Caught Up

Well, I’ve gone and done it. When I got to Germany almost a year ago to the day, it was as if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. For the first time in my life I had nothing to do! And although, I wanted to work really, really bad, I kind of enjoyed that feeling for a while. And now, I’m right back where I started and I don’t even know how it got like this.

My situation is like that of an overachieving high school student. You know the ones – play varsity sports, in the band, holds an office in student government, all while holding a part-time job. Except I’m not an overachiever. In fact, I’d almost call myself an underachiever. So how did I end up so involved?

Right before I left Tallahassee, I had almost reached the breaking point. My insides were what it must feel like for a skimpy triangle top struggling to cover some DDs – as in stretched to the limit. Knowing that it could snap at any moment. I was teaching a 7 a.m. class twice a week, after which I went to work full-time as associate editor of a weekly paper. Full-time meaning that I often worked at home after close of business and on weekends. I was also active with my sorority and OES chapter, including meetings, fundraisers and the like. So when I got here, doing nothing was like a breath of fresh air.

But slowly, that nothing became a whole lot. And a whole lot is now more than I think I’ve ever done in my life. At my first “Army spouse” get together, otherwise known as FRG stuff (Family Readiness Group), I was asked to be FRG leader. Not knowing enough about it, I agreed. That’s how they trap you I guess. As an officer’s wife, I’m “automatically” a part of the coffee group. In a moment of tedium-induced panic, I volunteered to be coffee group treasurer. “Anybody want to be treasurer? Who wants to be treasurer? Anybody? Anybody?” And so on and so forth for 10 minutes.

And of course, my first mission was to join the AKA graduate chapter here, where we meet monthly in a city 2 hours away. Now that we’re stepping, it looks like every Saturday is going to be filled.

I’ve also become the church secretary/PR person. So I’m pretty much in charge of anything administrative that comes out of the church, like church bulletins and stuff.

So my schedule is pretty much: Monday – nothing – except for steering committee once a month
Tuesday – German class; Wednesday – 2 days gone with FRG and Steering committee; Thursday – Church ; Friday – church twice a month; Saturday – prayer (although I rarely go); once a month sorority meetings; step practice; Sunday – church; grocery shopping; rest.

Not to mention that I work full-time, full-time wife, chef, etc. etc. and need to show both Woodstock and Taz some TLC on the regular. I’m getting tired just thinking about it. Of course all this leaves me with little “me” time and the me time I do have needs to be spent in the gym, which of course, it’s not, so I am getting fatter and fatter each week, and really, I’m not a cute fat.

So, what to do, what to do? Really, all of this stuff started out innocently enough but has somehow grown to overwhelming proportions. I don’t want to have that stressed out feeling all the time, which was all too common for me in Tallahassee. And I have little time for the stuff I really want to do like going to this writing workshop on Thursdays.

Woodstock says I say yes to much, and maybe that’s true. But now that I’ve agreed to do stuff, how do I maintain my sanity and still get everything done?

Soldier

I was thinking about that Destiny’s Child song, talking about how they “need a soldier.” And I got news for ‘em. You don’t want one. It’s not fun. Trust me. I love my soldier-husband, but these days, they eventually have to do some soldiering. And this time that means Iraq.

I thought I’d sufficiently prepared myself for the future. I had my game face on, my mind at peace and my heart sufficiently hardened.

And then I went to the store, and all my steely resolve crumbled.

Walking into the PX, there is a stack of Walking into the PX, there is a stack of Gorilla footlockers there to greet customers right up front. They’re kinda like a hardcore, plastic version of those trunks we all took to college. There were other things around, Hooahs (They’re like the Army version of baby wipes – lame, I know) and various products they would need when they left. And when we drive on-post now, there are huge crates lining the sides of the roads. The crates they use to pack up their stuff and ship it to Iraq. I knew all along they would be leaving soon, but now there’s real physical evidence that he’s going to be gone for a year. And just when we were really starting to like each other.

It’s taken me almost this entire year we’ve been together to get into the swing of this marriage thing. And it’s been work. And I’m the person who has said many times that I don’t like to work hard unless I’m getting paid. See part of the problem? I’m a weird mixed breed of personalities. I need lots of attention but I’m a loner. I tell it like it is, but my feelings are easily hurt. I’m a control freak, but I don’t like making all the decisions. And for those of you who know me, when you put all that together, I’m not the easiest person to get along with. I tend to come across as rude. I’ve had to work on not being the person who walks into the room and starts asking for stuff before saying hello. Or asking about taking the recycleables out before saying good morning. It’s not that I’m TRYING to being rude, my mind is just always racing, thinking about the next thing that needs to be done, and sometimes that other stuff just comes out before my sense of decency has time to catch up.

I’m also a creature of habit. I like to do the same things, at the same time, in my own special way, everyday. When I lived alone, the routine was set: Come home. Walk Taz. Take 30-minute nap with the TV on, waking up just in time to catch Girlfriends reruns. Cook. Eat. Talk on phone. Shower. Talk on phone. Sleep.

I wasn’t really used to having someone in my space, messing up my flow. Only it wasn’t MY space anymore. It was ours. And I couldn’t just turn the TV off just because there was a game playing or turn up Avril Lavigne real loud when I was in one of my moods because now I had to be respectful of someone else. Plus, I’m irritable. And it doesn’t take much irritate me – bad hair day, fat day, can’t-find-the-right-outfit day – is enough to set me off. But I’ve been working on those things. I’ve gotten to the point where if I’m out somewhere and he’s at home, I’m EXCITED to get home to him, even if we aren’t going to be doing anything. When it’s 11:45, I get a little grin on my face because I know he’ll be stopping by for lunch at any moment.

