Screen Goddess Complex

Brady Sociology

2011-02-06T20:39:00.003-05:00

Are you Jan or Marcia?

The observer of popular culture that stated "whomever you are in high school you will remain throughout life", did not realize that some of us LIKED who we were in high school; and were well-liked by others. I was popular for virtues that have made me a leader in times when one is called for; a true friend to women AND men; the ideal prototype of academia; a scion to be admired. One is not being haughty, simply truthful: I was 'a Marcia'. I am told I was pretty, but that was not my focus (my oldest sister was 'the pretty one' in the family), I wanted to be an intelligentsia and renaissance woman! Instead I was pigeonholed as the spokesperson for the student body most often because of my attractiveness, propriety and meticulousness.

This, to be sure, is quite better than being 'a Jan'.

I met a few Jans: by the time I met them, of course, they had been run insane by my evil counterparts 'the malicious Marcias'. Expecting the same treatment from me, they tried to be 'proactive' and get me before I got them...big mistake. I was a Marcia it is true, but I was a Marcia that was the daughter of a Marcia/Jan hybrid: my mother had been a Marcia outside of her family but was a Jan within her family. This important dynamic helped me to develop defensive skills before I needed them. I had a sixth-sense for sabotage and conspiracies that left less popular girls in awe. With a Super-Marcia as an older sister, one was not to be shorted on anything I desired!

This brings me to my ‘football to the nose’ incident. A faux pas that one should have known better than to commit. I still plead innocence (futilely), blaming the glass artist at Barneys. It started with a walk down Pine Street...

Holding hands with Ben, my tres beau Beau, I glanced at the merchandise display windows at Pacific Place and mumbled, "Hmm...I wonder why they have those fat people on the windows?" Mimi, a friend of Ben's who happened to be interfering with our Rom-Com by tagging along exclaimed harshly, "What the HELL did you just say?!" Yes, she is pouchy, but I normally don't even utilize the adjective 'fat'; I try to be PC 24-7 so my apology should have sufficed. Instead I had to deal with her trauma from (whenever she became overweight) until now. "I KNEW you were a shallow phony! I kept telling everyone 'she seems nice but who carries a Birkin to a backyard barbecue!'..." she went on and on with all the things she'd held inside; as she did I stared at Ben in awe. I wasn't looking for him to defend me, but to explain why he'd lied over and over again: I would spend time with his friends and as the evening ended and he took me home, I would inquire about my 'feeling' that Mimi simply did not care for me. The very feelings she was expressing- loudly- on a busy downtown street that he consistently negated. Maybe my remark was a subconscious attempt to clear the air…

"You think you're sooo perfect because you've been the same weight- since what, eighth grade?! Who do you think you are?! Some people have to struggle with their metabolisms-" At this point, one was quite done with her Primal Scream therapy, I interrupted by drolly pointing out that since these women work for Barney's and are in the fashion industry, one was sure my opinion didn't matter. I told Ben I wanted to go back to my apartment and asked Mimi NOT to accompany us. He and I have a long conversation that is quite personal and necessary...we don't need an audience.

Why do people lie when they know from experience the truth comes out anyway? To be sure, a question for the ages!

The Mirrored World

2010-09-10T17:17:00.007-04:00

Why do I suddenly feel like every overly-friendly American of European descent is begging me to be there upwardly-mobile Black friend?

It could be paranoia; I am not immune to being "beside my own mind" (para, Grk. beside; noia/noid< noos, Grk. mind). Yet this nagging suspicion began during the Inaugural festivities I attended in 2009, and has gotten more unpleasant as this Presidency has progressed. I do not blame the president, or the variations of what has been coined "The Obama Effect"*, one is merely stating that the trendiest minds are reaching out to African-Americans...for the wrong reasons.

The feeling I get from these situations is similar to that of instances where A CERTAIN TYPE of guy trys to date my European-American sorority sisters/friends, because of the IMAGO they represent...not the person they are. Their 'desire' to be seen with White women is driven by a skewed view of themselves and an objectification of the group, not a desire to be with the woman my friend is to be. So too are a certain type of people using their keen eye for couture and academic grammar to 'spy' a friend for this season...the season of "My Black Friend"-ism. Yes, I said it! I have even heard rumors of 'competition' meals where Whites bring their Black friends to break bread so they can 'show them off' to other Whites. A Bizarro world racial version of the legendary Marine Dogfight parties**. One can not bother with playing the token on any playing field. And, as my Mommie incisively stated, "This is une déclaration incluse*** I can live without".

To those who have experienced some sort of social epiphany, do proceed as your social evolution encourages. To those whom are merely finding an innnovative way to social climb, please, by all means, keep me as close in mind as the earth to the sun.

*A perceived socio-racial-political influence of President Obama on the perceptions/actions/occurences in the social/political/racial situations occuring after his election.
*Mean-spirited competition in which boys bring unsuspecting women to a get-togehter in order to ascertain by their shallow scurtinies which woman is the least attractive 'date'.
**In english, the equivalent of a sweeping generalization; not to be confused with a cliché en Francais which was French for a 'stereotype'. These words were printing terms used to describe duplicate impressions, until the 1920s when Walter Lippman used stereotype as a metaphor in his work "Public Opinion" (1922). And THAT'S one to grow on...

Since one began with a question here's another question to properly brace this entry...Why does it seem as if more people call President Obama "Mr. Obama" than President Obama? I heard the word president used for EVERY president since President Carter- is there some sort of subconscious denial going on?

Something From My Neck of The Woods

2010-08-19T16:43:00.004-04:00

Here's something from May that is still bothering my brain everytime I volunteer at the shelters downtown. M.~

HeraldNet
Everett, Washington

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Published: Sunday, May 4, 2008

No easy fix to homeless sex offender problem, state corrections chief says
By Jerry Cornfield, Herald Writer
OLYMPIA -- Washington is not unique in its struggle with where to put sex offenders who have no place to sleep when they get out of prison.

Nor did the state set a precedent with the decision to order convicted rapist David Torrence to wear a GPS tracking device and live under a Snohomish bridge.

But when Torrence hacked off the equipment and went on the lam, forcing his victim to live again in fear, it spotlighted how the Department of Corrections arrived at this situation.

And why it could happen again.

"We're not fond of this 'under the bridge' plan. It emerges as the best of what you've got to work with when dealing with these offenders," Washington Secretary of Corrections Eldon Vail said Friday.

Corrections officials across the country confront daily the challenge of sex offenders without an apartment, shelter or motel room to bed down at night.

In Florida, when authorities ran out of places in Miami-Dade County in 2007, they set up an encampment for sex offenders under a bridge linking Miami to Miami Beach.

It's not that bad in Washington. Yet in the past 18 months, 74 convicted sex offenders released from prison have registered as homeless. Vail said some surely did get placed under bridges, just like Torrence.

The state spent months trying without success to find Torrence a home. Finally, on his release April 20, the decision was made to designate a bridge over U.S. 2 his residential base.

Three days later, he was gone, and the search continues today.

Vail spoke with The Herald on Friday about the case, the difficulty of finding housing for homeless offenders and whether letting them live in trailers on prison grounds could be an option.

Q: Why must sex offenders (sometimes) be put under a bridge?
A: This is a last resort. We only release sex offenders homeless when there is no other alternative for us under the laws of the state of Washington. When the person committed the crime makes a big difference in what kind of authority the department has over an individual offender.

Q: I'm not sure if living under the Snohomish bridge is legal. So, if Torrence got arrested for illegal camping, he might have landed back behind bars and might have made the state liable for something.
A: I had not thought about that. I wasn't aware that it was illegal. If he got violated he would be back in custody. That would be an interesting situation. It is my understanding we chose that site in coordination with local law enforcement. It is not atypical of what we've done in other parts of the state.

Q: Was he the first to ever be assigned to live under a bridge?
A: No. And I am not sure we actually "assign" them to live under a bridge. They have nowhere to go, yet they have to be in one place during curfew hours. Sites get determined so we can check on them.

Q: Since Torrence's escape, have you made any changes in supervising other homeless sex offenders?
A: No.

Q: Requiring victims to be notified when their attacker escapes supervision by removing their tracking devices seemed like a no-brainer. Why wasn't it happening already?
A: We didn't think of it. Currently our notification requirements follow the state law. We didn't think of the impact of this new technology and neither did the Legislature in all of our conversations with them about GPS. We simply missed it. I would put it in the category of no-brainer. We should have thought of it and we didn't. We have apologized to the victim for our oversight.

