X-Mas Card Photo Shoot Gone Bad - 12/25/15

It started out fine.  As usual, momma pushed it.

“The Kids” – 11/21/15: Open Letter To Every-Body, but Especially to those in positions of POWER to harness, influence and direct the MINDS of our children

Can we - for a moment - give a *Big-Up* to Ms. Whitney Houston, may she R.I.P. who sang long, long ago about how the Children Are our Future. She reminded us to “Given them Hope and let them lead the way. Show them all the Beauty they possess inside.” But, given the state of affairs in the world today, and how most children grow up to be adults leading lives of quiet desperation, I think that the words of Ms. Houston have fallen upon deaf ears.

"LIFE IN 3-D

Yes, the Children ARE indeed our future, quite possibly our only hope for a positive future, given the way our generation, and those who came before us, are choosing to remain ignorant to the harsh realities staring us straight in the face. Who continue to live life in semi-conscious state of semi-stuper, coming up for air only long enough to have a quiet moment of mourning for the 217 girls who are STILL MISSING in Nigeria.

Now – I’m not just bitching to bitch - leaving you with that sinking feeling that the world is going to HELL in a HANDBASKET and WTF am I really supposed to DO about missing girls in Chibok?

No my friends, I actually have a suggestion that each and every one of us can apply in our lives – daily in most of our cases: LISTEN – really get SILENT and LISTEN to what our children are telling us. Our children are pleading with us to slow down, pay attention and do things in a DIFFERENT way. A way that has us using our words and voices and power in a kinder, gentler, softer way with the youngest, most vulnerable, and most BRILLIANT among us! And why are the young so brilliant? Why because they have fresh, new MINDS of course! MINDS that are free from ideas, concepts and indoctrination. Ready to be filled with...love.

But instead, we take the easy route, and program our children, straight from day 1. And we don’t do this out of malice; we do this because we were taught that perhaps if our child learns to read, write, and multiply by age 10, that somehow THIS will be the thing that secures a solid “Future” for them - far away from the spindly, creeping hands of the *unknown.*  From a very early age, we are shaping, molding and influencing the very value system that will form the foundation of that child’s moral compass FOR LIFE.  A value system that has, at its core the goal of everlasting security and *insurance*.

So be careful.

And also – REJOICE! For if we could each peer in to the fresh new imagination of a child, I assure you that we would all be certain of humanity’s positive future, a future that includes all the beauty a child brings into this world, ready to share with you and me. And we would recognize, honor, revere and NOURISH that future right on out of that child, and into our positive future. We would think twice about whether we, as “grown-ups” really do know better when we are parroting some of the life lessons that we were spoon-fed. We would THINK about that, reflect on what a MESS we have made of things, and realize that the brilliance of our own children, properly protected, cared for and cultivated ,will bring about the very Quantum Leap needed now to CATAPULT humanity into the positive future that IS OUR BIRTHRIGHT. It could really be that simple.

If we could ALL just STOP and THINK before we speak to a child.

Thank you. xx 

“Fool me once, shame on you, fool me three times…WTF is wrong with me??? – 10/23/15

So I got stood up last night at Rudy’s Can’t Fail Café.  By a guy who had flaked on me twice previously.  Now, before you go getting all Judgy McJudger about why it is I can’t manage to make better choices about men, know this:  there are very good reasons why I gave him so many chances.  For example, reason #1: I’m getting pretty desperate.

RUDY'S CAN'T FAIL CAFE - OAKLAND, CA

And by desperate I don’t mean that I’m just going to smooch on just ANY ol’ body, but I will say that I have indeed LOWERED my EXPECTATIONS.  I mean, I do understand that as I get older, so do the potential men in my life, and thus, the potential pool from which to draw.  I get all of this.  What I DON’T get is why it is so goddamn difficult to follow through with a simple f#cking commitment.  

This is, yet ANOTHER OKC (OK Cupid) flop.  Another one in what is shaping up to be a very long list of OKC flops, as OKC continues to goes the way of Craigslist.  As in: you used to be able to get a decent date on Craigslist; now what you can get on Craigslist ‘aint free.  

So we virtually met, exchanged a couple of e-mail messages of interest, and then I gave him my number.  We set up a date for a Tuesday evening, after he got off work (he does a 9 – 6 grind) at 7. 

By noon that day, I found myself thinking “Could it really be that I am going to go on a date with a REAL LIVE MAN?!?  Could this really be happening?!?"  By 3pm, things were still *looking good* and by 5:00pm, he had texted a note of cancellation: *working late.*  What a lame excuse, right?  Except that THEN he followed that text up with the following text at 5:10pm:

Have this last min print job we got to do. 