And now he’s leaving. And I don’t feel like I can really talk to anyone about it.

Where I live this is life. It’s the norm. These people have been through this 3,4,5,6 or more times, but this is my first time. I’m nobody special here; my situation is not unique. So I’m feeling like, why burden somebody with real problems? And “outsiders” really don’t get it because they’ve never been through it. Hell, I don’t even “get it” yet. It’s easy for them to just say oh, no and move right on to the next thing because they’re not living it. And for those who ARE living it, who have kids to deal with, who have to play both parents to children who just want to know why daddy keeps leaving, I’m just another whiny new wife who thinks the world revolves around her. So I don’t say anything. I just go on like everything is OK, which I guess it is right now. But how about after sleeping in bed alone for a month? Or what about when I hear someone has been hurt or worse? I try not to think about it, but it’s so close it’s hard not to worry, and it’s hard to stay strong all the time.

My intention in starting this blog was just to write about how I feel about things, and keep my friends up to date on the happenings with me. I never wanted to be an “Army wife” blog about how hard it is during the deployment, and oh, woe is me. But the truth is, no matter how much I hate the term, I am an Army wife. And sometimes, that’s all I’m going to think about. So bear with me friends.

And if you want to help me feel better, send me tapes of the new seasons of all the new shows. Cause you know we ain’t got cable.

Pimpin' All Over the World Part III - The End!

We woke up fairly early in order to get ready for the trip to Jandia to go to the African Market. Everything on the island was like a bus trip, so this was no exception. When we got there, it was like this huge shopping center. With the beach right across the street. The first thing we saw when we got there were the sales people setting up for the market. Actually, there was a group of African women arguing. We couldn’t understand what they were saying, but they were pissed. And they were braiding white people’s hair. Fun! One thing to remember in this type of situation. Don’t look at them. Seriously, walk with your head down and look at the merchandise at the corner of your eye. Because as soon as they spot you looking at something, it’s on.

“Miss, miss. Come, I give you good deal. What you want? I give you good deal.”
“Hola. Morgen. Good morning,” they went through the obligatory greeting in about 3 languages cause they didn’t know what language we spoke. “Where you from? The UK?”
And to Wood, “Hey, come here my friend. My friend for you I make good deal. This handmade my friend.” And they kept calling him something. Every table we passed they called out to him, “Dell Boy” or “Der boy” or something. I don’t know what the hell they were saying. So we decide to want to buy a couple things. And the negotiations began. He wanted these pictures made out of sand and they guy says they’re like $25 or $30 each. (Note: Ok the prices aren’t in $$, it’s Euro but I can’t find the euro symbol) Wood says we’ll think about it and come back. Those are the magic words. They don’t want you to walk away from the table because they’re scared somebody else will get you. So Wood negotiates to $30 for 2 and our guy walks over to help the next marks customers while we figure out which ones we want. So we pick 2 out and new guy comes to us talking about $40 for both. “My friend,” he says sadly, eyes pleading when we tell him about the previously agreed upon $30.

Then we decide we want some type of sculpture thing. Again, Wood works the magic to get the guy down from like $90 to $65 I think. The guy relents but the whole time he’s yelling about how it’s handmade. But, he adds, “For you, my friend, OK.” Like we don’t know we paying mark ups out the ass for that stuff. But it’s cool, because part of the fun is the bargaining, right?

So after walking the beach, which is again, naked old people city, we decide to find some food. And we settle on Casa Juan. We order a couple of individual sized pizzas and Woods gets a local beer and I get Sangria. When the Sangria comes, to my surprise – and admittedly my delight – it’s a ½ liter. Damn. Who knew? And I couldn’t let it go to waste right? I mean there’s starving kids in the world who would LOVE to get a ½ liter of Sangria. Or something like that. So we eat our pizzas and this delicious warm, fresh bread with some kinda garlic sauce. So good.

That’s pretty much what we did all day. Next day, we got up hella early and snuck food out of the dining area cause we were supposed to go on the Catamaran ride (basically a big sailboat). Only it’s raining hard as hell. After waiting 20 minutes to see if the bus would come, this lady pulls up and jumps out of the car. Trip cancelled. So we spend the day doing a bunch of nothing at the hotel. Well, actually we pretty much finished up the book we’ve been reading at the same time, Teach Me How to Love You by Thomas Weeks, Juanita Bynum’s husband. It’s a good book for married or dating folks looking for marital advice from a Christian point of view. The first couple chapters are hard to get through, but after that it’s pretty much smooth sailing. Ok, let’s skip to our next to the last day cause this is getting long.
We get up early, skipping breakfast again, to make it on time for the Catamaran trip. The sun is shining, birds chirping, the whole nine, so there seems to be no chance of our trip getting rained out again. So the bus comes and we are on our way. We ride for like 7 minutes and stop, so we’re like, yes! That was quick. But no, we stop at like 20 hotels picking people up before we get to the port or whatever it’s called like an hour later. But when we get on the boat, we see something we haven’t in a week. Native English speakers! Yes, they’re from the UK and are still hard to understand, but dammit we can hold a conversation! Wood helps them get the sail up (he scrong!) and we’re off. It’s fun just kinda being on the water in the sun, although it’s hella windy and I have my poncho on so I don’t get cold. Once we stop, they let people get off and snorkel, fish and Jet ski. Me and Wood opt for the Jet Ski. I’m first up somehow, but I enjoy it. The water is FREEZING but I handle minez.

