state of agitation.
When I got home, the car was still there.  You have got to be kidding me, I thought.  That was the first conversation I ever had with Robert…my first contact with my neighbor who had been living there for a few months.  The neighborly thing to do would have been to obey my wishes but he hadn’t done that.  What the hell!
I made my way over to the Smiths’ house and banged on the door, which was quickly opened by the Smiths’ teenage son.  He was in a rush and almost knocked me down.  He was tall, just like his father, but lighter skinned…a cross between his mom who was damn near white and his father, I supposed. 
I always wondered why dark-skinned folk always chose a light-skinned mate or vice versa.  It was almost as if they were trying to seek out the opposite of what they felt they lacked.  Not being light enough, the dark-skinned person with a complex sought for a way to bleach out his DNA.  Not being black enough, the light-skinned person tried to chase melanin.  I myself was in between.  Caramel…coffee with milk…whatever you want to call it.  So I escaped those issues of black skin that most of the race grows up with.  I was content with being me.  Tammy.  Good ole Tammy Jenkins. 
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the boy said, after I let out a huff at his disrespect.  “Can I help you?” 
“Your dad was supposed to but that didn’t happen,” I snapped.  For a second the boy looked confused.  Then he smiled, looking slightly embarrassed. 
“You must be Ms. Jenkins.  Sorry I didn’t move my car earlier, but I’m about to move it now.”  He flashed a smile as if that was some sort of payment for the inconvenience he was causing.  What was up with those Smith men?  Did they think that good looks would take care of a multitude of sins?  It didn’t and to prove it, I frowned at Smith Jr.
“Look, Junior, I have a friend who comes and parks in that spot.  Do you guys think you can do whatever you want?  Is this the way you treat your new neighbor?  What an impression ya’ll are makin’!” I said staring squarely into his light brown eyes as I put my hands on my hips and felt the warm breeze slide under my arms.  It was trying to whisk the layer of sweat away that was beginning to form under them.  Junior stopped, didn’t move for a second.  He frowned at me.
“I said I would move my car.” 
Was that a battle stance?  Was that boy challenging me?  Disrespecting me?  He was young enough to be my son.  I wanted to slap his ass.
“Well, run along, then,” I said, condescension purposely clouding my speech.  Who in the hell did he think he was, I thought, as I walked away looking straight ahead and pursing my lips.  I knew his eyes were burning a hole in my back like the sun burns a hole in the earth with the use of a magnifying glass…ready to start a fire. 
It was a little while before it happened again.  Using the spare key to open the door, Jesse came in at at night.  I was lying in bed waiting for him almost falling asleep.  When he strolled over to the bed I could see his bearded face in the dim night light. 
“Hey, babe,” his deep voice said as he bent down to kiss my cheek.  Through his thin slacks, I could tell he was happy to see me.  I smiled and shifted as the mattress squeaked while I stretched my arms.  “Didn’t you talk to your neighbors?”  I looked at him in bewilderment, confused.  In response, he said, “That SUV is in my spot again.” 
No need to say more.  Like a slap in the face, that woke me up.  I sat up and pulled my lace camisole down and shook my head.  “Not again, Jesse,” I said as my mouth twisted and I got up and headed straight for my robe.  Without saying anything, I walked toward the kitchen. 
“Where you going, Tammy?” Jesse asked.  I heard one of his shoes drop to the floor with a clunk.  I didn’t answer.  “Can’t it wait til morning?”
No it couldn’t.  I pulled the smallest cutting knife out of the wooden block that housed all my knives…the knives I would normally use to slice food.  Tonight I was going to slice something different.  I was going to teach those bastards a lesson.  That motherfucker wasn’t going to park in my spot ever again.
I slowly opened the front door and glanced around the block making sure no one was around.  I stood there for a few moments and tightened my robe around my body as if the robe would somehow render me invisible if anyone was watching.  One by one I glided down the steps that got me closer to his SUV.  As I stooped down, I took one last look around.  Still no one.  I could feel the thickness of the rubber under my hands as I punctured the shiny black tire with a small hole.  No need to slash it.  No need to do more than one.  Those bastards would get the point when their son came out and his tire was flat.  And the good thing: they couldn’t prove a thing.  I had watched enough Judge Judy to know that if no one sees it, there was no way they could prove it.  I smiled…feeling my work was done.
I was standing at the door signing for my package from UPS when I saw her walk out the house.  If looks could kill, I would be dead that morning.  It had been a few days since I gave her son a flat tire.  They never said anything to me about it.  They must have seen enough Judge Judy to know the deal as well.  I smiled at her.  She rolled her eyes.
“Have a nice day,” I said to the UPS man loud enough so she could hear me as she got into her car.  Her son hadn’t used my spot again after that incident.  She glared at me one last time as she started her engine and drove off.
The next morning, the sun was shining so bright that I could feel it warming my cheeks as the rays came through the window and stroked my face.  I yawned and got up letting the good feeling I had envelop me.  It’s time to visit my plant friends, I thought.  I had neglected them long enough.
I threw on a pair of sweatpants and my blue Nike hoodee and took the stairs in a daze.  I strolled over the black and white checkered floor, opened the refrigerator and grabbed the carton of orange juice to pour a glass.  My open windows were like mouths waiting to catch a gentle breeze. 
When I sauntered out the back door and went over to the small patch of garden at the foot of the yard, I felt calm, peaceful.  Getting in touch with the earth was always relaxing for me.  There’s just something about feeling dirt slip through your fingers as you plant something and watch it grow…nursing it until it transforms from a seed to a stemmed being. 
That’s odd, I thought.  It didn’t rain last night.  The earth was moist beneath my fingers and there was a smell.  What in the world is that? I thought, bringing my fingers to my nose.  There was a green tinge.  Those motherfuckers.  It was antifreeze.  I knew that if it could kill a dog, it would definitely damage my babies. 
“I’m gonna call the cops.  They poisoned my plants,” I whispered in an angry hiss.  It had to be his wife.  Only women can be that goddamn devious, I thought.  I went to the kitchen and picked up the cordless phone.  Then I put it down.  Judge Judy had indeed educated us all.  I walked over to the stainless steel sink and slowly washed my hands thinking of my next move.  Ah ha.  It’s Saturday morning...they’ll be home.
I went to the bathroom and glanced at my reflection.  Good enough.
Just the person I wanted to see, I thought, as he opened the door.  My voice was thick, syrupy. 
“Mr. Smith.  Or Robert, should I say.  I think we started off on the wrong foot.  We’re neighbors.  We should be nicer to one another…get to know each other better.  I apologize for being so rude the other day,” I said as I looked coyly into his big brown eyes.  Perhaps I could be the homewrecker after all.

