Nappily ever after

I got that "good" hair.

You know -- That wash 'n go type of hair. That "I didn't really need to put a perm in my head, anyway" hair. That "you know I got Indian on my daddy's side" type of hair. The type of hair that makes it acceptable for me to go unstraightened while nappy-wannabes are forced to remain slaves to the chemical straightener/hot comb/flat iron for the rest of their lives.

Let "them" tell it.

All the time, I am told by women (unsolicited, I must add) that they wish they could go natural. That if they had hair like mine, they would be able to. That, despite the frizzy (and uncurly) fro they usually see on me with their own eyes, I must have "good" hair. Or, "better" hair than theirs. The other day, as I swapped beauty products with a natural hair I just met (Oyin Handmade and Qhemet Biologics are my to-die-for staples) she looked at my expanding second-day twist out and said, "You must have some good hair under there!"

Uh, what?

The phrase "good hair" is one of the few (OK, too-numerous-to-count) things that really gets my goat. To me, my texture is "nappy." The word doesn't offend me, it just describes my hair. I could get all technical about how it is kinky, curly, coily, but to me, it all just rings a bit hollow -- like I'm trying to hard not to accept my hair for what it really is -- nappy.

When I went natural nearly three years ago, it wasn't because of some life-altering decision or life-affirming realization. I didn't have the eye-opening realization that the caustic chemicals I let my kitchen beautician put in my hair every 4-6 weeks was doing more harm than good. I didn't secretly covet another sista's beautiful fro. I didn't make a lifestyle change that had me re-evaluate all of the unnatural things I was putting in my body, to include, yes, my hair.

I was just cheap. And I figured that if I was shelling out $100 for hair, 130 euros for a hairstyle and unknown amounts of gas (and time) wasted on the 60 kilometer trip to the hairdresser, there was no way I'd give another hairdresser $50-$60 every other month on hair hidden beneath two packs of human hair yaki. And when I took that final weave out eight months later, my 2-inch Fantasia cut had become an afro. And I liked it.

My entire relaxed life had been an emotional rollercoaster. I've pouted when my home-done relaxer didn't turn out as sleek and straight as a friend's; I've cried in the bathroom when a beauty school 'do made me look like an 18-year-old dressed as Patti Labelle ("On my own" Patti, circa 1986); I've washed out hairstyles just minutes after leaving the beauty shop. In short, I had hair drama. That is, until I went natural.

I realized that my natural hair embodied me more than any other style could. It is bold,big and in your face without me doing anything extra to it. It's "me."

I don't try to define my non-existent "curls." I just let her (my fro, of course) be herself. Sometimes, when I tell people that I often sport a wash n' wear style, they are incredulous. Perhaps they think that by wash 'n go, I mean that my glorious naps suddenly look like Tracee Ellis Ross' hair. It doesn't -- but I love it anyway.

So, for those women who, despite having had chemically straightened hair since they were 4/5/6 years old (and couldn't possibly remember what it looked like, and who used Blue Magic grease, which is totally NOT good for your hair), think they don't have the type of texture that would allow them to go natural, I challenge you.

Now that I'm natural, have hair that expresses me, but doesn't define me. The type of hair that allows me to get in the pool with my son and not worry about my hair "going back." The type of hair that switches from twists, to twist out, to fro (and sometimes, all in one day) with ease. The type of hair that makes me feel that I am fabulous, even when I'm wearing sneakers. The type of hair that allows water and a headband to salvage the worst bad hair days.

And once you find that type of freedom, you'll have "good" hair, too.

ETA: Since someone thought I was flipping the bird in my last photo (which I wasn't!) I swapped. Happy now? :)

Crystal Clear: Mom, son have hair-raising experience

Since I stopped straightening my hair three years ago, I have been known by my hair. Those who don't know me through my husband or son know me as "the lady with the big hair" or "the lady with the afro." And, until a few weeks ago, my son was following in my footsteps.

His hair was a mixture of several textures, with a thick Mohawk-like patch of curly hair on top. He was born with a lot of hair, and over the past year, it had only gotten longer; well, more accurately, bigger. Much like my hair, it refused to be tamed. It was as if his hair had its own identity, and I liked it that way. His hair made pick-up time at the day care easy, too. If his usual providers were gone for the day, he was easy to identify.

"He's the kid with the crazy hair," I'd say.

But that was then.

One week after his first birthday, he had his first trip to the barbershop. He sat on Dad's lap - my little one looked tiny in the huge chair - and the barber covered his clothes with a cape. The first part of the haircut was easy - the barber shaped the baby's "Mohawk" with scissors. That is where I thought the haircut would end; unfortunately, I was wrong.

Next, came the clippers. For about half an hour, the barber clipped, shaped and cut my baby's hair. To my son's credit, he sat in dad's lap quietly the entire time. But at the end of the haircut, I couldn't help but notice the mounds of hair on the floor. And as the barber swept the hair away, it signaled to me the end of my son's baby-dom.