Q: On May 1, there were 20,015 sex offenders registered in this state. At least 500 are listed as homeless in Washington State Patrol databases. How much danger are we living with?
A: Look at this over a period of 15 to 20 years. Twenty years ago we didn't know where any sex offenders were. I believe we are all better off knowing where the sex offenders live rather than homeless. So, yes, we're probably safer when people have an approved address with four walls and a roof over their head.

It's also produced this group we can't find homes because of the notification process. People don't want sex offenders in their back yards. We have a different problem than we had 20 years ago.

Under more recent sentencing laws known as determinate-plus, the number of people meeting the criteria and getting out homeless is getting less and less. Determinate-plus means the Indeterminate Sentencing Review Board has the authority to allow us to keep them locked up when they have no residence to release to. We don't put people under a bridge because we want to.

Q: Many states face a similar problem of homeless sex offenders. In Washington, can we find them all homes?
A: Can we house all the homeless offenders? We haven't figured out how to yet. There were some noble efforts by legislators to try and get their arms around this in the last couple of legislative sessions. Do you remember the molester motels? That was the same problem with a different solution. We want to find them a place to stay where it is safer for all of us.

Q: Why can't they be housed in trailers on the grounds of the prisons?
A: I had thought of that, but it doesn't solve the problem. They are free citizens, although with the restrictions of community supervision. We have some control over where they can go, but they have rights to move around freely and go to work, to the store, to town, to church, etc. Think about what would happen if we housed sex offenders in trailers on the prison grounds at Monroe or Walla Walla. I suspect the communities would be concerned with this as a solution to the problem and rightly so. It doesn't necessarily solve the problem, but I can't say I haven't thought about it.

Q: Some lawmakers talk of building halfway houses. Do you support that?
A: Yes, I absolutely do, but it gets to the issue of how do you site them. I would argue it is better for the homeless sex offenders to be somewhere and not under a bridge. I don't know if our communities are ready for it.

Q: Do you think any new laws are needed as a result of this case?
A: Not for me, but that doesn't mean there aren't policymakers out there who see a way to try and fix the situation. I don't know what law would be passed that would fix the problem.

Q: Has the governor asked you for anything?
A: No, we have not had that conversation.

Q: Rep. Al O'Brien, D-Mountlake Terrace, wants the maximum penalty for disabling or removing a GPS device to be life in prison. Do you agree?
A: I don't know. We'll need to talk about how to enhance the penalty. There should be significant penalties for this.

Q: The big question is this: Can you prevent another escape like David Torrence?
A: No. Next time, if there is a victim enrolled, we will make sure they are notified. But there is nothing fail-safe about the GPS. The good news is that with GPS we will know the offender has decided he is not going to play by the rules and we can get the warrant out for his arrest.

© 2010 The Daily Herald Co., Everett, WA

How Good You Have It

2010-07-02T18:43:00.008-04:00

One wonders if the un-surgically altered children of movie stars have this much trouble.

“Good morning Goddess!”, I giggled at the greeting then answered, “Good morning my goddess!”
This greeting is from the young woman who used to aggressively display her bare breast under sheer tops in order to instigate an EEOC lawsuit. In vain to be sure, yet, it is AMAZING how the threat of a lawsuit from a conservative-leaning, Liberal Catholic, of a slightly privileged background; with barely any piercings (my ears and navel- that’s all!); only one tattoo; and the polish not to use curse words, nor raise her voice can do. That’s right, I threatened to sue every last one of their ‘How can I trust someone who has never ENTERTAINED the idea of communism?!’/‘Her lack of body expression proves she’s the enemy!’/‘I don’t believe she has no problem with lesbianism- she’s so aggressively feminine by patriarchal standards!’ –asses out of this state. After they regained their ability to exhale (the shocked inhalation caused them to pause for a few days), they realized my case would send individualized expression in that office back to the fifties. It took all of a month for them to begin to respect my professional results, as well as realize what others sometimes fail to realize about them…just because I am different does not mean something is wrong with me. Their 'forgiveness' of the threat of litigation was understood from the cautious professional friendships that have developed afterward.
Fairly recently, I bonded with “almost-shirtless” (her name is too unique to reveal here) by exposing (no pun intended) the source of her hostility. I have gained a sister for life! Having solved this ‘problem’ on one’s own, and needing to fully validate my ‘Mary Tyler Moore-esque’ independence to my mother, I invited her for a visit. She insisted on coming early enough to excuse a visit to my workplace. “M?” “Yes~…” (the receptionist’s voice lowered to a barely audible whisper) “There’s this woman asking for you- she is gorgeous!- she looks like a friggin’ model!” “I’ll be up in a moment”. I knew it was Mommie so I stood up and checked my outfit in the reflection of the glass-doored bookcase across from my desk. I smoothed out my La Petite Robe di Chiara Boni beige jersey dress, which was gaining a tinge of color from my vintage Chanel pastel colored tweed jacket and my colorful Louboutin Straratata 140s. My coworkers were not impressed with what I called fashion, but my mother would have DIED had I lost my sense of style simply because of those around me not caring. It would be like losing my Self! I am wearing the rose gold BZERO1 Bulgari set she sent ahead, as I knew that she would want to see me in it. It is strange how these rituals remain, even though one struggles to re-define myself. I sashayed down the hall to retrieve the “friggin’ model”-like maternal.
By the time I arrived in the lobby, men and women alike were gawking at the woman I had spent so many years looking up at and smiling, wishing-upon-stars to be her clone. A tinge of guilt colored my face for mere milliseconds as I thought about how different I had become while becoming more like the woman I was born to be. “Hello Mommie” (air kisses as the small crowd dispersed). “WOW! I always wondered what kind of woman has the BALLS to name her daughter after a goddess- now I know!” Without a pause, the guy from accounting had to remind Mina that “Women don’t have balls”. I led my mother to my office while she movie star-waved goodbye to the crowd. As we seated ourselves in my office my supervisor rushed in like there was a fire. “Um- uh-hi HI!” “Hell-looo” my mother answered, holding out her lovely hand. He kissed it- multiple times! These displays were getting a bit embarrassing; was my mother STILL that beautiful? He regained some composure and let his admiration be known; "Well Mother-of-a-goddess! Aren't you beautiful!" I scanned under my desk to see if there was enough room to slide underneath it. "Mike...this is my mother Mrs. ----; Mommie...this is Mike- one of my supervisors" "A pleasure to be sure", my mother purred, scanning him quickly as if another poorly worded compliment might be visibly hanging from his suit jacket. Still shaking (and caressing) my mother's hand, Mike said through a slightly lascivious grin, "We don't have any women as pretty as you in town that often", then turning toward me, "No wonder you look that way!- your mother is FINE!" My mother had finally wrestled her hand from his grasp as he stood there staring at her, making us both quite uncomfortable. "Thanks! Listen Mike, I only have an half hour or so, then my mother and I will be leaving for the day-" "Maybe I can join you two!" I KNOW I pulled a face! "Uhmmmm..." I was at a loss for words, Mike was a little odd but never THIS odd. Mommie stepped in as only a mother would and could, "It is REALLY sweet of you to offer, but my boyfriend Quinn is quite the jealous type...", she looked over at me and nodded slightly, "maybe we should go now M.~?". This was more of a plea than a suggestion. I grabbed my pink Birkin from my side of the desk and hopped out of my chair, "Yes Mommie that is a proper idea!" I came around the desk and hooked my mother's arm as we quickly walked away from Mike. He'd probably gained his sense of Self and was a bit embarassed by our speedy retreat, because he just mumbled a "Well...goodbye then". I could not feel too guilty, he had been made a fool of by a pretty face; many men who have gazed upon my mother would say, "Join the club!".

Yes, it could all be worse: my mother could be seen as genuinely unattractive by the majority of the population and I could have inherited her looks in this superficially-driven society of ours...but she isn't and I believe I have still inherited her looks. I NEVER said I was modest- dammit I'm a goddess! LMAO More from her trip next time. Kisses, M.~

Familial Circumstance DOES Breed...Something

2010-06-20T17:13:00.004-04:00

Be careful being wistful...there may be dragon behind that prince.