We eat this pretty good meal they cook for us on the boat, and head back. But they play some kind of game that Wood somehow gets volunteered for. His team – the men – lose, but they all get to share a bottle a wine. They give me a cup too. Then he gives me his cup, which makes 4 cups of wine counting the two I had with lunch. Add that to the sun beaming down, and I’m officially tipsy. But what better way to end a vacation right?
Can’t wait for the next one!

Pimpin' all over the world Part II - The trip

So, I know I’m way behind on posting about my trip, but things keep coming up and it’s going to take a minute to do it right, so I decided to just make it short and sweet.

To refresh your memory, me and the hubby went to Fuerteventura, Canary Islands. The hotel was a good 45 minute bus ride from the airport, so by the time we got to the hotel we were tired.as.hell. But when we get there, it was like paradise. German paradise. My German co-workers booked the trip, which explains why we were the only Americans there. We seemed to be the only Americans on the whole island actually, which we couldn’t hide since we A) Didn’t speak German and B) weren’t African. The only other blacks we saw were African. But we pretty much keep to ourselves so it was cool.

The second day we went to the beach. Nice. We were wearing shorts and open toe shoes, both of which have pretty much been no no’s since like October here. Although the coworkers warned me about what to expect on the beach, nothing could have prepared me for what we saw. Nakedness. Everywhere. And by mostly old people. There’s nothing like seeing a 60-year old man walking naked down the beach. And I’d be happy if I never saw another man in bikini-style swim trunks EVER. It was like a sea of penises. But not in a good way. Ugh!

I started questioning my hairstyle about this point (some ghetto flips I let this my new hairdresser put in). Note to self: Next time you go on a beach vacation, get braids. Plus, I forgot to bring a comb. Idiot.

Days 3: The third day it started to rain so we stayed at the hotel. Since we were there all day, we had time to really observe the Twilight Zone-ish behavior that seemed to be going on. The “feeding” schedule went like this.
Breakfast 0800-1000
Snack time 1100-1230
Lunch 1300-1500
Tea time 1600-1700
Dinner 1800-2000
So pretty much, you could be eating at almost every moment of the day. And that’s exactly what they did. Right after breakfast, the Germans would jump into the cold ass pool, or lie naked in the sun by the pool. They would even change clothes out there. Like seriously. Take off the swimsuit, put on underwear, put on real clothes. Weird. Anyway, about 10 minutes before lunch was to start, everyone would appear at once, like locusts swarming toward the dining area. It actually reminded me a little of Night of the Living Dead or something, where the zombies seem to be mindlessly drawn to brains. Except in this case it was food. And they actually got their plates and formed a line until they were told they could eat. Again – weird.
That night we sat through a presentation – in German – to sign up for some activities. We decided to do the African Market and go on a Catamaran. Then we went to the bar and had at it. Drink of the night: La Cocktail Canaria or something like that. Muy bueno.

Ok, this is super long so more in the next post! Adios!

Guess Who's Back?

As the plane landed, I had a strange sense of foreboding. And sure enough, as soon as we got back to Schweinfurt, the shit hit the proverbial fan. Back from vacation 1 hour, and I’m already feeling that deep stress I get when things aren’t going right. First of all: the party’s cancelled. Over and out. And I’m pissed, but still kinda relieved. Pissed because I totally did stuff in advance for a change. I didn't procrastinate on anything! This coming from someone who would research and write entire papers in college the night before it was due. Without a computer (thanks Riddler!). Anyway, while I was gone, everyone voted on whether to cancel the party or not. Luckily, there was only one “why didn’t you have all this stuff figure out before now” comment, but I didn’t feel good about the whole thing nonetheless. I feel like I let the sorority down. Like I stuck my neck out and got it cut off. And it wasn’t even my fault! Turns out, there are like 3 ANNUAL events going on the same night. I also got one “why didn’t you check the calendar” but I did! We came out with the event, and all of a sudden all this other stuff is going on. And there stuff is cheaper. And they can serve alcohol. But hey, it’s OK. Enough of this self-pitying and feeling sorry for myself. It’s over.

These 5 guys just got arrested for hazing. HAZING!!!!
And they’ve been arrested under this new law that says hazing can be classified as a felony. This is bad. Very bad. Some of these guys were just weeks from graduating. Although what they did was horrible – reading the affidavits shocked me – I feel like these are 5 smart brothers going down for something very, very stupid that’s going to affect them for the rest of their lives. Damn.

Don’t worry, it’s not all bad news with me. I just need a little time to get my thoughts together to recap my trip, which was GREAT by the way. Got me a little tan, had a little fun, you know. PLUS, I got my shoes in the mail. And I’m wearing them today. They say there’s always a silver lining, and if mine has to be shoes, so be it.

Hail Mary

"I ain't a killer but don't push me." - Tupac

Well, I tried not to let outside situations get me down so close to my vacation, but I’ve been unable to avoid it. They've done it this time. I’ve been planning this Sorority party for months. Since November to be exact. Before I brought it to the chapter, I wanted to make sure it was possible to do everything so I looked into the venue, found a caterer, came up with the theme, etc. It was supposed to be something kind of like Capital City Soul in Tallahassee for anyone who live(s) there. It starts with some live poetry and music, gourmet hor d’eourves and the like. Then as the evening progresses, the DJ turns it up and then it’s a hip hop/r&b/rap free for all. So I bring it to the chapter, they love it (yay!) and I put the wheels in motion.