When I posted photos of the haircut online that night, a friend of mine remarked that she doesn't understand why moms are so reticent to have their sons' hair cut. For me, the reason was two-fold. The big, often wild, hair was one of those things that tied him to me. When I walked into a room with him, it was clear that we were mother and son. But now that his hair is cut more like Dad's, we'd lost that bond.

His hair was also a symbol of his growing up. I know he has to grow up, and I look forward to when he is talking, playing sports and going to school. But as the hair was swept away, I felt like a part of his identity and a part of his childhood innocence was being swept away, as well.

I know that although that part of our bond may now be gone, we still share something that only mothers can share with their sons. And now hair is something that bonds him and my husband - my husband now brushes our son's hair in the same methodical way in which he brushes his own.

I must admit, the haircut has grown on me, and now that it's already just a bit longer, I like it even more.

When some people go to a barber, they come out only a few dollars and a several strands of hair lighter.

But my son's change was more than that; he went in a baby and left a big boy.

Spice up your life!

I don't have the time, nor the inclination, to write a long, drawn out post about what my blog is/will be about, etc. etc. So for now, here is one of my recipe trials.

I found this one in my new favorite magazine besides Essence. And Glamour. And um, yeah, this one comes in after that. Anyway, it's Food Network Magazine. There are like 100 recipes in each issue and there is no way to try to them all, so I feel like I'm wasting my money. But when I get a recipe like this one -- which is really more than 11,000 recipes when you mix and match -- it seems worth it. This month's issue cover photo is a shrimp stir-fry. Last week, I made beef and broccoli, which turned out so-so. Today, I made spicy pork w/ celery, spinach and grape tomatoes served over spaghetti (all I had. I've banned myself from spending money on groceries until next week).

One caveat: I was rushing to do it all this morning (chop up meat, veggies, whisk sauce together and marinate meat) and skipped a step. Namely, instead of marinating the meat in the marinade, I marinated it in the sauce. I actually think this made for more flavorful meat, which was the downfall in my first try at the magazine's stir-fry recipe. Plus, I wasn't too sure how my baby arugula would play out, so I opted for frozen spinach instead. And there was no method as to why I didn't use the whole pack of spinach -- I just needed to save something non-spicy for baby boy's dinner.

Anyway, here it is. And yes -- it really is as delicious as it looks!

1 pound boneless pork chop, sliced into strips
1/2 package frozen spinach, thawed (chopped)
1/2 pack of grape tomatoes, sliced in half
2 stalks celery, chopped
2 scallions, chopped

For the sauce/marinade: Mix 3/4 c. chicken broth, 1 tbsp each soy sauce, dry sherry, 1/2 tsp. sesame oil, 1 tbsp sugar, 2 tsp. asian chili sauce (I used garlic chili sauce) . Make two separate bowls of this. Marinate the meat in one, put the other in the fridge until you're ready to cook everything.

Marinate the meat for at least 1 hour. Drain before cooking.

Heat 1/4 inch oil in a skillet over medium heat. Add the pork, cook until almost done. Transfer to a bowl; wipe out the pan.
Heat the pan, then add 2 tbsp oil, 4 cloves garlic, 1 tbsp minced ginger, the scallions and the celery. Stir-fry for about 30 seconds, then add the spinach. Cook through, then add the tomatoes. Cook another 2-3 minutes or so. Add the sauce and the pork. Cook until the sauce is thick and everything is cooked, about 3 minutes or so.

Serve alongside rice, noodles or alone. Pour yourself a glass of your favorite wine and enjoy!

Fab femme's tip: Chop all your veggies and meat and marinate the night before cooking for a quick (yet freshly cooked) meal the next day. If you like it extra spicy, add a few sliced jalapenos right before serving.

Life is a Merry-go-round

Today, I sat down to do something I've been - sadly - prone to do when I'm not feeling particularly useful - Google my former colleagues and classmates. And yes, my Googling is as depressing as you'd think it would be. Inevitably, said colleagues and classmates have become wildly successful, while I am just now getting back on track career-wise after following Woodstock from place to place with the Army. I'd long since resigned myself to the fact that while I was whiling away in Germany, countless journalists were graduating from college and countless others, having graduated around the same time as I, were forging ahead in their careers. And don't even get me started on the the time I could have spent writing instead of taking that year off (what was I thinking, working at a beauty salon?) and going to grad school (even some of the faculty questioned why I'd get another journalism degree instead of working). But I digress. Besides reinforcing my nothingness in the world, my doing this actually has a purpose. It is lighting a fire under me to make me do something more. Something I have wanted to do for a while, but got swept to the side as I hosted coffees, led Girl Scout meetings, talked to soldiers about how to get jobs after the Army, hung yellow ribbons and did all manner of things a good Army wife and community member would do.

So, I'm starting again, but this time, I'll stop short of setting impossible goals for myself. I've already had to rein myself in, knowing that if I put too much on myself, I'll never get anything done. So my goals this time are only two-fold. 1) Start my DA career and 2) start my web site (with the assistance of the ever-reliable Roadrunner of course). And I won't beat myself up if it's not done in a month, because this go around, I think I've finally figured out what it is that makes stepping out on faith so difficult.