After two weeks of my brother-in-law and his latest nickname for me ('No Sex In THIS City Too?!'), and his off-kilter jokes ("Shoreline?! Where's the water?"; and post-viewing of 'The Karate Kid' [2010] "Someone needs to call C.P.S. [child protective services] because kids got beaten ALL THROUGH that movie!"), I was so not missing him, nor my sister Fatimah anymore. She loves him to no limit; however, I have always found him and his family somewhat brash and hard to tolerant for long periods of time (which is why I dodged them throughout my two residencies in NYC). My boyfriend and I were ready to be still in each others' calm, when his mother decided it was time to meet me.

Normally I am at a point where, even if this meeting seems sudden, it does not bring any anxiety whatsoever. I am a good person; intelligent; well-groomed...my vanity or arrogance leads me to believe any mother would be happy to at least see me dating her son, even if I am not what she would consider marriage material for him. Ben lost all his calm after he got off the phone; I feared he would hyperventilate. While I rubbed his back and followed him through the room, as pacing to-and-fro, I began thumbing through my mental file on his mother...I could not recall anything mentioned that would bring about this sort of reaction. As he sat down on the sofa and pulled me toward him with both hands holding mine quite firmly, he looked into my eyes with a grim expression and said, "I do NOT want you to meet my mother". How does one react to that?

He would not tell me why, only explaining away any insecurities I expressed by claiming he would have no problem introducing me to his father and stepmother. It took four days, but I was able to convince him that all our family's carry baggage (to which a few times he ominously said, "Some more than others"). "You may need to put on your clinical face when it comes to my mother and sisters", was the last thing he said to me on the subject before relenting and setting a date for our dinner. My first peek inside the house of his shared-custody weekends came in the form of transportation issues. "Mom- mom! NO- I am driving us there and back- I said no!" I was taken aback...he has never gotten emotionally excited (negatively) in front of me ever. "What is wrong?" He glanced at me but did not continue the gaze, instead rubbing his face downward in a troubled manner, "My mother is saying she wants to pick us up and drop us off- I don't want her to know where you live." I wasn't particularly pleased with my condo rental either but..."Why?", I asked almost as though I did not want to hear the answer I was soliciting. "Baby, have a seat..."

After two hours of information I was both stunned and relieved; every perfect boyfriend has a flaw...his was that he felt the need to hide his mother and sisters' dysfunction from women he dated (there really weren't that many of us- lucky him!). I truly understood the 'why' behind his wanting to keep me as far away from his mother as possible-

I'm sorry! Did I offend you anti-Freudian types that assume it is NEVER the mother's fault?! Who blame Narcissistic & Histrionic Personality Orders on the Patriarchal dominance of our society and desire to trace all dysfunctional behaviors exhibited by 'bad mommies' to THEIR fathers?! Your bias has no place here...

Some people are their own people very early; they desire to break and destroy to build all things in their lives to their specifications, even attempting to mold children into whatever 'right now' dictates in their heads to be 'right, now'. If he had not seen the documentation I would not be sitting here attempting to label the problem (it has already been diagnosed). She has banned her children since birth from speaking or interacting with her parents; she rebelled they grew tired of the chase, so she labeled them neglectful parents. Ben, my boyfriend, said she tells anyone who will listen that she snuck out of the house every night as a teen because her parents didn't care and she wanted to show their small community that her parents were bad parents. "Anyone who has come in contact with her and not bent to her will is blamed for her not being able to pursue her dreams/goals; has kept her from being successful; and has virtually ruined her life". "Really~" I have met these sorts before. While we were talking she called three more times and left two voicemail messages, "Sweetie, with these types we must be proactive...how long does it take her to get to your condo from her house?" "About fifteen minutes, why?" "What time is dinner?" "She said she wants to start eating by five PM". "Well, we will arrive at her house at four PM!"

Thus began the strange, disgusting journey through my boyfriend's attic of childhood horror...

I will give more details next entry. Kisses, M.~

Keeping One Her Toes

2010-05-02T22:13:00.006-04:00

In more ways than one!

I am breathing heavily as I sit on the edge of the sofa, staring down my boyfriend who has all but run from me. He is still fumbling with his pants fastener as he tries to meet my stare with a sheepish smile. This game of Tease was a bit too dangerous and we are both reeling from its intensity. I remove my Christian Louboutin tan knotted suede pumps one by one, as I continue to stare at him, breathing deeply. I stand up and unzip my forties-throwback Marc Jacobs’ skirt, letting it fall to the floor, then stepping out of it. I tip-toe across the floor gracefully and expeditiously- my studies in the ballet gifted me somewhat in manner of carriage. As I stand on my toes before him, he ceases his futile fumblings with his belt and pants zipper, letting them drop, then leaning in to kiss me...

My alarm ruined a perfectly decent dream! Grrr...

I fell asleep in my boyfriend Ben's arms and awakened- alone. He sneaks out after I fall alseep to ensure he doesn't do anything untoward during those twilight hours when neither of us will be less willing to say "Yes". It's the waiting that might be the death of my celibacy! I stare up at the ceiling smiling in a scintillating manner and notice Ben has left another love note on the ceiling. He claims he is attempting to teach me patience- if I am forced to wait until the next time he visits to find out what the note reads (at six-three he has no trouble removing them from my ceiling), I will learn the virtue of patience. I refer back to this conversation as I am standing on toe aloft three bed pillows reaching for the note- yes, this is quite dangerous!

Upon grasping the note between my delicate digits, I fall backward smiling onto the toppled pillows and the tossed bed linens as though three fellow cheerleaders are waiting to cradle my descent. I bounce a few times and giggle to myself; then holding the note above my face as I lie on my back, I notice the lettering is quite…teeny. ‘He did this at home then brought it here’ I muse. I held the note closer to my face and after reading the tiny notations, laughed aloud! It read:

“Don’t you wish I was still this close? See you tonight. Love, Ben”

I have been known to attempt an amateurish version of hypnosis on my significant others; playing Sarah McLachlan’s “Possession” during makeout sessions, but this time I thing I hypnotized myself too! He is soooo…nevermind. I realize I am a bit of a romantic and often have bored you, dear reader, with my latest fabled. Let’s just see where this leads one, shall we?

Apologies all around for not writing sooner…I’ve been a bit pre-occupied!

The NEW Code of Conduct

2010-01-25T18:32:00.009-05:00

Respect those with whom you do not agree and you'll have a truer sense of Self.

One can truly and pridefully admit to chill-laxing in this region on a level usually reserved for those who were born-and-bred here. Although, one has also noticed that the laissez-faire atmosphere many of these residents brag upon escapes those whom are not like-minded. Confused? So was I!

I secured employ after many worrisome, self-depreciating months of unemployment. 'CAN I do this on my own?' I often wondered to my new kitten named Audrey ("Breakfast At Tiffany's" [1961]? Audrey-of the Dutch Aristocracy-Hepburn?! one couldn't very well name her 'Cat'!). I am the 'face' of professionalism for a not-for-profit that encourages environmental responsibility for those long-established companies of American industry. A thankless position to be sure, but I assumed rewarding.

My first day of work I lie in my bed, unable to force my body to move from its very relaxed position. I knew this might occur, due to so much free-time and awakening whenever I pleased for months now; I secured a fail-safe alarm clock. Approximately six am I heard my door unlock and for a split-second thought, 'Who is entering my apartment?!' As the collection of keys hit the hall table, I knew it was my alarm, Nick the Kid. Nick is tres responsible compared to the rest of my new regional chums and the only one I trust with my spare key. He also resembles the one I called "Darling" a great deal and I suppose that is why I boldly introduced myself one evening at Purple. We hit it off quite well and began spending time together often, as his boyfriend works and he is bored to tears when he visits from the capitol city.

He was quiet for a moment then I heard the beginning of a music video that I usually hide from visitors- it is embarassing (and I believe illegal!) to admit that I still record music videos for songs I like and 'act them out'. Kat de Luna's "Whine It Up" was playing and I, still lying down, began smiling. "Nick? Nick!" I began whining, "Cut that off!" He came to my bedroom door and dramatically threw it open, "Uh-uhn mammita, WAKE-UP!" Nick ran back to the livingroom and I drug my body from the linens. By the time I reached the entrance doorway to the livingroom one of my favorite parts of the song was playing; "Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa- whoa!- Keep risin'!" I ran over to Nick turning my back to him and squatting with my hands on my knees, began bouncing my tushy in his face and swinging my hair wildly. Gawd I miss Florida! "Work it, work it, work it, work IT mami!", Nick encouraged. After my morning exercise I quickly got dressed so Nick could drive me to work (NO I do not have my driver's license yet! But these hills are REALLY making me think twice).