I again check with the venue, bartender, DJ in January/February timeframe. So the event is scheduled for May, so my usually procrastinating ass is really trying to do things on time. So in March, these MFs come up with all this stuff, talking about how we need to be registered as a Private Organization in our “city”.

OK, let’s pause for a quickie course in all the BS we’re required to do. The Sorority is allowed to do fundraisers in Germany by the parent organization. So all the "cities" are the kids. A Private Organization, known hereinafter as a PO, is for the purposes of this explanation, an entity that can make money that’s not military. And it’s not really a city, but I’ll call it that b/c it’s easier. Got it? Good.

So, like I said the parents said we can do the shit, but the kids are tripping and they make us go through all this MFing hoops, right? So finally they say OK, you can “exist” in our city. But then the MFs come around and say we can’t serve alcohol at the event? WTF? Now, I’m no alcoholic (haha, really, I’m not I promise) but who in the happy hell is going to a MFing event where they can’t drink? This is not a MFing Alcoholics Anonymous meeting bitches, N****as, be wanted to get twisted! Ugh!!!! And on top of that, I find out there are two other events scheduled for the same date. Now, there are only so many black folks around here willing to pay more than $10 to get into something so that really f’s up the potential customers, Nahmean?!? So, I’m thinking we have to cancel it, right? Because yeah, we can do it just because it’s supposed to be in a month, and just so we can say we did, but really, do we wanna do something that flops? I know “us” and we are quick to write off some lame shit. Trust, I have done it MANY times.

So, what should I do? Cancel it? Let it ride and hope they don’t spread the word that we’re lame? I don’t know. But they can't stop me, oh no. I'm gonna come out with this same event in another city, like Ha! You could have had this business in your city b*****es! And they wonder why nobody likes to use their stuff to do anything. Anyway, I'm going to try to put this on the backburner so I can have a good time this week. But really, don't these MFs know who they're messing with?

Holla!

Pimpin' All Over the World

Riddle me this: What's better than eating, drinking and lounging all day, every day for a week?
Answer: Doing it in the Canary Islands b@#$%es!! Ha ha just kidding.

But seriously, me and Woodstock are taking a week-long vacation to the Canary Islands in 4 1/2 days, and I'm finally able to get excited! We're taking a little shopping trip on Friday to prepare and get our warm clothes together. It's still cold here so I won't know how to act if I can go somewhere without a coat, let alone wear shorts and a swimsuit. If you don't know, this is the vacation we get before the hubby leaves for a year so we have to do it up big. We're going to Fuerteventura on this trip hooked up by my German co-workers. We got the all-inclusive package so all our food and drinks (read: martinis, daquiris and all other things vodka and rum) are ours for the taking. And you know how we do it!

So here's the hotel, which is supposedly a 4 star. Although in Europe, those stars seem loosely based. But I got a good vibe! A few people I know have gone and loved it, so now I'm just counting the days. Plus, another positive? No body issues! Not that I don't have them, but Europeans don't have them. So for this trip, I'm European. Wearing my bikini without a care in the world. No worrying about stomach, thighs or whatever. I'm soooo excited!!! But don't worry, I'll post some pics after the trip. And hey, maybe I can brush off some of that high school Spanish for the trip.

"Hola. Como esta? Donde es the Vodka?"

Holla!

I'm coming out

So, here is part 2 of my awakening. Here is part 1 if you missed it.
During my bridal shower/bachelorette party, there was a portion where my future betrothed answered questions about me. The bridesmaids read them aloud and compared my answers and their answers with what he had written. One of the questions was, “What do I hate the most?” The answer: “When people say they’re going to do something and don’t.” Now I’ve become what I hate most.

Before I moved here, I applied for all kinds of jobs related to journalism. In a military community overseas, it’s hard as hell to find a job in your field. Even if you are qualified. So I took a job as a test examiner, giving soldiers tests, grading tests, giving ACTs, GEDs, that type of thing. Then 3 months into it, I got a call for a job interview. Overseas, getting a “GS” job is like finally finding the match to a pair of favorite shoes you haven’t worn in a while. And although the position was listed as temporary, I was told off the bat that I would probably get it extended, unless I just totally didn’t work out. The only problem is that it wasn’t in my field. But it paid good and it was in my city so I accepted it. The week before I was supposed to in-process into the job, I got an e-mail about my perfect job (well, here anyway. Not in the real world of course). Public Affairs specialist. Pays the same amount as my job and I’d be editing the community paper, as well as performing various other PA tasks (i.e. writing speeches and stuff for the base commander). And around the same time, a reporter from the other newspaper (military affiliated, but not military run) told me he was leaving and that I should apply for his job. But there were a few glitches.
1. I’d already verbally agreed to the other job.
2. There was no guarantee I’d get this new job, so if I backed out of the other one, I might end up ass out. I was pretty confident I could get the government job, though. As for the newspaper, I didn’t meet the requirements on paper, but my mantra is if I can get to the interview, I got ‘em. But I digress.
3. The other jobs were in other cities between 30-45 minutes away. Now, that’s not really a long commute, but it would mean that I wouldn’t see Woodstock before leaving for work and then would get home around 6. We go to sleep at 10. And we couldn’t eat lunch together. I’m not usually one of those chicks that has to be under my man all the time, but I had to put into account that we’d have less than a year to spend together (not including field exercises) before he deployed for a year.
4. The other government job was temporary with no possible extension.