And I thought it was sweet of him to go through the trouble of describing his excuse in detail.  And then, at 10:10p.m. the following text arrived:

Just wrapped up.

How sweet, right?!? So perhaps he was called in to work late, and really was working; either that, or he’s got his elaborate stories pre-lined up.  

I texted him that I was happy to receive his play-by-play of the evening and wanted to know if he wanted to set up a meet and greet for another evening.  That was October 21.  Three days later, I get this text:

Sorry for the lag…my phone took a shit...had to get a new one! 

Quickly followed by:

Did I miss my window?

Again, I ask you dear reader: how could I resist?  All of that potential, wrapped up in so much humility and charm???

I thanked my potential suitor, this time for his fabulous excuse.  A few text messages later, and we are, once again, set for Rudy’s – this time at 9:30pm for dessert.  

I am teaching a yoga class prior to the date, so I tell him that I will re-confirm at 9pm, which I do, and I hear nothing back.  Well, no news is good news, my optimist/desperate person suggests, and off I go - in FULL DAZZLE - out the door to Rudy’s. 

Arriving promptly at 9:30pm, I decide that I should grab a table and make my desperation look…less desperate.  So I grab a table (next to a gentleman sitting solo…see this is normal, right? Except that as i sit down and glance over, i can't help but notice that he is just wrapping up his meal...looking really, really bloated - almost as if it would hurt to move.  And I cant help but think to myself that that is going to be me in a few short moments.), and by 9:40, I just KNOW he’s not coming, but I text anyway:

Are you coming?

Crickets.                                                                                                                                                                      

So I order the chili cheese fries (without the chili…the waiter was- super nice to me to make the modification: he pitied me) and a chocolate malt.   With a side of sadness and despair.   And a very difficult next day, gastrologically speaking.

I remain hopeful.

"NOOZ FLASH! NOOZ FLASH! NOOZ FLASH! Ritz Kracka morphs into an OREO Cookie!" 10/10/15

Today, during my weekly pilgrimage to the Grand Lake Farmer’s Market, I opened my big Riz Kracka MOUTH (when it was probably an opportune time to keep it SHUT), and I got called an “OREO COOKIE BITCH.”

"OREO COOKIE BITCH"

For those of you who are not familiar with the Oreo cookie as it refers to a PERSON, it is a person who is: black on the OUTSIDE and WHITE on the inside. 

It’s my fault, really.  You know when you are having one of those days when the NEXT m#thrfkr to say something sideways is going to CATCH it from you? Well, that’s exactly what happened.  

And I am not PROUD to admit that it was an older, black gentleman, likely living close to the skids, with whom I had this altercation.  Honestly, if it would have been a younger, larger white man, I would have QUITE POSSIBLY (most definitely) kept my trap SHUT.  But it wasn’t, and I didn’t.   

The altercation went something like this:

He (coming up to me as I am locking my bike): Miss, miss, are you a sister?

Me (pausing…thinking/reacting in my head “GODDAMIT!  Why does EVERYBODY feel the need to CLASSIFY ME???):  Would that make a difference to you?

He: Yes it would because…..

I start to walk away. Terrible move, for a number of reasons, all of which i am certain you are mentally listing at this moment. 

He: Hey! Whatchu’ doin’?  Don’t walk away from me!

Me (pissed off, but i feel as though i am somehow missing something, like an appendage, so I LOOK BACK and I now i have to GO BACK because I left my lawn chair strapped to my bike):  [managing something silly and flustered, like] Sir, you know that we are ALL actually brothers and sisters here, all of us here (gesturing with my arms, as i have now become quite expressive), so the fact that you are ASKING me whether i am a sister makes NO SENSE to me AT ALL!

I turn around and walk away again.  Two steps later – even MORE pissed off, because now i need to redeem myself for the silly little thing i said, and now I know that he is not going to do anything, because he would have by now, plus the fact that he is probably 10-15 years older, and in a pinch – I am CERTAIN i could take him in a foot-race) I say: 

“Because, sir, the reason you asked me in the FIRST place is because YOU weren’t SURE whether I was black or white.  And I really wouldn't think that aught to matter to you, given that YOU are asking ME for HELP!”  Then I turned on my heel and walked away a third time.  

He:  (yelling something, of which I caught bits and pieces amidst the fury) I was just ... by a WHITE WOMAN...from the KKK (i don't exactly remember what was said, but white woman and KKK were DEFINITELY in the mix) you OREO-COOKIE BITCH!”   

And that was that. 