I waved goodbye to Nick and checked out my ensemble in the reflection of the front office's glass wall. A Jil Sander Evangelista jacket and Dior sheath dress in navy; Louis Vuitton open toe glazed calf pump with the golden plaque on the sole; and my heirloom Hermes Kelly in black with gold hardware. Conservative enough! Of course, by the end of the week I was less than happy about my new position and simply wanted out: one guy was convinced I would be a great dominatrix with my pinned-up vibe (and verbalized this quite often); the only other African-American female in the office had an EEOC investigation pending due to HER style of dress (she wears sheer tops that showcase her nipple rings and the chains that attach them, then DARES people to stare so she can report them- it is her right she claims to dress anyway she chooses); and on top of all this I was being 'harassed' and openly ridiculed for doing what others in the office were free to do often outside the office...expressing my political views that differed from the majority (I'm not sure I mentioned it but I am quite conservative in my views).

It amazes me to no end how those of 'protected groups' and 'oppressed minorities' so often torture people they feel 'symbolize' their oppressors- whether we are oppressive or not. I fight for these same person's rights daily, yet I am treated harshly and sometimes antagonized for NOT being like them. Isn't that reversed discrimination? A meeting was called and views expressed: some of the women found MY clothes to be oppressive to them (the description Barbie follows me EVERYWHERE); my unregulated heterosexuality and conservatism was oppressive to the lesbians (even though I had no idea who was a lesbian nor had I said anything concerning sexual orientation since I'd been there- they could just TELL I was not one of them I guess); and my designer clothes offended everyone who wore hemp...the list was lengthy and petty. I was willing to voluntarily terminate but the executive adminstrators read the other employees the riot act instead. One of the main reasons no one had taken them seriously until I began accompanying the administrators to outside meetings was the very same reason they were ostracizing me- multi-colored peacock hair, visible nipple rings and the like do not resonant positively with the powers-that-be. In other words, if they all wanted to have jobs by this summer, they needed to understand that I needed their expertise and they needed mine.

Begrudging is not even CLOSE to the word I think of when I think of my workplace interactions.

But I am a 'tough kitty' as my Gu-mere would say, and I need only work there...I have enough friends outside of work and I seem to never see ANY of my coworkers out-and-about, therefore I think I'll be just fine!

Don't worry dear reader, I will not run back to my family due to the harshness of this non-nepotistic world.

Goddess Wisdom For The Season (and the Ages)

2009-12-16T13:22:00.002-05:00

Some have chosen to see the coming of the date December Twenty-first of the year Twenty-twelve as a harbinger of a new Age of Enlightenment and spiritual awakening. I champion these theorists for their optimism (whether that date symbolizes anything or nothing at all). Others claim it will be the Apocalypse with destruction the likes of which we can not imagine...we will see!

This season brings for those that interact semi-regularly with others of their species, a chance for reflection, re-evaluation and relationship summaries. 'What could I have done differently?' 'Why did he/she do this/that/(or) the other?', and MY favorite 'Is (place name of wrongful party here) feeling ANY remorse, yet?'. That reflection is my favorite because very often people scream things like, "Don't judge me!" or "You should learn how to forgive!" when they have asked one time and time again to measure them by their and our ethics and morals, or have yet to actually apologize.

I challenge you all this holiday season to think back to the last time you apologized; now think back to the last person you honestly 'wronged'...not one and the same? Then by all means, utilize one of the countless communication devices at our disposal and APOLOGIZE. I have heard, at least three times in the past month, that I am unforgiving. This is completely false: I am willing to forgive those that show symbolic remorse by APOLOGIZING. If you never acknowledge fault how am I to understand you feel remorse for your actions, thus extending forgiveness in your 'sorry' direction?

As someone that is compulsively polite (I have been known to say "Excuse me" to potted plants that I have bumped into that were CLEARLY in MY way), I apologize often. I am one of those 'think ahead- often' types that tries to live with no regrets; yet as a Resident Goddess, I am bound by my interactions with you sensitive mortals and must observe your folkways. If I can do it, surely you all can too! So do it often, do it sincerely and do it well- JUST DO IT! I guarantee your season will be a whole lot lighter.

Please do not sue me Nike Inc.

Old and New

2009-12-06T16:41:00.008-05:00

I decided to move farther south for the winter (hehee)...

I have moved into my place on First Hill. I opted for the 1B model for six months. It has more square footage and can better accomodate the antique, hand-knotted Persian, sixteen-drawer Chinese apothecary chest, and Queen Anne writing desk one has been dragging around. The 18th-Century Regence period Commode will have to go in the bedroom. The period reminds me of how my father felt about the Senate in America (read: "Is anyone here?"), and will always hold a comedic sway over me- I shall not get rid of this item!

All my kitchen appliances are coordinated in stainless steel (CuisineArt); my diningware is Raynaud's Helloise with Kirk-Stieff's Williamsburg Queen Anne flatware (day) and Michael Wanwright Truro Platinum-rimmed dinnerware Towle's Reflection flatware (evening). The antiqued mirrored chest with floral reverse painting and cashmere rug I ordered from Neiman Marcus, just before departing my house-sitting position north of here, will work perfectly in this blank, off-white existence. Even in my slumlord-oppressed days in Ohio, I was able to paint the walls. This is what happens when a girl has trouble committing (to a longer lease!).

I was playing Fleetwood Mac's 'Rumours' (1977) CD on repeat when I received a call from the doorperson concerning a package. 'What did I forget that I sent my myself now...', was my thought as I waited for the elevator. A woman and man joined me at the elevator. I recognized the woman as someone that had previously commented on her male counterpart's examination of my 'moving in' ensemble which consisted of Christian Louboutin Supra fife black thigh-high boots, an eight-inch True Religion Mandy denim skirt and a black Jucca twin set. This day, I suppose, my outfit was too interesting to the both of them, as the woman felt the need to make the comment: "You must not have been outside today, because it is REALLY cold outside". I was wearing a Freud cashmere tunic dress with mink 'flower' appliques at the shoulder, and...Bo'em sandals. I placed my hands on my hips and began to gently swing my upper body, then replied, "It's quite alright...It's scientific fact that the cuter the girl, the more likely she is to find a suitor to warm her", to which her male counterpart snickered. I'm pretty sure she will not be catty anymore.

I retrieved my package but did not recognize it by the origin. It was from Florida and I did not recall having my younger sister send any items. Upon opening it, I realized it could only be from my mother- she must have know where I was all along! It was Amanda Lynn, a rag doll with yarn hair from my infancy that had survived Tonka truck rides, trips to the beach and the many years from introduction to now in my room. She was worn in with love, to be sure, but now she was wearing handmade mittens and a crocheted hat over her bonnet. I called my mother. "Whatever are these new accessories on Mandy (as I called her)?" "I thought you would appreciate me dressing her for the weather there...", my mother replied nonchalantly. I rolled my eyes toward the heavens and smirked, then asked, "So how long have you known my whereabouts, then?" "I checked your credit card history and found the style of Uggs you purchased a confirmation of my suspicions". I rolled my eyes at the personal invasion, then, smiling for a moment, thanked her and quickly made an excuse to get off the phone.

She knew all this time, yet she did not bother me once. this was the best Christmas present she'd ever given me!

Yes, I miss her...but I still need my space. M.~

2009-11-30T18:57:00.002-05:00

Where is Vancouver as a 'stand-in location' when you need her...

I heard that Macy's had hung their Nativity Star and the Wonderland Carousel was spinning downtown, so I ventured into the city. One would think as much pleading as I did in North Carolina to have a certain film played there, I would remember the date. Once I got to Vancouver and saw the film on television, I guess the importance slipped my mind. So as I stood staring at the star like a little child and listening to actual children giggle on the opposite corner gathered around the carousel...I heard people on bullhorns screaming at Chase and Bank of America in protest.