It's that life never stops, not even for a minute. And like the little girl standing next to the double dutch ropes waiting for an opening, or the little boy waiting to jump on a merry-go-round, I'm going to wait my turn.

And I will get on.

Brenda's Got a Baby

It's Raining Men

It's been 15 months since the last of the Humvees, last of the Bradleys were driven off the Barracks. 15 months since the first wave of spouses said goodbye to their loved ones, fought back tears as they watched the bus pull away. 15 months since wives promised to lose weight, be better wives and parents, be sexier. And now, over 450 days after the group of mostly men left - over 3,000 of them - they're back. Well, about 20 percent of them anyway. And already, the difference is astounding. What might usually take 10 minutes - paying the phone bill, buying a plane ticket, buying a bottle of wine - can now take upwards to 30; especially the phone bill part, what with newly redeployed stocking up on phone minutes and all. But it doesn't annoy me. Now the spouses that left for 15 months are a different story. Not that I'm not glad to have them back, or think that I am any better than them for staying, I just think those who havve been here the whole time should get a badge or SoMETHING that lets us cut to the front of the line so that those of us who suffered through the crap with no husband AND no family members get a chance to buy the last turkeys the commissary has because they forgot to buy extras. Oh. Sorry. Got sidetracked.

Anyway. I wasn't sure how this day would feel when it came around. I'd braced myself. Got myself ready for the time when part of the men - sorry, the soldiers - would come back and mine would still be gone. I worked on maintaining a nondescript facial expression for when I saw wives canoodling with their newly returned husbands; made sure I kept my voice measured when other spouses told, how, "Oh my god, it's so great, he'll be here on (Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday ...), and oh my god, what am I going to wear and should I wear this with these shoes and this" and oh, you get the point.

But it's been two weeks, minus the guys and gals who got sent home for drinking/selling/doing drugs, and I actually feel happy for them. I smile, seeing my friends exit briefings with their husbands. Seeing their faces light up when discussing the aforementioned outfit, and the smiles of contentment when I actually see them with their spouse.

"Welcome back," I call out cheerily to the guys. "Have a good time," I say to their wives, my friends.

15 months is a long time to go without anything, especially a husband or wife. And despite what seems to be the overwhelming public opinion, I do have the ability to empathize with others. And to those who are welcoming their husbands back, I extend a warm and hearty welcome, and just as I have said to my other friends, enjoy yourselves.

And I mean that.

American Gangster

I know it's been a minute, and I still have to blog about my camping trip and my birthday, but I'm in the middle of watching Malcom X on no. 4 of the Denzel Washington Movie Collection and feel compelled to comment on the phenomenon that is Denzel. Now Woodstock, don't go getting all upset, let me explain myself. There is a definite separation between the new and old school as it relates to Denzel - old Denzel v. new Denzel, is he good looking, etc. etc. Malcom X sort of personifies what I think is the whole fascination behind Mr. Washington. It's what the new school calls "swagger" and what the old folks call attitude.

The movie's pivotal moment is when Bro Johnson is arrested and subsequently taken to the hospital on Malcom's orders. As he stands outside the hospital with the police officer (who happens to be Frank from "Everybody Loves Raymond") he dispurses the crowd with a simple hand gesture. Now think back to every movie you've seen. What black actor consistently evokes the type of attitude and persona that just makes people want to stand up and listen? Granted, it's a character, and Malcom X was that type of dude. But it's also the man behind the character - or more appropriately, the actor behind the character, because who's to say he's like this when it's just him, Pauletta and kids sitting at home eating dinner.
Don't get me wrong, he's had some rough moments. For every Devil in a Blue Dress, Man on Fire (yeah, this one is a stretch, but anyone who carries a gun while wearing a suit is alright with me) or Training Day, there's a Inside Man (what was UP with that haircut?), Antwone Fischer (weird mustache) and Bone Collector (I'm pretty sure I saw snot bubbles at one point). But regardless of how he looked, he always has the same commanding presence - even when confined to a bed that he moves by blowing through a tube (which I also find incredibly disgusting. It must fill up with spit, like a woodwind instrument ... sorry, I got off track).




Regardless, I know that when American Gangster makes it over here probably 2 months after its release, I won't be going to watch it to see if TI can really act (though my fondness for southern men, specifically Atlantans is no secret) but to see Denzel.

And I'm sure I won't be disappointed.

I am Not my Hair

I got hair issues ya'll.

Somehow down the line, as I think I've mentioned before, I've "gone natural." It's in quotations because it wasn't really a concious decision, but more a case of practicality=thriftiness. Let me explain.

As most of you know, I decided last year to accommodate Woodstock's request for me to grow my hair out. Now, I must say that I personally favor the short 'do. When my hair is longer, it tends to grow into this boring bob that goes from: wrap to curls to flips. The short spiky cut is like an automatic bit of excitement regardless of what I put on that day. But, I digress.