So I took the job I have now. And I feel like a sell out. I’m not passionate about many things, so when I gave up my true passion – writing, it felt kind of like a lost a little bit of my soul. Which is where what I hate most comes in. I’m a big believer in the “Don’t talk about it, be about it mantra.” And I’m not being about it. Tha Riddler has been on me for like 5 years to start writing a book. So why don’t I? My excuse was that I didn’t have a laptop (cause you know all writers gotta have a cute little Mac Powerbook. They do on TV, and what makes them better than me?).

But I’m tired of reading all these blogs about people doing what they love, sisters doing big thangs, while I’m letting the world pass me by. I’m tired of sitting depressed, letting stupid excuses hold me back from my dreams. So no more excuses. I have to get off my mental ass and do what makes me happy. So hold me to it. Make me write. An essay, an article, a short story, SOMETHING. I mean I’m about to have a whole year just me and Taz. I have to show some type of productivity.

And don’t worry, you chicks will be in the acknowledgements. The ones of you who comment anyway (hint, hint).

Holla!

Daddy

March 31 came and went without incident. I made an off-hand comment to the hubby about it, but other than that, I didn’t think much of it. And then Sunday came. A woman was visiting our church from the States. Although she turned out to be the pastor’s mother in law, he called her mama.

It made me think of my dad.

March 31st would have been his 50th birthday. Although it’s been almost 12 years, every now and then something happens that makes me think of him, and miss him, as if so much time hadn’t already passed. I wonder if he would be proud of me, finishing college, going on to get a master’s degree, working, getting married. I like to think he would be. I imagine him calling Woodstock just to talk. I think they could relate, at least on some level. Before my father started teaching again, he worked at the Mississippi Army Ammo plant – maybe making the type of ammo Wood works with on a daily basis. I imagine him coming to visit me here. As a foreign language teacher, he spoke German, French and Spanish. He would have loved to have the chance to speak those languages in their native countries. I could call him, ask to speak to him and German, and practice my language skills. Maybe I would know French by now. I took it in college but didn’t want to continue because it didn’t fit into my plan. Even though my teacher said I had a “gift.” I wonder if he would have been disappointed that I quit.

Would my life be different? What about my relationship with men? Would I have gone to college where I did? Become so independent so fast? I don’t know. I know God does things for a reason, and I want to believe that maybe I took something positive away from his death. But I still wonder sometimes.

I imagine a different life where my dad teaches me how to drive a stick instead of my pastor. And we go shopping for my first car together, because unlike my mom, he knows something about cars. He helps me move into my dorm room, and subsequently 4 or 5 apartments after I graduate. Instead of my brothers, he walks me down the aisle at my wedding. Looks at my soon-to-be husband in that way that is meant to strike fear in his heart; that look that lasts less than 5 seconds but says, “You better not hurt my little girl or I’m coming after you.” A life where he gets to come and visit me for his birthday, and we go shopping downtown, and make my doctor’s appointments for me, easily asking for and saying all the things that I have to try to convey using gestures and slowly speaking a mix of English words and stuff I’ve made up (“I see float-y things in front of my eyes. Floooaaat-yyy thinnnngggssss.”) We would go to France and Spain, too, where he could tell us if the natives are talking about us behind our backs or not.

But it’s not a different life, it’s this one, and he’s not here. And he can’t help me with French or German. And he didn’t give me away at my wedding or do any of those other things. And that makes me sad. But I still did those things, I still learned to drive a stick, I still got married, I’m still struggling to learn how to conjugate verbs in German. And even though he’s not here to help me with those things, I know I’m not alone.

Happy birthday, dad.

Kryptonite

After spending much of this week in a kind of a fog, I think I've figured out why I've been in this funk lately. I don't feel the same about myself as I used to, physically and career-wise.

Physically, I'm in the worse shape now than I think I've ever been in. I tried to ignore it but the now infamous ball dress incident really put a spotlight on it. Not that I want to be rail thin or lose weight to fit any type of mold, I just want to be me, only like 8 years ago. When I was an undergrad, I took my body for granted. I had a flat stomach, not a six pack, but still I could show it without worrying about scaring small children (the cleavage on the other hand .... a different story). I had just enough butt and thighs to provoke a second glance, but not so much that imagine myself in gauchos is enough to make me frown in disgust. But did I exercise? No. Did I continue to eat any and everything any time of the day? Yes.

Don't get me wrong, I like me. I just would like me better if I could wear a crop top. Not that I would wear a crop top, but I would like the option to be able to if I wanted. So, I've given myself a goal: to be able to wear this fitted jacket and pants combo (you know, the jacket where you leave the bottom open to show a little stomach?) to the sorority's big party in May. And with a little help from the Mister, I'm already on my way.

As for the career part, I'll get into that later. I've finished my cardio and I have to get to some squats and lunges. After all, this ass isn't going to lift itself!

Addition: Feel free to provide to the iPod fund (after all my birthday is in like ... 5 months). Why am I the only MF on the elliptical machine rocking a portable CD player? It's not right I tell you, it's just not right!

Mad World

So, I’m sitting in my office, munching on some grapes, PRAYING that the rest of the day will go off drama free, when the phone rings. Now, mind you, for some weird reason, my computer is on the other side of the room from the phone, so err-time the phone rings I have to roll my chair over to my desk. So clearly, each ring of the phone brings on a slight bit of annoyance before I even know what the person wants. Anyway, I get to the phone:

Me: “C speaking.” (I use my singsong voice here. After all, I am customer relations)
Dumb ass customer: “Hey, how do I fill out a claim?”

WTF?