To be sure...I have moved to the protest capital of the nation.

I remember cutting school and being detained by the police until my parents collected me. So little, as I sat on the bench my little knee-sock covered legs were swinging. Don't tell your children their generation does not know how to "make things happen" and expect them NOT to sneak out of there independent educational facility to 'make things happen'. It's really like a dare...I felt my heart racing and knew that if I could not commit completely, I should not return this evening at seven PM. I want to...I really do, but those people make sacrifices I do not believe I am strong enough to make. I, who supposedly ran away from my family's materialistic lifestyle, but could not part with my hangbags and footwear. Who could take me seriously?

I spent some time comfortably pacing to-and-fro in the livingroom, wearing my Angelina muskrat coat, cinched at the waist by my AllSaints Anina wide-waisted belt and tapping about in my tall Frye Melissa riding boots with my thigh-high Betsey Johnson over-the-knee Sweetheart socks tucked into them. I don't look like I care about anything but looking cute all day as I play with my David Yurman Black Potpourri necklace. I realize it is remembering 'who' injured those people and seeing those 'who' look like those that injured those people ten years ago today that is making me afraid.

I put in a call to a law prof that told me to call him if I ever needed bail money; changed into my jeans, my "Desi- Compassion" tee-shirt, my Ugg Shoreline boots and put out one of my parkas from Gorsuch. Then I sat down and typed out this blog entry...

Re-birth is re-birth; self-improvement is self-improvement...but even seeing what could happen via Hollywood could not make this leopard change her spots. Here's hoping NO ONE gets arrested and that all the 'battles' this time are non-violent. M.~

Who is this?!

2009-11-16T18:38:00.005-05:00

Half-asleep, I answered my cellie...

"Hmm...hello?"
"Do you know Vince Vaughn?"
"Who IS this~?!"

It was my ex-boyfriend, Rey Diaz-Balart. I did not know why he was asking this weird question, but I was happy to identify his voice. "Are you accusing me of something untoward based on a rumor you heard on the left coast?" "No it is just...Nevermind." The movie "Couples' Retreat" (2009) began to surface in my groggy memory and I knew instantly why he was asking. "You think I know him because of the compliment you paid me at that costume party when I was dressed as a mermaid?" "Well...", he whispered sheepishly, "yes..." I want to die and come back as one of the truly arrogant and self-important people that believe they 'invented' the usage of certain words and phrases. Like, Paris Hilton who tried to trademark a phrase my friends and I were saying before she could spell "copyright"(like when she was in eighth grade!).

"Sweetie, you were not the first, nor the only person to use the word 'Asstastic'", "I know- but it just made me think of you and that crush-" My crush on VINCENT D'Onofrio is well-documented on this blog; just because he and Vince Vaughn have been labelled 'friends'(whatever that means in Hollywood), I explained, does not mean that A) VDO reads these blog entries and B) tells his 'friend' Vince about random babblings from my ex-boyfriends. I simply cannot entertain that thought, I am not that crazy yet. Or am I?

Here are a few more phrases Mr. D'Onofrio and Mr. Vaughn, that I would like to hear utilized in your next films:

GAGGING FUNK: something so stinky it gets caught in your throat and cuts off your air.
CRYSTAL BLUE PERSPIRATION (taken from that song by Tommy James & The Shondells reduxed by Boy George): when a club bunny (perpetual female clubber) sweats her body glitter down to her jean's waistband, where it collects and rubs off on the club guest sofas.
And let us not forget my fav, KA!: KICK ASSssszzz! Something in a Vince Vaughn film is bound to warrant this compliment.

Have fun and keep laughing. M.~

Revised Friendships

2009-11-15T18:01:00.004-05:00

I believe it only fitting that I am ridding myself of bad company on one of the more empowering days of the year for women...Sadie Hawkin's Day.

It was November 14th, 2009, and Cherese was preparing to meet her flight back to Ohio. After referring to my city's library as "robo-poo" (upon entering she questioned the structural integrity of the architecture scaring two tourists); offering to relieve a young man of his "obviously" (to her) oppressive virtue at Zanadu comic store; shucking Shucker's (she had a problem with their "yard bird" dinner); and questioning my Negritude (DAILY after the viewing of "Good Hair" [2009]), Ms. Cherese is quite happy to return to her home state. It must be a most unhappy affair being 'her': she could not find comedic joy in the vertical fountain that lovers walk under downtown to kiss and take pictures.

Instead of scrapping our friendship, I have chosen to revise it, scale back on it, just a smig. Our last 'oppositional discussion' involved my 'false' perspective on my other sorority sisters' opinions of me. "You thought they LIKED you?! They used to disrespect you ALL the time!" Cherese was referring to when some of the sisters would return from vacay in warmer climates boasting deep, dark tans and jokingly comment that they were twice as dark as me. I never felt disrespected by these comments but she seemed to think it meant they did not like me. I brought up my first Anchor Splash and how I inquired as to why they did not ask Cherese, a Big Sis that lived in the sorority house; they told me they had to pay for the pool to be cleaned afterward and did not know how much the products in her hair would effect the price of cleaning. I defended her AND her hair care products. After I finished the re-telling of this incident she seemed angry. "That's what they told you? That's funny~ because I was the one that suggested they ask you!" I was puzzled, "Why?" She rolled her eyes, "Because I thought you had a perm (permanent relaxer/chemical straightener) and weave like me and I wanted you to have to explain why you were saying no to your new sisters!" "So this was done to humiliate me, then?" "Yes!-" "And it backfired..." She rolled her eyes at me again, "Some of the sisters really hated you- you were so prim and prissy and opinioned! It just seemed like you were being fake and putting on airs to them!-" "They WANTED their sisters to be individuals that stood up for what we believed in!" "No matter what anyone else thinks, you seem to sound like you believe you're right!" "Most people do!-" "No but you sound like you're spouting universal law or something! Like you really believe you are the goddess you are named for!" The conversation got worse from there. We dropped it.

I did not tell her that I am often in contact with our former undergrad sorority sisters and they moan when I mention her. "She just was so antagonistic; she never seemed to be happy", is their usual observation. Whichever sisters she is referring to that did not care for me, are not in my phonebook, therefore I am happy to be rid of them...and soon, her.

The re-birthing process is usually more painful than actual birth for the participates; thus my (and to be sure) those around me's angst.

This Is NOT About Hair!

2009-11-01T18:24:00.005-05:00

I was clueless until she told me- I swear it!

Cherese and I burst from the movie theatre singing softly but giggling loudly throughout the tune:

"Talkin''bout good and bad hair-
whether your dark or your fair-
go on and swear!- see if I care!-
good and baaad hair!"

Spike Lee's "School Daze" (1988) was on our minds when we were buying tickets and we could not help ourselves after the movie. Some people stared in horror, others chuckled in amusement. "So how did you ladies like the movie?", a woman neither of us knew asked. "While I was growing up, people used to tell me that I had 'good hair'...watching this movie, I suppose good hair is hair that looks like another cultures- I don't believe that is true of my hair-" Cherese cut me off. "Your hair bares no resemblance to anyone else I know that is African-American." "But that is so oppressive because my grandfather is from an African country!" "Excuse us", Cherese drug me away, "There you go AGAIN airin' our dirty laundry! Girl come on!" I had no idea what prior situation she was referencing, but I remained silent and perturbed throughout our commuter train ride back to the residence.

By the time we reached the house, I was in a less pensive mood. I borrowed a Domaine-Mardon Quincy '95 from the cellar, that she and I had once while on a double date in Ohio; when I told her about the geographic origins she called it "Cher wine". I laid out two afghans, one on each lounger on the deck and invited her out, as I laid a platter of Brie and Camembert (I'd 'turned' to make the crumbling more bearable), Salmon spread, tart white grapes and Bremner Wafers. "What's on your mind Cherese?" She rolled her eyes then exhaled deeply and loudly. "I'm just thinking about the first time I saw you at Rush...I KNEW you were going to cause trouble-" "What?!" Cherese placed her wine glass on the wicker table, "That's right! I said it! You were TROUBLE! I had spent TWO YEARS telling those girls what Black people were and weren't and you came in telling them I was a liar!" I thought my dear sorority sister had gone insane right before my very eyes, "Cherese in the years I have known you I have NEVER referred to you as a liar-" "Not directly; but with all your "You've been misinformed"s the Sisters thought I was playing some awful trick on them!" I thought back to that time...