In order to better facilitate my hair growth, I've been getting weaves. When Woodstock left, I had a weave, and when I took it out to get my braids, I figured putting a relaxer in would be a waste of time and money. Five months later, I realized that my relaxer had almost completely grown out. Now, a year later, I have a full out 'fro. And therein lies the problem.

Among my friends and associates are two schools of thought on my hair. Half totally hate it, and the other have like it. There is no middle ground. On the "hate" side are Woodstock, Mom, and Lil sis. On the "like" side are Roadrunner 2, New Guy at work, White chick at work, and one of the Gulfport crew. Now, those on the "hate" side have pretty much erred on the side of straight hair. I know for a fact that mom and Lil Sis dismiss those "nappy" styles and I was actually surprised that mom liked the kinky twists I sported for two months (I thought she'd deem it too "ethnic"). I could go into a whole tirade about how it seems that those from the Dirty South are less likely than those slightly north of the Mason Dixon line to be accepting of natural hairstyles, but that's a whole different post.

The problem is that I actually like the fro. I put some gel in the front and rocked a psuedo afro puff while running errands on the economy last week. It was so easy, and it felt good to have my real hair out for the first time in a year. But when I told Woodstock, he gave me an on-the-verge-of-crying emoticon until I assured him that only Germans had seen the natural and I would resume my weave-wearing for work and all other places where I would have to interact with Americans.

Now, I must add that Woodstock isn't completely anti-natural, he just doesn't like the fro. He can get with the twists and the little curly 'dos, but sadly, my hair is waaaay more kinky than curly.

In any case, we both agreed that my best bet would be to wait until we get to the states until I make a decision about what to do with my hair. I will have more options, and I am hesitant to make a rash decision, though it's easy to do when I'm slathering my hair with conditioner, struggling to comb through my kinks.

So for now, I guess i will continue to hide my thick unruly main under straight layers of weaves and remember that it won't always be this way. Once I get to the states, I will make an appointment to see a natural haircare specialist to see my options. Maybe I will reconsider, put in a relaxer or a texturizeror my family will learn to embrace my naps. Either way, I can't wait until my locs can finally be free.

Back to Black

I have a confession to make.

I like Amy Winehouse. For months, I saw her name and picture splashed across the gossip blogs and rags. I hated her sickly frame and - as much as I like big hair - her natty boufant. And I didn't like that she was listed under the "Blackmusic" genre (in Germany, it's not hip hop/r&b/rap; it's Blackmusic). I'd never actually heard any of her songs, save for a snippet of "Tears Dry on Their Own" I found on Concrete Loop. Not having an American radio station listen to, I'm waaaay behind on the latest hits. But I refused to accept this lady as the hottest new thing before having listened to her.

That all changed when a friend, trying to convince another friend how great Amy Winehouse was, copied her first CD, "Frank." I skimmed through the CD before passing it along, and as usual, was unimpressed by my first listen. But then I got hooked on one of the songs - number 4: F$%k Me Pumps. Honestly, how could you not like a song that contains these lyrics?
"You don't like ballers/They don't do nothing for ya,/But you'd love a rich man six foot two or taller."

or my personal favorite:

"Don't be too upset/If they call you a skank/Cuz like the news everyday you get pressed."

What? You don't get it? I guess you had to be there. Anyway, although I only liked a couple of songs on "Frank" I broke down and bought her newest CD, "Back to Black" on iTunes. It was only $9.99, so I figured what the heck?

And I'm feeling it. These songs ... this lady is a mess. But maybe the reason I can get into it is because I'm a bit of a mess too. The lyrics make me laugh out loud sometimes. I mean, the beats are cool, but you can tell that she writes her lyrics the way she talks. Take this line from "Wake up along": "I stay up clean the house, so I'm not drinking." Or from Rehab (I'm embarrassed to admit this is my favorite): "The man said why you think you here/I said, I have no idea."

Spoken like a true drunk.

Anyway, you don't have to take my word for it, here's a video. But close your eyes: seriously, the emaciated body and hair mess up the whole atmosphere. Enjoy!

F#$k Me Pumps




Back to Black

Bored

I think I'm having a quarter-life crisis.

I can't help thinking that the types of things I want to do these days are better suited for a 21-year-old, but I can't help it. I'm used to change. I can't stand to always be a part of the ordinary, and there's nothing more prevalent in the Army than ordinary.

Case in point: I want to get my ears pierced. Not the regular way, but an industrial piercing, where a barbell goes into one part of the ear into another.


I think it may be because I'm entering the "third-year itch." Since high school, I've lived three places. College was four years, Tallahassee three, and now I'm feeling like it's about time to move on from Germany. Don't get me wrong, I love it here. But I'm starting to feel that urge to do something new. Something different. Like right now, I'm listening to Amy Winehouse. Not such a big deal since she's gone kinda mainstream now. But I have a little heartburn over it. It's different enough to make it OK, but mainstream enough to give me guilt over listening to her. Of course, I have the same guilt over our new vehicle, but that's another post for another day.

I'm scouring 80s-themed T-shirts (remember Jem and Holograms? The Fraggles?) on 80stees.com, deciding which Tee would best suit my sparkly black and red leggings. And as previously mentioned, contemplating alternative piercings and tattoos.