Friday, July 8, 2011

Short and Sweet

I saw the funniest thing on Twitter and wanted to share. Take a look (hit the "back" arrow to return to my post):

Now your first reaction was probably, “Oh sh*t, they’re gonna burn in hell for this!”, but I bet you laughed.  Why? Because it’s funny, that’s why!

All of us have seen that infamous photo of some guy or chic posing in front of the mirror trying to achieve the perfect angle with camera in hand.  In today's cyber age, it comes with the territory, and the Jesus photo mocks that beautifully. Even Jesus wants to look good for the camera and post it on Facebook (lol). I might burn in hell for finding that photo funny, but I'll take my chances. Here's the thing: sometimes you have to cut loose and have some fun. Seeing that picture reminds me that this is one of those times.

I think Terry McMillan does this best. Check out her Twitpic*:

Here you have a well-known author of best-selling books willing to put her funny side out there for the world to see. People have said mean things about her picture, but I love it! She has mastered the lesson: Cut up…don’t take yourself too seriously. I think we all should take a page from her book. 

And by the way...Jesus, you’re looking good!

Happy Friday, everybody! Do something fun today.    

*Update: Terry McMillan has changed her picture. Too bad you missed the old one! LOL

Monday, July 4, 2011

I See Predators…

…and they’re all around us.

Once again, I got the news about Chris Hansen via tweet and exclaimed “get out!” when I heard he had been caught cheating on his wife. Chris Hansen is the icon from Dateline who made catching predators (i.e. child molesters) fun. His to ‘Catch a Predator’ segment would make you laugh, make you angry, and on occasion make you cry because we live in a pretty f*cked up world where nasty men would want to have sex with, look at, or fondle a child. What’s ironic is that Hansen was the subject of the very same sting operation he employed. But Hansen’s cheating ways is not the subject here. Child molestation is.

Last summer in Baltimore, I heard too many stories on the news about little girls getting molested by their mother’s new boyfriend. On two separate occasions the girls contracted gonorrhea from their molesters and, check this out…the little girls were both under two years of age. Sick! 

One day a group of women and I were talking about child molestation and swapping stories. A young woman from Brazil told us about a father who got caught molesting his daughter after the authorities found semen in the infant’s…THE INFANT’s…stomach. Apparently, the father was having his baby girl suck his penis. (That’s why I cringed when I heard a male say “babies like to suck” in reference to my little girl when she was sucking on her fingers one day). I say again, what kind of world are we living in where men will molest their DAUGHTERS???!!!!!

Here’s what we should do to these sick, twisted f*cks: let’s put them on an island (along with murderers, rapists, etc.) with no food and let them go to work on each other.  That will take care of those demented fools. Sadly, you don’t know who the fools are. They can be your brother, your uncle, your friend, that neighbor next door. The list goes on. I just pray that my daughter never encounters one of them because I WILL be in jail for murder.

Yes, Mr. Hansen got caught cheating, and believe me, I don’t take cheating lightly. However, at this time I would like to thank Chris Hansen. Even though he’s a cheater, the Universe recognizes the good he has done, and so do I.