Who ARE you, and what are you TALKING about?!? I mean, really, people. Did you think you were calling an insurance agency or something? Please get whatever it is you want to say mentally organized before you pick up the phone and start asking for s—t. Write it down if you have to. It shouldn’t take me 10 minutes to figure out what the hell you want.

While we’re at it, why do people always call me about random s—t, anyway? To give them credit, I’m listed in the phone directory under customer relations so maybe if nothing else in the book fits your complaint or concern, call me. However, also listed is furnishings and work order among others. So, why do I get phone calls asking, “Hey, who do I talk to about getting furniture” and “Is this number I call to get something fixed?” No, but HELL NO! Seriously, if you had the book to look up my phone number, why not go that extra mile and get the number to the department that might really give a damn be able to help you?

And what about the ones who try to be all friendly with you because they’re getting ready to ask you for some dumb s—t.

Me: C speaking, how may I help you?
DAC: C is it? Well, hello! And how are you doing this fine afternoon? The weather is really looking wonderful don’t you think?
Me: (How the eff should I know I work inside!) reality: hi. And yes.
DAC: So, C (what the eff, you think you KNOW me now?) … launches into long boring story, which ends with something I can’t do.

Just get to the point! We don’t have to be friends. Really, it’s OK.

Last, but definitely not leastI AM NOT IN THE EFFIN ARMY!! That means don’t talk to me about “digits”, or ask me if I’m “tracking” something. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. When I tell you something, don’t say Roger to signal your acknowledgement, and (listen closely, this one is most important) don’t say HOOAH to me – at any time, regardless of the circumstance! (I think I used it in a blog, actually, but you know, I was being sarcastic so it doesn’t count.)

I think that’s enough sunshine for the day. Now, enjoy the rest of your day, with my assurance that you can continue on just a little bit wiser.

Intermission

Ok, since I didn't put the pics from the last post on, here are some to get you by :) Ok, they're old, but so what? Enjoy! Well, at least until the Mister makes me take them down.
Pics from the last ball in December.
Mountains from the Edelwiess Lodge, where Woodstock took me for my birthday.
Me and Wood drinking a beer at Oktoberfest - OK, it's his beer, but I got in a few big gulps.

Queen of the Night

As I inhaled sharply, I felt the hands on my back, tugging. I could practically see his face grimacing as he put all his muscle into the task, grunting and pulling. I think I felt a rib crack – and then he was done. Attempting to exhale, I walked slowly over to the bedroom mirror to survey the damage. And although he didn’t say anything, as I made my way to the mirror, I already knew it: the dress I wanted to wear to the ball didn’t fit.

Of course, it was my procrastinating, OK and overeating, that almost left me dress-less the night before the ball. But who has time for trying stuff on? Especially when you know there’s a chance it might not fit. I have to hand it to Woodstock though. He didn’t laugh once as he struggled to zip up the dress, leaving me looking like a stuffed sausage. He also didn’t launch into a diatribe about how I need to start doing 100 crunches a day or anything like that. He just … stayed silent. Which was good. Anyway, I had another dress in my inventory so I just put that one on and put on a tiara with it for good measure. You know how I do! So, long story short, here’s some pictures from the 2006 Lightning Ball, Hooah! Enjoy.

Aw, ain't we sweet! Peep the tiara!

Wood and an OBC buddy
Me and the girls (sorry, it's distorted but I tried to do this night vision s--t and f'd it up. This blogging is harder than it looks!)

Fireman

So for like the last week, I’ve been feeling really blah about myself and life in general. But I don’t really know why. Nothing’s really doing it for me lately. Even my normal triggers have no effect. Case-in-point: I pick up my pink suede jacket from the dry cleaners yesterday. The ish cost like $40 but I figure it’s suede you know, so I didn’t expect it to be cheap. So I get ready to put it on today, and lo and behold there’s a rip right beside the button. Those mfs had the ish buttoned so I wouldn’t notice, and they probably figured weeks would go by before I found it and then they could blame it on me. So, what did I do?

Nothing. Not yet anyway. See what I’m saying? Ok, I called the number I got from the operator every hour until I got off (nobody picked up!), but really. Is that what No Limit would do? Hell to the naw. On a regular day, I would have considered going up there before work and waiting until they opened. Realizing they open at 10, and I have to be at work at 7:30, I would have nixed that idea and went to work. Then I would have called 10 times in a row. Getting no answer, I fly over to the dry cleaner, whip out the jacket, point to the hole and say, “Gimme my money back, b@#$%es!” Ok, I probably wouldn’t curse at them the first go around, but it makes for a better scene though, right?

Anyway, the point is I’ve been here all day and have done nothing. I’m going to go after work and try to work something out. This might seem like a step in the right direction, or even “growth” as RR2 incorrectly surmised. To me it’s boring. When I failed to get worked up about something, that’s not a good thing. I even bought two pairs of shoes yesterday in an attempt to get over this funk. Nothing. If I thought a third pair would help, I might even order another. Maybe I should try, just to be on the safe side. I've lost my fire. So, what should I do to get over this boredom? How do I get my spark back? I don’t know.

I saw a casting call for this reality show on MTV where journalists compete for a year-long stint as a Rolling Stone contributor. RR2 says I should try out and she’ll help with the audition tape. Yeah, it’s silly, and do I really want to show my a$$ on TV? Not really. But if at least sending the stuff in and letting myself dream for a minute gets me my “mojo” back, I think I’ll do it.

Plus, I’m taking the jacket in a few minutes to try to get my money back. If they try to front like they don’t want to help me, I might get my fire back sooner than expected.