I just need to do something different, but I don't know what. So far, I have a trip to Poland and a trip to Dachau scheduled. Perhaps that will do the trick.

All I know is I'm getting a little antsy, and feel like I need to break out of my mold.

Hopefully, buying 200 euro worth of dutch ovens and serving dishes does the trick. Otherwise, I might have to break out the AMEX and get that "Ride or Die" tattoo. Just kidding Woodstock.

Unless you wanna do it.

Nappy Roots Day

I stumbled across this blog, written by a St. Petersburg staffer, on tampabay.com today. The entry is about a white teacher who was suspended - and will be required to attend diversity training - for calling a black child's hair "nappy." And while the reporter didn't editorialize the story, it made me wonder: Is it offensive for a white person to use the term "nappy' regardless of context?

The blog story reads, "According to an account by the district’s Office of Professional Standards, a student asked Call *the suspended teacher* why another teacher was combing the hair of an African American girl. Call responded, 'She is trying to do something to her nappy hair.' Another teacher reported the remark to an administrator.
Call, a veteran teacher with a good employment record, told investigators she did not know the term was offensive."

This is what the board members who handed out her one-day suspension had to say.

“I don’t know that the word is racially offensive,” Clark said. “I’m not black, so I can’t speak from personal experience. But it is an adjective, correct? It describes your hair.’’Mary Brown, the board’s only black member, said the term has been used in a negative way to describe black people. Another board member said she'd stumbled across a web site, "A Nappy Hair Affair," which seemed to celebrate the word nappy, but also said she didn't use the term.

Hm, I'm a little stumped here. As a black woman, I know who I should be offended, or am expected to be, but I don't know that I am. Is "nappy" the new N-word? One of those things that can be used and accepted in the black community, but is considered a racial slur when used by whites?

For me, it's more context than the actual words. Imus's infamous "nappy-headed hoes" was obviously meant to be deragatory, whereas this woman's words were, I don't know, merely ignorant? And what if a black teacher had said it? Would both black teachers have shared a knowing chuckle, and glance? A sort of "I've been there" moment?

I'm really torn about this, and how I feel about it. I don't think the teacher meant it as a hurtful statement, but then again, as a teacher, I don't think I would have made the comment.

I talked to a white colleague about this, and she thinks that though the comment probably wasn't racist, it was inappropriate. But while listening AND agreeing with her, that little voice in the back of my head said, "Well, what would you expect her to say?"

So, I want another opinion. Was this racist? Is "nappy" in and of itself off-limits to whites, despite having heard more than a few white people refer to their own hair as nappy?

I think I am pretty objective on most matters of race. And although I don't immediately associate every slight, real or perceived, with race, I understand that sometimes race IS a factor.

But still, I sometimes wonder if other blacks think my background and diversity of my friends, disqualifies me from matters of race anyway because I'm "not black enough."

But THAT is a completely different issue.

P.S. I considered putting picture on here, but didn't to avoid any potential racist overtones :)

Wishes

Let me get a piece of business out of the way first: Roadrunner you owe me 50 cents.

Ok, my wishes? It's hard for me to reflect on those things I'd wished I'd done without feeling just a little bit disappointed in myself. This exercise just reminds me of the goals that I failed at, or those I let slip by without even trying. For me, it's less "zen" and more looking-at-my-life-flash-before-my-eyes and not liking what I see. But hey, RR it's your birthday week, and if a list of wishes is what you want - my impending depression notwithstanding - a list is what you'll get.

1) I wish I'd taken my French professors advice and continued on to intermediate French. At the time, I was looking at what it would take to finish school in 4 years, not what would enrich my life or impact my career. This is a major sticking point for me since my dad was a foreign language teacher. He would be so disappointed.

2) I wish I'd planned better for the future. When I left for Germany, I had a barebones plan, and no way of executing what little I did have. Now career-wise I'm scrambling to make up for the last 3 years.

3) I wish I had continued playing the piano and clarinet. It's been so long, now I have to be re-taught. It's a shame to squander a gift like that.

4) I wish that every now and then, I could just let it go, whatever the "it" of the moment may be. If something annoys me, I obsess about it. And my obsession with that thing annoys me even more, which leads to more obsessing and - yeah, it's a never-ending loop of obsession and annoyance in my head.

5) I wish I had the nerve to wear a huge afro and dye it red. No major revelations about this one, I just think it would look really cool. And so would a tattoo on the back of my neck, but that's a different story.

I could go on and on, but won't.

And I'll try really hard not to obsess over this list of wishes after I hit publish.

Back in the Day

High school was simpler, easy.

Those days of carefree living. Only worrying about grades and whether he liked us or not. Not knowing that really WAS the best time our lives, just like our parents said. No wine, no vodka to clear our minds, we didn't need it. No bills, no responsibilities, no war. I miss those days now. And I'm tired.Tired of all those things that we could have never imagined would have happened when we were in high school. Buying a new outfit. Going to the game. Hanging out with our friends, not a care in the world. And as much as I thought then that I didn't have a real childhood, I realize now that I did.