Many times the Sisters would come to me and ask me if a certain stereotype was true, but I did not believe anyone had filled their heads with that nonsense, I thought they were asking about stereotypes they viewed in the media. "Cherese, you and I have always had a different manner in which we 'reached out' culturally to others-" "Here we go! That same 'Whatever I DO is Black because I AM Black" excuse!" I was quite taken aback by her hostility. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion when we are less...emotional?" "That's what you don't get because you are not as Black as me!-" There it was, all these years I have heard that comment and it felt like someone shot me in the dark: the reason was unimportant but they were the cause of something- someone- dying within me. My ears closed off her noisy diatribe and heard myself, as a child reciting and explaining in stark detail, the lyrics of "Strange Fruit" during Black History Month, at my pre-dominately White Catholic School. Originally keened from the soul by Billie Holiday, but I'd only heard it crooned by Nina Simone.

"You came in there with your GOOD HAIR and never thought about the repercussions you being there would have on me!" I had returned to the present, to Cherese complaining about how my hair and her weave 'clashed' at the sorority house. I could participate in Anchor Splash and run through the sprinklers on the lawn with the TKE brothers while she could not because she had "a perm and weave". This wasn't about her hair or my hair: waist-lengthed or shoulder-length; naturally wavy and auburn or chemically treated and ebony...This was about a schizoid reaction within our community to embracing 'Blackness' and being held hostage to stereotypes; shunning what 'Others' had and wanting to assimulate to become 'acceptable'; and holding a combination of aesthetics on a pedestal, then tearing down those who owned them.

At this transitional time in my life, I was standing before my sorority sister, a woman who paid good money to be identified with a group upholding certain values in the community with me, that was now slinging malice all over my new choices. "THIS is how YOU do homeless and unemployed- how can anyone take you seriously?!" I'd been through an ugly friendship break up like this before; it ended with a symbolic knife in my back and a literal fork penetrating my forearm. I'd had enough, "Cherese, can we agree to disagree then?" Her face erupted in maniacal aggression, "You will never get it because you are not even CLOSE to being Black- but your parents did that on purpose!" I held up my hand in a gesture of peace and explained that I was going to bed. "Go ahead, walk away Ms. Anne!" I stopped cold and my fist rolled into two fist, on the end of stiffened arms vibrating from anger. I HATED that insult; it began when I was settled into proper grammar and etiquette while others taunted me for doing so...and not being "Black". If we taunt our children for using proper grammar and etiquette as not being representative of our race, why get angry when Others label us uncouthed and 'beastly'? We have to take responsibility for those things we honor and denigrate in our communities.

I stilled my composure and walked toward the bedroom, "Go'on in Massa's bedroom!" This was the master bedroom but Cherese was probably referencing the owner who seemed uncomfortable around her when they met. She was flirting uninhibitedly, as she found out from me he had originally bought this home for his 'other woman' and was not selling it, because he could no longer afford either. He needed a housesitter. I pay the utilities with my unemployment checks and the arrangement works. Not needing anymore utensils embedded in my flesh, I locked the bedroom door behind me.

I'm sure you want to know if I am to remain friends with Cherese...I am in suspense too.

It Pays To Be An Actor!

2009-10-31T16:03:00.006-04:00

I'm simply ranting, please ignore me and go about your day...

I have just received pre-tax season advice from a diligent friend concerning some tax treaty the United States has with Canada. I am neither exempt from paying taxes there nor here! Although I feel what I was doing was quite 'entertaining' to my supervisor and me, it is not acting, therefore, I must pay (No K. I was not one of those "Super hot" strippers from Edmonton you keep going on about!).

Here's to me and the professional athletes that entertain, yet are not Ben Affleck- may we one day be THAT entertaining!

I am in no way saying anything negative about Mr. Affleck. I simply singled him out because I just saw his adorable wife in "The Invention of Lying" (2009). Such beautiful eyes on that one! I suppose Canada would cease being the Hollywood-Studio-Annex-of-the-North if they were to torture them for filming there monetarily.

Boots, Boats, Hills, Heels and Cougars-in-training

2009-10-23T17:37:00.003-04:00

Just a few moments and I'll explain...

The ferry rides in fashion-forward boots. This boots were barely made for walking and have me sliding into other passengers when I hit moister. Hydro-planing into others is filled with too many words...most of them 'Excuse me'. I have taken to wearing Bikkembergs until I can find a compromising cobbler.

Then there's the problem of four-inch heels on hills that incline more than forty-five degrees; this is not good for ones knees! I used to pride myself on my leg-power: I have dancers legs with streamlined, strong muscle tone and shapely contours...I inherited most of the beauty of my 'gams' from my mother. My luggage I call handbags does not help the ascensions either. Something has to give!

Although I have limited my family's access to my life considerably, my friends are still my friends. THEY were not the ones 'controlling' me, therefore, there was really no reason to hold them at arms-length. Except...well, when one begins anew, with so much positivity and promise, there is sometimes a pause- just a pause!- when deciding whether a friend is really worth 'all the trouble'. Such was the case when Cherese called to tell me she was coming to see me. "I've never been there so this should be fun!", she said while packing. "Oh...okay", I replied. I wasn't so sure. Cherese can be...abrasive and acerbic, that does not fit in with the cool, laid-back demeanor of the residents in my present city. We would simply have to see.

I stood in the airport at the site we picked out on a floorplan map on-line, tapping my foot impatiently. Her flight was in on time- where was she? "I almost didn't recognize you! What is up with your hair~?" My sorority sister was used to my sleek and straight hair; this was my wavy 'devil-may-care' hair. "Those are some pretty worn-in skinnies- wait...where did you get those?" "Wal-mart I think-" "WHAT?!" "Cherese, lower your voice- people are staring." "WAL-mart? OH-ma-gawd! Not even Target?", she teased pronouncing Target 'Tar-jay'. "Ha ha-" "I think it is the boots that are really getting to me. Are those...?", she was waiting for me to interrupt and mention the designer. I didn't. "Where did you get those?" "Balenciaga", I whined. "You are wearing bargain-basement skinny jeans and BALENCIAGA woven leather over the knee boots?!" "Yes!" "So...this is your answer to high-low couture?" I lowered my lids and looked at her sideways. I almost laughed but I would not give her the snaps.

"Looks like someone doesn't mind your poor fashion sense...", she said while directing me to a young man behind us. "Okay! let's move it!" "What? Have you sworn off men again?" Quite the opposite...there is a certain type of guy that has been eliciting a weird response from me. Think: tigress in estrus. "Hi!Is this all yours? I can help-" "Please do!", Cherese requested as I tried not to look at him dead-on. I could not help myself, he had the bluest eyes I'd seen yet and a mess of semi-curly brunette hair piled, unkempt under a hat. We exchanged numbers and I waved him goodbye as we entered the cab. "He was cute- messy, young and a little moth-eaten- but cute." "Cherese...I don't know what to say. I just, I seem to be attracting...young guys." "Like Alex?" Oh gawd~! Alex. It was not fair of her to bring him up! "How YOUNG was he again?-" "Stop it!", I demanded. "He is so fine, I went on his facebook the other day to do some...maintenance." "Oww Cherese!" The thought of my friend using pictures of my ex to fuel her...stimulations was too much- much too much! "Why Cherese?" "You KNOW why! HE IS FINE!" Alex was absolutely beautiful. From his hair to his accent, he was lovely to behold. "I cannot BELIEVE I did that!" "I can! Don't be too hard on yourself...at least he was legal to drink-" "In Canada!" We both had a laugh at my expense.

While Cherese freshened up, I sat on the bed undressing, and staring at my Balenciaga boots. I could give them away, but to who? I wear between a 5 1/2 and a 6 in footwear. This is not average except in maybe China. I could sell them at a consignment shop...I lie back on the bed in my underwear, listening to Sarah McLachlan and crooning in my alto with her. Hold on...hold on to yourself, cuz' this is gonna hurt like hell. "Hey, cougar!-" "I am NOT old enough to be a cougar!" "Well, cougar-in-training, let's go! I want to hit that Zanadu place before Shucker's. You know I love Olivia Newton-John and disco." "Hmmph! Well, Cherese, you are in for a surprise because there is nothing about this Zanadu that has to do with her OR disco." 'When she finishes dealing with the dorks I hang out with there, she will probably feel like she entered surreal alternative world. "Let's go granola gypsy, I'm dressed, you should be too!" "Stop cracking your whip woman!" We giggled like schoolgirls. Maybe she will be okay here. The atmosphere may rub off on her and she'll slow down too.