Beautiful Skin

Imagine a father and daughter, talking about the daughter’s goals in life. “I want to be Ms College Queen,” says the young girl to her daddy. “Well, honey,” her father says, “I’m sorry, but you’re fat, and unless you lose weight you’re considered unattractive so maybe you should just aspire to be SGA president instead.”

Of course, no father, unless he has serious mental problems, would say that to his daughter. So why is it so easy for us to say it about someone else’s daughter, someone else’s sister, or someone else’s role model?

Today I was perusing one of my daily reads, the Tallahassee Democrat FAMU Sports message board, and it caught my eye: another insulting shot at black women. Now, this MB has frequently crossed the line of decency, in my opinion, as it relates to black women. But this conversation was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

The conversation started out OK, with a sort of congratulations to FAMU for having this year’s Ms FAMU featured prominently in Ebony’s yearly College Queens section. But from there, it went downhill. One poster remarked that is was nice that FAMU had finally returned to some “normalcy” with this year’s selection (last year’s Ms FAMU was overweight). Someone else went on to remark “…I don't understand the purpose of electing an unattractive "beauty" queen.” WHOSE view of beauty are we looking at?

When the former Ms FAMU, my soror, was selected, I was proud. Not because we are in the same sorority, but because it showed me that maybe we were growing up, that maybe we were on the right track to loving and appreciating our black women in whatever shape, color or package she came in. I guess I was wrong.

Black women have been told by mainstream society for years how we were to look, and now our safe haven, the black man, is making us feel like we’re not good enough. My good friend, RR2, put it best in an e-mail:
“Women really have no chance in our community, because our own standards are so screwed up. (Men) objectify women from the womb because that’s what everyone tells them to do. Then, they wonder why the women they’re with can’t feel comfortable. She’s trying to compete with other breasts, thighs, waists and booties instead of building something with the man she’s with and fully loving herself. So, she’s eating twigs and berries, being mad because she really wants to eat the steak she served him and growing more and more resentful. “

For every man who has heard, “Do I look fat in this” or “Does this make my butt look big” or something similar, ask yourself if you might have prompted the question. Ask yourself if perhaps your own unrealistic view of beauty is contributing to your girlfriend/spouse or child’s low self esteem.

My younger sister, at age 12 was chubby. She felt down about herself because she didn’t look like the women on TV who everyone seemed to fawn over. I told her she was beautiful, not because she is my sister, but because it’s true. She has since lost weight playing sports but she was beautiful before, is still beautiful, and will continue to be, even if she gains weight. I just hope when she grows up, she won’t let any man – or anyone else for that matter – make her believe otherwise.

Don't take it personal (just one of them days)

OK. I have remained silent on this for too long, and now I must say with the utmost decorum and class …

STOP SENDING SO MANY MFING FORWARDS!!!

Now, I am not speaking to everyone, but you know who you are. If you send more than two forwards a week, I’m talking to you. If you send an e-mail that in any way, shape or form, mentions sending x number of people the e-mail or you will go to hell/die shortly/have all around bad luck, then I’m talking to you. And if includes the words “I sent this to the people I thought would respond” then I’m talking to you. Because you know damn well I won’t respond.

Now every once in a while, you come across something so funny/shocking/ridiculous/cool that you have to share it. Like what I get from Tha Riddler sometimes. That’s cool. But e-mail forwards are getting out of hand.
J-Boogie AKA Woodstock (Using aliases is my new thing) says he gets about 10 forwards a day from his cousin. WTF? Is sending junk mail her full time job? And please, don’t send out forwards that promise to do stuff that is more than likely impossible. For example: Bill Gates is NOT going to give you money for using e-mail. There is NO SUCH THING as a beta test that tracks your e-mail and pays you. Why would they pay you to send e-mails when there’s hella people who send e-mail for free? We pay THEM for the privilege to send e-mail, not the other way around.

I mean some of them make no sense. For example, I get an e-mail that tells an inspiring story of someone whose religion saved them from a horrible fate. So within 10 minutes, I am to send this same story to 50 people or we all lose our blessings and go to hell. Now, I admit I haven’t actually heard the pastor say this yet, but the God I believe in is omnipotent. So why would he send me a message through e-mail? As a matter of fact, I am hereby deeming all such messages blasphemy!

All I ask is this. Before sending me a dumbass e-mail that promises to: make me money, save a starving child in another country, on line surveys, etc. do some research! Go to snopes.com, a site dedicated to proving/disproving urban legends. http://snopes.com/inboxer/inboxer.asp goes straight to the ones about Internet stuff.

If you get a forward that proves to be true through Snopes, copy the link and add it to the forward. Send me a copy, and forward it to 100 more of your closest friends. This works, I promise! I heard it from my aunt’s cousin on her dad’s side whose beautician’s lover has a sister that’s a lawyer. And if you send it out in 7 minutes you’ll get a phone call immediately and in 7 days you see the ring. Um, or something like that.

Jigga What?

Just when it seemed as though we had reached a new low in ghetto culture (Three 6 Mafia winning an Academy Award? Puh-leeze!) along comes something even more ridiculously ignorant.

Damon Wayans, you know, Homey D. Clown from In Living Color and one of the numerous Wayans siblings, has been trying for 14 months to trademark the term “Nigga” for his new clothing line.

In the words of one of Atlanta’s greatest icons, Lil’ Jon, “Whaaaattt?!?”