And now it's too late to appreciate it.

Crazy

Does it make me crazy that ...

**I'm tired of hearing about the TB guy? He's OK, the people on the plane are OK, Now give him some antibiotics and a shot of penicillin and let's move on.

**It annoys me to see all these slow a$$ police "chases" on the news? Why you gotta interrupt something I might actually be interested in to show me another shot of the same person driving the same car on the same road? Just let me know when you catch 'em.

**I'm a little bit jealous of the Schweinfurt HeShe's swagger? Seriously, someone who can convince countless soldiers (not just the closeted ones) to believe he's a woman got some secrets I want to know.

**I don't care to see the "distinguished visitor" the PAO claims is coming to Schweinfurt today. If it's not Barack Obama, Common or Woodstock, why do I need to hear what he (or she) has to say in person when I can read about it later?

**As a career counselor, I'm getting paid to help soldiers with their career path when I'm still trying to solidify a career future my d#$m self?

**I think adults obsessed with the Harry Potter books and movies are kind of weird? I'm not saying they shouldn't read them. I'm just asking if it's necessary to talk about it. And post Harry Potter pictures your myspace page. And take off work early so you can go see the movie.

**My shoe just broke and I'm trying to decide whether it's acceptable to attempt fix it with mixture of staples, super glue and thread instead of throwing them away?

**I think colored tazers are stupid? Since when did personal safety devices become an accessory? And the sad part is, someone will say, wow I'll finally break down and get one. Not because I've been mugged 3 times, but because it matches my pink Razr. Although I can't say for certain I wouldn't carry a Beretta 92 SB with hot pink side panels.

What gets on YOUR nerves?

It's So Hard to Say Goodbye

They say that it's better to have loved and lost to have never loved at all. They also say that if you love something, let it go.
I'm not sure who "they" are exactly, but I'm pretty certain they don't know what the hell they're talking about.

I'm not ready to let go. "It's time," my friends say, but I know better. Every week I find myself pushing him just a little further. At almost 10 years old, I know I'm lucky for the times we HAVE had. The part that makes it most hard is that he doesn't LOOK old. But I can't deny the fact that we probably only have a few months together. But still, I can't fathom the thought of having only rapidly-fading memories of our ups and downs, mishaps and adventures to look back upon. Just being near him evokes images years past. Trips to the mailbox, impromptu trips to faraway cities for alleged home-invasion purposes, exploring the German landscape as we narrowly skirt disaster. Sigh. I feel like it's too soon. But after yesterday, I know that time isn't on my side, and death is imminent.

It's time to put the Protege to rest. It's time to say goodbye to my first car.

I thought I knew all the tricks of the trade, but despite all my efforts, I fear the end is near. In anticipation, Woodstock and I got a new car. An SUV, something a little snazzy, but a lot practical as we consider expanding our family (Don't ask. That's another post altogether). But still I drove the the Protege. "You're still driving that car?" friends ask. "I can't believe you have a new car," others remarked. And yet, I persisted. Why not drive it, I thought. It was 3/4 full of gas, and those who know me know that one of my favorite quotes is, "And you know gas high." I also thought I'd successfully planned in the event the car did break down. I would be driving down some main street (in my mind, it's always Franz-Schubert-Strasse, the street the MP station is on) and the car would turn off, allowing me to glide gracefully onto the little car-sized opening in the sidewalk. Besides, like I said, I'd gotten used to the Protege's little quirks, and thought I'd found ways to work around them all.

First was the burning smell, which I realized only happened when I used the air conditioner. Easy enough - keep the windows open. Then came the periods, like 2 weeks ago, where the car's idling would go so low it would turn off. Four times. On the way to work. But ah ha! I don't owe a year's salary in student loans (not my salary of course) to not be able to figure that one out. The car only turned off when it was idling in neutral. Again, problem solved. Simply downshift quickly and I'd make it to work with maybe only one turn-off. Anyway, the car starts back up pretty fast, so that's no big deal right?

But today - today I fear is the end of a long line of problems that may finally cause me to retire the car. As I was leaving the PX, the car made a squealing sound. Now, I'm used to that. I needed a belt replaced last year and it squealed all the time. Usually at 5 a.m. Anyway, I digress. It was a little embarrassing, but I ignored the little boy holding his ears (I'm sure it wasn't THAT loud) and headed home. After the squealing stopped, I breathed a sigh of relief. Good to go. I thought there was a smell - but I attributed it to the construction going on. That's when it happened. I heard a pop. And I couldn't turn the steering wheel. I thought to back up and park, but I was stuck between a myriad of poles, arranged so that a terrorist - or someone who stole a TV from the PX - couldn't leave quickly. There was no way I'd be able to manuever the car backward.

I soon realized the popping sound I heard was the power steering pump. I made it home and parked, with some difficulty, before switching cars for church.