Lesson learned? When it comes to being offended? Just don’t.  And don’t be a (sh)ero when you could just be an Oreo and leave it at that.  Oh, and also: don't make the most vulnerable among us the enemy.  

carry on. 

 

 

Work-Work and Dumb-Dumb – My Childhood Dolls

Age 2: Adorable, yet easily annoyed

I think you can probably tell a LOT about a person by what they named their dolls when they were very, very small children.  Or rather, what their mother named their dolls when they were very, very small children, in an effort to keep their adorable, yet easily annoyed daughter from calling stranger people “Dumb-Dumb”.

If you know me at all, you know that I am not one to disguise my emotions and opinions very well, plus I am easily annoyed.  At stupidity.  Now - I am aware that this cavalier attitude is shallow and will not win me over any life-long friends (let alone lovers), and I have, for the most part, reigned in my desire to call your casual dumb-ass a dumb-ass.  I mean, I still do it under my breath, but if nobody hears me, what’s the harm right?!?

My almost 12-year old son has started letting me know, usually when I have just finished barking my busy-body commands at him that perhaps my tone is a wee bit “off".  And I appreciate him reminding me of this (after that ripple of wanting to box him in the ears passes), because I understand completely and fully that it’s often “not what you say, but how you say it.”  And even if I do think somebody is a complete dumb-ass and I don’t SAY IN WORDS that I think they are a complete dumb-ass, well, my tone is saying it for me.  And that really has to change.  Because as much as I love my own company and (Self) Date Night ™ is really swell,  I really do want that someone special in my life to cozy up on.  But change is difficult, especially with a behavior and an attitude that is nearly a half-century old!

Anyway, at around the same age that photo was taken, and when i began talking, I had a nasty habit of calling most people I met “Dumb–Dumb.”  My mother thought she would solve this little problem by making me a doll and naming the doll Dumb-Dumb.  She then instructed me that I was now to call this DOLL Dumb-Dumb and nobody else Dumb-Dumb because, well, "...because people aren’t dumb-dumbs."  When I looked at her as if SHE were a dumb-dumb, she added something like "...and it's not a nice thing to call people, Maureen."  Fair enough.  I took to my new doll Dumb-Dumb (who, by the way did not have a face) like a pig takes to slop, and played with her, and called her by her name, and soon realized that Dumb-Dumb was super lonely and needed a companion.  So my mother made a companion doll that I got to name.  And I named him “Work-Work.”  We will save further analysis of why Dumb-Dumb was a girl and Work-Work was a boy for another blog. 

"WORK-WORK"

For 40 or so years, I have wondered why in the HELL a three-year-old child would name a doll Work-Work.  There was of course, the traditional male/female programming at play in my childhood home; my father went away to "work" and my mother stayed at home to care for the three children.  But I was two, maybe three years old - it was more than just my short history with this family.  And then I remember: it's who I am.  And what I do.  I am a worker bee.  I work.  Or should I say, “I werk!” No, I just work.  I always have worked, and I probably always WILL work, and I think there is something about the idea of work that, for some god-forsaken reason, gives me a warm, tingly feeling inside.  I am just highly industrious.  A few years ago, I got all excited about a compilation of old videos of our family (and extended family, mostly) my mom had put together from the 1970’s.  I think there was one scene with me in it.  I was about 2 1/2 years old, carrying a HUGE watering can and tending to the house plants. 

One of the things that has come up a lot for me lately is the absolute necessity of self-care, both of my adult self, as well as of that industrious little girl, who just LOVES to work.  I know that we are spoon-fed all sorts of crap about how we are not supposed to like work…how we are actually supposed to HATE work, so that once we get off work, we use what little “play-time” we have to do “non-work” things, like consume.  So then we have to work more.  And play less.

I think this is a load of horseshit.  There is nothing wrong with a little (or a lot) of work.  Especially when it is work that you LOVE doing and work that produces awesome results.  The very idea that the way we spend most of our waking hours should be engaged in something we loathe is ludicrous.  Not to mention - the idea we should all be hating work only serves to increase any aversion one already has to work (which for most of us is a lot), which is then numbed out during one’s play-time by “stuff”: substances, entertainment, stuff, distractions, stuff.  

The other day as I was lamenting over something or another, something that I was "not supposed to be doing” because I had "so many other things that I should be doing,” (meanwhile doing nothing) I ponder my inner child and wonder if she is the source of this most recent wave of ennui.  She replied quickly: “Sister, it’s not me, it's that fat bald dude in the corner over there who just wants to watch one more episode of  'Pimp My Ride' (or whatever).  Go get the watering can, b*tch!  I wanna do me some work!"