According to an article at wirednews.com, Wayans wants to “dress customers in 14 kinds of attire from tops to bottoms, and use the controversial mark on ‘clothing, books, music and general merchandise,’ as well as movies, TV and the internet, according to his applications” to the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. The Office has repeatedly denied Wayans’ requests because of a law that prohibits trademarks that are “immoral or scandalous." Some people are arguing that hip hop culture has changed the meaning of the word, and that Wayans’ trademarked term will be that acceptable meaning, not the derogatory one associated with slavery.

WTF?

I know we are trying to do the whole reverse psychology thing with the word so that it loses its negative connotation and its “power” and blah blah blah blah, but really, who are we kidding?

Maybe SOME folks wouldn’t raise an eyebrow if I was sitting in the library wearing a shirt that said “Nigga what?” and reading a book that said “Nigga Please” on the cover, but I know I would definitely be taken aback if I saw something like that. And while we are mass marketing such products, we must keep in mind that often entails mainstreaming it. Meaning, you know blacks won’t be the only ones buying or wearing the apparel. Maybe some of you can reconcile your psyche so that you don’t mind your white “homeboy” wearing one of the shirts.

But what about that openly racist co-worker? Do you think his wearing of the T-shirt would spark an intelligent debate about the pros and cons of the word, and whether or not wearing the shirt makes the word lose its power? Or do you think that you’ll just give ole boy a good ass whoopin’? I’m inclined to say the latter. And what about the redneck who puts a Nigga sticker right below his confederate flag decal emblazoned with the words “The South will Rise Again” on it. Do we give him a pound and thank him for supporting our thriving black hip hop culture?

We have to learn as a race/culture how negative that word is and that no matter how much we try to “empower” ourselves, we need to find another way to do it. You can’t regulate what people wear or how people feel, but if Wayans actually succeeds in his venture – or even if he doesn’t but is openly supported by the black community – it’s just another reason for other races to look at us as just a bunch of “niggas.”

R.I.P.

When I taught my first class, I had my students do a report on a famous black journalist. One student, a photographer for the student newspaper profiled Gordon Parks. It was the best presentation of the bunch.

A famed photographer, director and composer and more, Gordon Parks died Tuesday at the age of 93. He contributed to this country in his works as a man - a black man. The picture below is my favorite.

Crush on You

I have a crush.

Now, before you all go calling my husband, mother, mother-in-law, let me explain.

I have a crush on a woman.

For those of you who read neither Cosmo nor the New York Times, the times defines a "girl crush" as the following: "A girl crush refers to that fervent infatuation that one heterosexual woman develops for another woman who may seem impossibly sophisticated, gifted, beautiful or accomplished. And while a girl crush is, by its informal definition, not sexual in nature, the feelings that it triggers - excitement, nervousness, a sense of novelty - are very much like those that accompany a new romance"

OK, I don't know about all of that fervent infatuation stuff, but it's kind of like I have stumbled upon another, nicer, version of myself. Except this version wakes up with smooth, soft looking skin, whereas I must wash, tone, dab on eye cream, lightly moisturize and Maybelline mousse my skin into submission. And she's smart. When we talk about our problems, it's often eerie how similar they are. And when she is going through a tough time, I am actually angry FOR her. As in how DARE he, she, them do that to US!

And now, she might be leaving.

I'm actually kind of sad*. It's a weird feeling to want someone to stay somewhere, even if you know that to leave may be the best thing for them. I guess this is mostly my fault. I should have "played the field" a little with my friendships. I shouldn't have put all of my eggs in one basket. And so on and so forth with the cliches. I mean who will I call when I want to know how to make Basmati rice? Or who will tell me whether I'm being out of line when I harp on the bad a$$ kids who came into the office? (BTW: She usually agrees. Those food court kids are the WORST!)

Of course, all of this is very selfish on my part, and it's not fair to want her to stay because I won't have anyone to talk to. But my inner child is still whining, "But I'm not good at long-distance relationships!"

All of this is to say: whether she stays or not, she will still be my friend and my sister and I want for her whatever is best for her life and her family. To you I say: You are a beautiful, smart, and talented woman. Don't ever let anyone make you think or feel otherwise. Because they're wrong.

*Disclaimer: Yes, I do have feelings for those of you who claim to have never seen them exhibited. And no one shall ever speak of this to me again. After all, I can't have people thinking No Limit has gone soft, can I?

Sometimes

She stormed out of the office, eyes blazing. Her children - and her human hair curls with their bouncing reflecting each of her angry footsteps - trailing behind her.

Sigh. Another satisfied customer.

I'm not what some people would call a "people person." I mean, I do OK, but patience is not a virtue that I was born with. So every once in awhile, when I look at my name and title posted outside my office door, I marvel that I could have a job with the words Customer Relations in it. This particular customer has been in and out of my office on and off for 5 months. And today I almost lost it.

We had reached that point in a conversation where both our voices were getting a little louder, temperatures a little higher. Luckily, she (or maybe I) was saved when a co-worker brought me the keys to lock the doors. (Side note: Our office closes at 4. For those of you who know Germans, they GET OFF when the office closes. That means at 4:00:01 they are walking out of the door. It is now 4:15. Unacceptable.) I welcomed his interruption, because I was about to go where a professional woman, especially one with Customer Relations written outside her door should go.

In journalism, for the most part, it's OK to be a little mean. And you're expected to be pushy. But this alternate universe I'm living in is really pushing the limits of what I'm used to.

But I will resist the urge to ask her why she waited until 5 minutes before closing before she brought this SAME, long, ridiculous situation to me AGAIN. And I won't even say that I'm not a doctor, so why are you trying to give me all of your medical records? And I definitely won't tell her that if she has a problem she can go back to the states.

But if you see her, you can tell her for me.