More from her trip later. M.~

BAM!!

2009-10-15T23:26:00.002-04:00

Yes, it's my birthday. My present list is quite short...

I WANT YOU ALL TO BE HAPPY!

Kisses,
M.~

No, this is not a 'drunken' post...

There Is ALWAYS A Tale To A Tell

2009-10-04T16:14:00.005-04:00

Even our sense of style can foil us in a new incarnation....

I was standing by the railing on the ferry, gazing out across the water and remembering what the Atlantic looked like. This body of water is different only in minutiae, gaining one just a tinge of nostalgia. I believed the ensemble I was wearing was drab, nondescript and functional; however, something about it was attracting someone very unlikely's attention.

"Pardon, me..." "Yes" "Those are absolutely THE most beautiful stones I have ever seen in someone ears. Usually, you see something so clear and perfect on a lucky young woman's finger- but never two!", the gentleman remarked as he gently but un-invitedly stroked my chin. I moved back uncomfortably, "Yes, well...thank you", I whispered as I damned myself for not being able to let go of the earrings Michael had bought me in 2004. I meant to dart away from him but he positioned himself ackwardly enough to foil the exit. "Where are you from with those eyes?!", he continued to keep me in conversation. Mentally, I wondered how I would react pre-hijrah (Arabic, flight, emigration): I would be polite, if only in fear of what my family would think if I were curt with him. I was no longer 'she', therefore, I interrupted him mid-sentence, informed him that I was really in no mood to talk, and briskly stepped away.

'My earrings and eyes, and where they are from are none of his concern!', I thought to myself. I am a bit grumpy with the birthday and the relocation. I really should not be, since I have triumphed above-and-beyond others' expectations. To be sure, it is the children I miss...

I have been 'haunting' Holyrood (to sketch) and tutoring at Tomales. I read three books on the 'king that would be god' in Redmond and expected there to be some toppled colossus of him in the middle of the city...the only 'sinister giant' here is caffeinated (eww!). My new neighbors are worried about the distances I am willing to walk; any moment I am free to make my own choices in life is worth the stroll to me! I have a pass that gets me on all modes of transportation, so I will never be too fatigued. They only know that I have come here by way of Van'; they can not 'place my accent'. Van' was only to acclimate me to walking (and to see "The Trailer Park Boys:Countdown to Liquor Day"), it is not where my head was prior to coming here. I was thinking 'NY' while there, and I think that is why I wound up HERE.

I know there are those that read this blog and think, 'How bad could being The Princess really have been?'. Walk into a closet, the smallest one you can find, shut off the light, and choose one group of people to control when you shut on and off the light; when you speak; and when you are allowed to come out. Is this slightly uncomfortable and disconcerting? Do it for approximately twenty years and tell me how you fare- if they ever let you. But enough of that negativity! I should be wondering what winter will be like here. I have never been in this region during the winter (early Autumn though). No worries! I'm sure whatever I buy will be perfect (let's hope it does not attract the same types as my earrings)!

I will write my perspective on "The Trailer Park Boys..." movie after I stop remembering lines from the film and LMAO. Kisses, M.~

"And POOF She was gone!"

2009-07-27T14:07:00.005-04:00

Nothing magical happened here...just something necessary.

As my beau left me on the bed, nude except for the sheet demurely covering my bum, he reminded me once more of the checkout time. I waved behind me and continued flipping through the last issue of W Magazine. My relaxed state was quite the ruse...I sprung from the bed as soon as I heard his footsteps hollow and began dressing in the outfit I'd placed on the top of my baggage. This outfit is a bit different from what my body is used to being covered in: it is misshapen and baggy, as it was formerly someone else's...I got it at a thrift store in Florida before I left. The colors I wear are drab and have nothing to do with fashion consciousness. The woman that is pulling her thick, luxe locks into an unstructured ponytail does not resemble the Palm Beach Princess-poser that entered this room just yesterday.

I begin to sort my clothing according to the 'new' and 'old' me. I will ship the jewelry to my younger sister (quite slowly) to avoid anyone claiming I was kidnapped or wandered off in some mania. I am quite sane and going willingly. 'Do people donate makeup?' I wonder aloud, then throw it away for sanitary reasons. As everything is sorted and I fill the curious duffle bag (that I acquired from the thrift store also) with clothes for the 'new' me, I in turn zip into garment bags all the lovely items that will be donated, in the name of the girl at the front desk, that I have gained a rapport with over the past few days. At these last moments I realized my beau could not know of my plans; if I were truly to be a Phoenix, one could not be re-born with a foot out the fire.

The packing and re-packing done, I squared my shoulders back and released all concern about who will think what about where I am or may be, and what I have done or am planning to do. I escaped once to New York but I foolishly returned. I was still ME just in a different location. This incarnation has filed change of name documentation; secured employment; and had a friend at a government office seal up records so that I will prove at least difficult to trace for approximately a year. That will be all it takes for peace of mind! My family will find the tower they built empty...I stare at my ponytail's length and wonder if Rapunzel ever missed her locks. I take the garment bags down with many 'thank you's and 'you're so kind's exchanged. I return to the room, sling my duffel over my shoulder and make my way to the train station/greyhound station, bidding my 'old' Self adieu. There are no movie references, yet, in this incarnation. As I find parallels I will surely use them. Just wait...I've been told women like me are all inherent mystery, and we bring excitement wherever we roam. We will see, dear reader, we will see.

I am not Waldo: my new locations will not be given, or deciphered, so don't trouble yourself about the where. Kisses, M.~

The Journey Was Not Complete!

2009-06-10T18:41:00.009-04:00

HOW on earth did my beau think he would get me this > < close to the hometown of my beloved team, and NOT actually take me into the city?! He must be dehydrated...

Canmore is beautiful...

As I write this we have decided to keep the rental and return after I have done my tour. It took some coercion (I had to strip down to false eyelashes, frosted lipstick, tousled bedhair and thigh highs, giving my beau a full-on auburn, 'nouveau Bardo', while lying modestly on my tummy with the sheet across my rump and reading Juvenal aloud), but I will be able to enjoy both areas in-full. Renting the condo instead of staying at a hotel was a great idea; I feel completely safe leaving my things here. I'll write more when we arrive.

Kisses,
M.~

The Early Wish

This is an early birthday wish to my new beau...Happy birthday sweetie! (06/12/09)

Local Gods and A Goddess

As soon as we arrived I made my beau pledge allegiance to my favorite team while standing on the viaduct. Purely symbolic, to be sure, he admired my loyalty after all these years.

We walked the bike trails until we saw two massive trunks, side-by-side on the road, not far from the Teahouse. I joked that when civilization ceased to be as it is, we should become neighbors in these natural 'huts'. He pointed out that mine was not hollowed and looked more like a stand or stage. I reminded him that if it was to be for me, it must be a throne! Then it was off to Tekahionwake's lost lagoon.

Although my sweetie is pouting about gaining another year on to his many accumulated, I plan on dragging him through Gastown and Westend at least. I feel quite alive today and maybe this joie de vivre will infect him in some way. I really need him, above most, to be okay with my plans...

Don't expect me to write again for a few days. It's my sweetie's birthday trip and I MUST drag him to the clubs and Edgewater Casino for a look-see this evening!

"Don't Touch Those! I'll be there in a moment!"

2009-06-02T14:52:00.004-04:00

When will men learn not to wake the Jealous One within us?

Someone whom was not paying attention to the mass T.a.A.B. Alert I sent out (Miona!), asked why I suddenly seemed to have had such a change of heart, concerning he of the 'bespoke too soon' blog entry. Well...

One day, while distractedly searching through my emails, I found one unopened from said beau. He was presently in Vancouver and "Wow were there some beautiful multi-culturally background young sweeties around there!" I could have reached through the computer and shaken him until he felt stirred! Yes, in case you have not figured it out, I am quite vain about my 'best of all worlds' aesthetic...or what I believe it to be. That more than pinched; I began to fear 'losing' my edge, my mystique to a younger model. And THAT has never happened.