Anyway, the point is, I realized, for the VERY FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE, my inner child is not the whining, crying, needy little orphan-child I have pictured her to be, one I need to take gently and lovingly into my arms and rock back and forth, letting her know that everything is going to be OK. At least not always. 

Nope.  My inner child needs for me to step aside and allow her to embody the badass, bossy busy-body she has always been.  Sure, I need to slow her down and re-direct her from time to time, but I do think this new little nugget of wisdom, that perhaps I need to care for my inner child in a completely different way, might allow me/her to open up just enough creative space to break on through to the other side of what it means to fully embody my greatest gifts and talents - and share them with more people.  

Or - I was just a bossy little girl, and will die an old, bitter spinster-maid, with Work-Work by my side.  And Work-Work is not real. So that is really super sad.

Yep, this is INDEED Why I am Still Single – 052315

This is, of course, a follow up to my earlier blog, titled “Is This Why I am Still Single? – 1/21/15” where I was pondering whether my over-the-top caustic persona might be the reason I continue to fly solo.

I am confirming this to be the case.

Right now, it's 4 'clock in the a.m. on a Saturday morning, and for some god-forsaken reason, my eyes have popped open, which indicates to Tommi the cat that it is now time to clean up my chin.  Because I understand this process to be exfoliating, and I am not one to let such beauty opportunities to go by, I allow her to do this while i figure out why the hell i am up so goddamn early and why my neck feels broken in several different places.

I try to go back to sleep, but after 20 minutes has gone by and the pain in my neck has taken shape, I decide I am up for good and, since I will already be waiting for the cable guy to come fix my T.V. some time between 8 a.m. and eternity, I figure now is the perfect opportunity to do the write-up on that date I had the other day - my FIRST date - in over a year. 

It was new potential!  So exciting and he was super-cute too!  Sure, he had 7 kids, but before I put the cart before the horse and begin raining my own too-hasty judgements down upon his head, I reign myself in a bit and suspend judgement for the moment.  Besides, when I shared with him on our first phone call that I was adopted, he shared that he was also adopted, and I give orphans a pass on just about anything.  

We arranged a quick Friday afternoon date, as he was scheduled to pick up one of his children at 6pm that day and couldn’t meet until 4pm.  Fair enough, keep it short and sweet.  That way, if there is NO chemistry, it’s short and sweet, and if there IS chemistry, a short visit will only work to build on that chemistry!  Bases covered.

I was excited, and and my third-eye pimple that had sprouted two days prior had given way a bit, plus the eyebrow I had partially shaved off the other day (no questions please) was already starting to fill in! Yay!  We were to meet at a café down the street on bikes, so I wore a casual, yet sexy little yoga number, stretch bottoms and a hot pink tank top, with my trusty blue hoodie.  

The date went fine.  There were no initial fireworks – physically, he appeared to be a full 30 or so pounds heavier than his profile pics (again, who am I to judge? and besides, he'll diet for me), and perhaps slightly more world-weary. We ended the date with a nice hug and went our separate ways.  

Flash forward several hours later that evening, when I received the following text:

HE: Pretty good first one and that hug was nice.

ME: (trying to keep it casual, I am still not sure how I feel about him) Hugs r awesome.

And then, for emphasis – 

ME: Hugger here.

HE: Me too and a kisser but you’re going to have to wait for that ;)

ugh. Seriously?  Is that seriously what you think a woman, who you know very little about, wants to hear?  That you are in control over when she will be receiving additional and further affections from you - you, a veritable and bona-fide stranger in her world?!? Is that what you think?!?  Lord Jeebus I think I have just died and gone to purgatory.  But it’s late – past 10pm – and I am not thinking very clearly, I'm just annoyed and I need him to know this if we are going to have any relationship at all, so I say:

ME: John* read that back to yourself.  That is straight out of the cornball movie corny.  Besides I never said anything about wanting to kiss you.

(that last part an utterly ridiculous statement, thrown in as a feeble attempt to try to soften the blow, because of course i would want to kiss him...slightly less now that he has made it a control issue.

HE: Damn…sorry for being corny, myself or whatever I came across as being.  I’ll stay in my lane.

ME: Awww I hate when things don’t translate will via text.

And then, feeling super bad that I had hurt his pride, I added:

ME: Really sorry to have offended.

HE: No worries.

I didn't hear from him again. 

*not his real name

"THE DRESS" - 051615

No, no, no, not “The Dress” as in the dress the captured all of that ridiculous attention on the social medias about what color it was – MY dress.  The fabulous one that I wore to a meet-and-greet last night in Oakland, CA, U.S.A., hometown of Dwayne Wiggins of Tony! Toni! Tone! fame, which happened to be one of my FAVORITE bands in college – real BANDS, back when musicians still played instruments. 