I know it's just a car, but remember, I've had the car since I was but a lowly freshman. It got me through life in four cities and 2 countries. When Woodstock and I first started dating, the car cemented our relationship when the Eclipse was out of commission. It's been a place for private meetings, pre parties, post parties and late-night trysts (with Woodstock of course). This car knows more about me than my best friends, and I'm asked to simply throw it away. Or in my case pay $45 to let the Army "throw it away," which means they'll reap my poor car's parts and sell them for profit.

Now that I've explained myself, perhaps it's a little more understandable why I feel the way I feel about getting rid of my car. But at the same time, I realize I do have a problem. As I retold the story of the power steering pump, a thought came to mind.

I can still DRIVE the car - I just can't pull into any tight parking spots.

EDIT: I LOOKED UNDER THE HOOD AND REALIZED IT'S NOT THE PUMP, IT'S THE POWER STEERING BELT. I KNOW FOR A FACT THAT'S LIKE $2, SO HAHA B$%^$#S! THE PROTEGE WILL LIVE TO RIDE AGAIN!!!!

Beauty is Her Name

I must admit that I hesitated writing this, because I didn't want it to come across as a plea for help - a type of "woe is me" post used to garner compliments. But here goes anyway.

Since I was a child, I've been viewed as smart (though you wouldn't know it to look at me now). As I got older, people came to view me as silly or goofy. And as I got even older, caustic and stuck up have been added to the mix - though I don't get the stuck-up part, the "why" of which may become clearer later. Of all the things I have been considered or viewed as, the most surprising to me is “beautiful” or “stylish.” Don’t get me wrong, I’d been called beautiful before, but mostly from people like my mother, grandmother, great aunts, and now Jamil, all of whom have a blood or legal obligation to do so.

So to hear myself mentioned in such a way (Roadrunner’s reference to my “style” comes to mind) I still find myself questioning it. Don’t misunderstand; I don’t think I’m ugly. But my entire life, my descriptions have mostly consisted of various types of cute (cute, kinda cute) and maybe even sexy, which I attribute solely to the boob factor. But beautiful? Nah. Which is why I found it so surprising – and totally creepy – when the old, white guy followed me around Wal-Mart smiling, eventually confronting me in the CD section:
“You’re so beautiful. But you’re married,” he croaked (that’s funny cause it’s a play on words) as if he had a real chance before he spotted my wedding ring.

Woodstock’s reaction was more mundane: “Don’t you know you’re beautiful?”
I gave the kind of stock answer that I felt he was looking for, but deep down inside a voice echoed back, “Of course not.”

This leads me to the style part of it. I’ve NEVER been considered stylish. Eccentric maybe, presentable even, but not stylish. In my clique of friends, I was definitely not known for my fashion & style acumen. I’d often get a disapproving glance – or if it was complete gaffe – a grunt from my friend K, who was an expert at all things fashion. I’ve been chastised for an abundance of transgressions, from not curling my eyelashes (“You’re a GIRL! Your lashes should look fun and flirty) to having my keys in the front pocket of my jeans (“What IS that? Just hold it.) I once put on what I considered a very cool outfit (sadly chosen, I must admit, in preparation for seeing her) and K gave me a quick once over. “Interesting,” she said in that tone that seemed to indicate that the outfit was anything BUT interesting.

My other friend, The Captain, was the only one of us able to pull the kind of cool-and-trendy-without-trying-to-be look that you see amongst the movie star set. You’ve seen them. K is the one with the leopard print shirt and red belt (before it was cool to wear leopard and red) and The Captain is the one with the Free Angela Davis T-shirt and relaxed jeans that make her look like a socialite that’s trying to blend in with the common folk and failing miserably. They’re BOTH the types that make guys ask “Who’s your friend?”

I’m the friend. The one who’s WITH them.

So now, I’m in Germany, and all of a sudden I’m stylish. People are coming to me for fashion advice. Asking me where I got my shoes, or shirt or whatever, and honestly it confuses me. I feel like a phony. When someone compliments me on my looks I want to say, well you should see my friends. Or if a friend mentions my keen fashion sense, I want to throw out, “I know some folks who’d disagree with you.”

But I don’t say anything but thanks, and hope my eyes don’t betray me.

Blame it on the Rain

I walked out of church last week uplifted. Pastor preached about "rejoicing evermore." How we must continue to rejoice,even when things look dim. I nodded my head in agreement with his words, had that knowing smile because I've been there. Been in a place of darkness and continued to praise him. And in a rare display of social interaction clearly brought on by the Word (I've been flying WAY below the radar as of late) I even hung out with some of my church sistahs eating ice cream and chatting. I wasn't even all that annoyed when the after-church fellowship caused me to miss Ocean's 13. I went to sleep content, thinking about those times I persevered when it looked like things wouldn't go my way and turned out for the best.

And then I woke up.

And that's when the s#$%t hit the fan, so to speak. EVERYTHING - from the slow Farschule car to the phone ringing during my marathon Smallville watching unbraiding session - got on my nerves. The rest of the week was a series over ever-worsening mishaps. Most of them un-noteworthy, but every single incident was like bamboo shoot being stuck deeper and deeper under my fingernails. The way I worked my way through 30 phone numbers, calling soldier after soldier trying to get them to come to our next workshop as my co-worker sat idly by, sending e-mails and catching up on her celebrity gossip.