"The Revival" - My Favorite Album - 1990

It all started on Mother's Day, when i got drunk on "comfortable food" in the City with my sister-friend Mia and her mother. 

We were in Hayes Valley and after brunch did some poking around in some of the boutiques, and i tried on a really lovely dress that ended up showing quite a bit of side-boob.  And, had i been shopping by myself, i would have seen side-boob, and very quickly and without making a scene, put it right back on the rack, knowing that i would never, ever, ever have the nerve to wear a dress that showed side-boob, given a lot of factors, including my non-existent reputation and aging A-cups. Seriously, the only people who are really allowed to do side-boob with out seeming like a desperate, needy, or otherwise aging slut are Kim Kardashian.

So i bought the dress and when i got home, feeling ridiculously silly for spending nearly $70 on a dress that I knew would be a lounge-around-the-house-when-i-want-to-feel-particularly-sexy-dress (the material is impossibly soft, too!), I put the dress on and not an hour later, "POP" the right spaghetti strap came loose!  My lucky day!  Except I live in Oakland and the store is in SF and its a 7 day, no money back, exchange-only policy.  And i don't like SF. 

I started plotting a trip to the City some time during the week so that I could exchange the dress and find redemption for that $70 spent hastily, in a delicious moment of "Yeah, yeah, I can rock this!  No problemo!"  When later that day I received an invitation to attend a networking event (which are NOT my favorite excruciatingly painful things to do, ever) I thought how serendipitous it was that perhaps this presented the perfect opportunity for me to find just the right dress to wear for an occasion where i may be hob-nobbing with some of Black Oakland's movers-and-shakers! Crisis = Opportunity. Right there. Bam.

And then, the just-right dress appeared to me like a mirage out of the clear blue horizon, on an impossibly beautiful day, driving down a desert highway, on the road to nowhere.  I tried it on and fell in love instantly.  A daring choice, yes, because this particular dress would require that i go bra-less...yikes!  However, unlike the side-boob dress, my ta-ta's in THIS dress were tastefully displayed and not the least bit conspicuous - no side boob, no nipple, allllll goooood.:o)

The dress was an even exchange, and I left the store happy and excited that my mission had been successfully accomplished, bouncing all the way to my car, when out of nowhere, my glee and joy were dashed by the thought that i had nobody at home to play dress-up with and take the pictures!  And what happens when a single women who's roomate-shutterbug-Sun is away at his father's house and photos of a fabulous dress must be taken?  Determination.  That's what happens.  Yeah.  

This is me looking kind of like a forest gnome.

 This is me looking like a forest gnome and figuring out how how i might take a selfie without the camera directly in front of my face.

This is me looking even more like a forest gnome, but I wanted to get a photo of the shoes I chose to wear.  There was a rather large selection, and the selection process only took trying on each pair twice, getting up on a chair in my bedroom so that I could try and catch a look at how the unique hemline (short in front, long in back) looked with each pair of shoes, cursing in my head all the while “Goddammit Somebody Get Me a Full Length Mirror!!!”

Ignore the laundry in the back because apparently I did. 

That’s when I decided i needed to take advantage of the real reason I took the mirror down in the first place, which was to get a better look at the dress from that unique hemline, which had required all of the shoe fitting and re-fitting.  This photo is probably the best result of that particular effort:

 Then I got so excited at seeing half the result of my creation, I got a bit greedy (well who wouldn't?) and tried to capture the entire result, which was a mistake.  I don’t really know what was going on in my mind here, except to say that my yoga training was starting to kick in at the same time I was trying to fit entire my body into the mirror, and the way the dress actually LOOKED on my body - quite frankly, the way my body LOOKED in general -  became irrelevant.  And the result of not planning that look out in its entirety is what you see below, the second photo looking slightly more constipated than the first.

Determination, ppl. That's what it's all about.

And so, lastnight after all of those shenanigans and before hitting the town, I decided to share on social media my most favorite shot of the dress, in its MOST fabulousness, surprisingly without me anywhere in the shot, or the dress:

FRONT OF AWESOME DRESS I WORE TO MEET-N-GREET

And while I was really, really, really hoping to get that ONE FABULOUS SHOT with Dwayne Wiggins for my blog, I got two shitty ones instead.  He was pretty patient, until the 5^th or so shot in, when he started walking away, saying “Now that’s the shot, right there.” 

It obviously wasn’t the shot.