Or what about Yahoo messenger's mysterious glitch that had me restarting the program just so I could get messages. Speaking of computer problems, I had a fit when blogger was acting the fool and I couldn't see any new posts. Granted, I was blogging on the job, but dang, that's no reason to fool with my only means of staying awake during our slow-for-now days.

The annoyance level was racketed up a notch on the 4th at the Girl Scout event that I showed up an hour early for and sat around with nothing to do. I ended up missing the whole thing because I was helping out behind the scenes - something that wouldn't be necessary if it had been properly planned.

I admit some of it is of my own doing. Tearing through the apartment, unable to find anything and cursing the papers strewn about the coffee table, covering up every important thing i would need this week.

And today? Oh, don't even get me started on today. I was feeling kind of lazy, but STILL I persevered to make it to the car dealership to have a light reset. I was feeling good on the way out of the dealership - feeling like I'd finally accomplished something this week. But as soon as the tire hit the Autobahn, the light came back on. THEN I ran into a stau on the way back. Too bad I didn't hit the stau when a stray eyelash flew into my eye, causing a burning that blurred my vision and almost caused me to swerve. Thank goodness I was able to pull over at one of those Park 'n Rides.

When I got home, I attempted to ease the pain of what I assume was an aftershock of the killer eyelash by taking out my contacts. Yeah - didn't happen. I got one out, and tried unsuccessfully to get the other one out to no avail. So all I could do is put the other one back in and be mad. Which I most certainly am.

I don't know if it's the rain, the unseasonble cold snap, or whether I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed Monday. What I DO know is that I'm going to have a glass of wine and go to sleep and try to put it all behind me. But if you see me this weekend looking like I got pink eye in ONE eye - stay back, because no matter what you say, you're apt to get on my nerves.

Finally

So, I'm finally doing it. After obsessing, postponing and praying, I'm finally trying to do something to keep my journalism experience relevant despite my lack of employment in the field. I submitted my resume to an on-line magazine last month and have just now (I KNOW!) actually done something about it. I've started writing an article for them, and will query them by this end of this week. Although I know a query doesn't mean they'll accept my article, it's a start. And I've been putting that off for too long. Even though I'm working now, not writing is killing me as far as my chances for working in journalism in the future. I'm sure prospective employers will wonder (and rightfully so) why I haven't written anything or at least volunteered to write for the community paper. And those are valid questions that I can't explain without discussing my extreme bouts of self-pity and - gasp! - laziness. But with our departure date getting closer (we leave next February), I've got to get on the ball. Eight months seems like a long time, but it's not very much time for me to get some more recent writing clips. Thus, my attempt to break into this on-line freelance market. I won't say what site I'm going to query, but it's my style and I think it's the type of forum I will be able to work well with. The pay is practically non-existent, but that's not the point. It's a chance for me to start doing something that I love. Not that I don't enjoy dealing with temperamental captains who think they know it all and underhanded specialists who try to get me to do their work for them. That's what helps pay the bills. The writing? That will be just for me.

Das Lied der Deutschen

I've decided that I need to learn German.

Yeah, I probably should have made this choice two years ago, but I am determined to learn at least one other language besides English. And what better time to try. To my credit, I did take German classes last year. But when I stopped working, i felt bad about spending "family" money on it, so I stopped. Well, that and the whole Taz barking situation ....

Anyway, a situation that occurred today, really prompted me to get going on this. There's a lady from my church - Sabine - who only speaks German. Her and I talk ALL the time. Seriously. I dont ever speak German and she never speaks English, ans still for the most part I understand. Today, she said something I was unsure about. A friend of mine who speaks fluent German happened to be walking by and I asked him to interpret. Sabine and the guy talked for about 20 minutes. AND I UNDERSTOOD EVERYTHING THEY SAID! She asked him about the difference between WC and bathroom )seriously, this chick asked me about that last week. What is her obsession with the toilet?) She said her English was bad and he told her it was easy to learn. She told him his English was good and he said he was American ( I thought that part was HILARIOUS!) and on and on and on.

But I couldn't respond to any of it in German. And that's a shame.

So, I resolve to learn more German. I can say a little bit, but not much. And most of it is stuff you'd never say in everyday conversation. "What nationality are you?" and weirdly, I know the words for twins, future and past, but I can't ask how to get to H&M. I'm not saying I'll be fluent when I leave, but I intend to continue in the States by taking a college course.

I might not be able to talk to the 80-year-old German woman who lives down the block, but at least I'll be able to say things to Woodstock that no one else understands. And that, I can live with.

Pinball Wizard

As you may or may not know, I've been kind of down these last few days dealing with this car stuff. I've calling various people in the states for around 6-7 hours today, with no sign of progress. Even the hardest of chicks start to stress after a while. This is something I've used today to kind of make me feel a little better. While sitting in the bank, practically sweating, this song kept going through my head. Maybe it will be a positive force in your life as it has been in mine. Peace.