So, the short of it is I grew quite green in the orbs and assuming the worst, replied, "DON'T TOUCH THOSE! I'll be there in a moment!!" The rest is history written in the previous blog entry.

Kisses,
M.~

Playing Beard, Part Two

2009-06-01T14:37:00.006-04:00

This is so lucrative I should rent myself out coast-to-coast!

My mother pouted the entire time I packed. "One WILL come home on weekends then?" "To be sure!" I consoled, then thinking aloud, "If there isn't a soiree of some sort..." Why this temporary relocation should trouble her so much was beyond me! She has been, over the few months I have been down here, simultaneously clingy and unaccomodating. Mixed messages, anyone?

"Well...if there is some hiatus, you WILL tell me your itinerary?-" I swung around as though pulled by an invisible, malevolent force, "Dammit! You've been reading my emails!" My mother is the poster child for overbearing mothers: look this 'personality disorder' up in the DYI DSM-IV-TR and there is a picture of MY mother, lounging on a luxe chaise, clothed in muslin and jewels...with a KA! bracelet cuff linked to several chains. At the end of each chain is a sibling and me; there are surely wild animals about to secure our constant presence. These 'wild things' are the mood fits my mother throws when she is unable to control or hunt down one of her 'cubs'. In the sideline of this entry, there should be a list of the actual psychological disorders that make one an overbearing mother; like Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder and Histrionic Personality Disorder, to name a few.

Her reading of my emails has not afforded her enough information, as my beau and I are bound by how quickly the homes and condos on my list are sold. Chester has allowed me two weeks off; unfortunately, they cannot begin until I have sold the list. This puts me in a bind for travel arrangements: will I meet him in Toronto; Vancouver; or San Diego? I am hoping stateside, if only for convenience. A friend of mine, Johnny Angel (much prone to exaggeration), related his most recent tale of oppression as a travelling gyspy.

"Yeah so, like, I was trying to get through the immigration in Manitoba,
right?
And this dude was all like, How long are you stayin'? Who's expecting you? We
have to make sure you have a reason to return to the US, because we have a
problem with people coming here to LIVE without the means to live and they
become homeless...It's like, WTF?! I have a trust fund back in the States-
whatchu got for me?!"

Johnny's weird, post-pubescent rant aside, he did speak one truth, it is getting a bit difficult to get into "The Land of Friendly" (as opposed to what they historically have called us "The Land of Plenty"). Within the passed year, I have heard strange tales from those whom fly, drive and ride into Canadian provinces and even stranger questions. Could this be a backlash from all those anti-Bush deserters over the past eight years? Some CLAIMED they would return since Obama was elected, but knowing what I know about Canada...it is not necessary to return. That country is beautiful! The first time I visited I wondered what made my grandfather leave; being one of eight children might have spurned him on. Yet and still, to avoid any dirty looks or raised eyebrows to the reason for my visit ("I plan on meeting my middle-aged boyfriend in a hotel and spending two weeks with him..."), I'd rather keep our rendez-vous stateside.

To be sure, Chester was hurt in that way men are when they don't really want you but like the idea of having you constantly around. He was pouty, then bitchy, then arrogant, and finally relenting. My mother is another matter. After being confronted with her invasion of my privacy, she rolled her eyes, opened the door that adjoins our rooms and slammed it behind her. 'I really have to get a lock on this side of THAT door', I thought. But if my plan is completed in a timely manner, I may never have to worry about that door, or her invading my privacy again. Me and my emails will be inaccessible!

I'm sure there is a movie I can tie into this little drama, but I will be much too busy for the next few weeks to do so. My addendum will come later.

Playing Beard, Part One

2009-05-16T15:44:00.007-04:00

When he flirts with MEN...should I emote jealousy? Hehee

My introduction as Chester's 'lucky' girlfriend was quite odd. His boyfriend, on his way out-of-town, denied me entry until a few items were cleared up.
"YOU'RE the girl playing his darling?!"
"Yes...", I answered timidly.
After an hour-plus ride from Palm Beach County with the chattiest driver I've ever had; and garment bags stuffed to the gills with dresses, one still wasn't sure were the right fit for the part, I simply wanted to flop on Chester's bed as I had the previous visits; it was so comfortable! He examined me as though he was not sure I was safe for quite a bit, standing with his hand against the doorjamb, blocking my entry. Then, “I am- sure~ you will do well…“, he said eyeing me as bitter, awkward Goth girls eye the lovely Prom Queen. With this greeting I knew was not pleased, to be sure!

Chester has his own room in their condo. I am unclear whom the appearances are kept up for, or whether it is a space issue (Chester is quite the clothes horse!), but it struck me as strange, to be sure. The first time I'd braved a solo excursion to his abode, a 'friend' opened the door. I held out my manicured digits to shake his hand, sure he must be Chester's better-half. "Oh...MAH...gawd! She is such the PBP(Palm Beach Princess)! Ohmagaw', Chessie! You have GOT to see this: there's Lacoste...and pink and a grosgrain ribbon belt and- GASP* those bejeweled pink Manolos with the shiny-shinies and the bows! Awh! And the Birkin to MATCH- I have FOUND perfection! I can die now- goodbye!", he said feigning instantaneous death. He was HIL-larious! "What is that you are rocking on your neck, gurl?", he asked after resuscitation. "I know it's probably a bit much but I simply LOVE this white topaz chandelier necklace, don't you?!-" "CHESSIE~! I am going to steal your new bitch!" Chester seemed to have had enough, "Send her in here and close the door as you leave." As Chester's friend and I went through our greeting, the doorman placed my garment bags very neatly over the back of the sofa and stacked the others on the chaise. 'I simply must remember to tip him on my way out!', I thought to myself as I walked toward Chester's door.

Chester was lying in bed with his face toward the window, blinds open, and an arm covering his face. He was wearing the THINNEST linen sleepers, and nothing else. Literally- nothing else. I was happy his face was covered because I am quite sure one occularily reacted to the...measure of Chester's assets- good Lord! "Would you like me to fetch your robe so you can join me in the sitting room?" He glanced at me then positioned his arm again, "No...but you can join me in bed." As I perched gracefully on an edge of the corner of the mattress, Chester leapt upon me and drug me toward his body with one arm! I feigned reserve; had his arm moved just a bit farther up my body he would have known I was false because my heart was pounding, "Really, Chester...must you be so He-man?" "It's a dramatic role...you have to be prepared for everything..."

Chester has been pretending to desire 'mounting' me since I agreed to my role as 'beard' for the sake of his real estate company. I feel it's a bit 'early-Shatner' for him to play masculine to my feminine in that manner, but he knows better about these things...he played 'hetero' for years. Which is why I was standing at the door so long, with his boyfriend acting as sentinel. Many of my homosexual friends have admitted a dirty little secret: those who enjoyed women (for what it is worth), sometimes miss them- every blue moon. Some have admitted to tryst behind men's backs! Chester enters the room and rescues me from my embarrassment. "Let her in HONEY! No pretty girl is a threat to yew!" He looks at me again, unsure, then removes his hand from the doorjamb, allowing me entry. As I walked in, Chester's boyfriend said, "Your doctor did a GREAT job on your curves- what's his name?", he asked cattily. "Jesus...", I answered. He smiled at what he believed to be a faux pas, "You mean HAY-zeus?-" "No she means, Jesus- you know, Jesus Christ, son of God? That's all natural, baby!" "How would you know?!" Chester pulled me close in a lascivious hug, "Umph! I feel it everytime I do THIS!" Why he felt the need to put me in such a negative position with his boyfriend, I do not know. But my choice of ensemble scored rave reviews with all those in his inner circle that know I am Chester's 'beard'.

"I simply told her 'wear pale green' and she wore THAT!" "Chessie, gurl, you are a lucky man!" I was wearing a mint green sleeveless cheongsam, quite fitted, length to mid-calf. I always like to 'add something' when an item comes off the rack in a foreign country (or take something away since this dress came to me with cap sleeves and a full bodice), I have added a stripe of mint green-and-off white striped ribbon under my bustline and, to the inside of the slit that stops mid-thigh, the most delicate ruffle; almost undetectable to those who do not stare at women's side slits. My outfit that evening at the dinner party brought a smile to Chester's face also: the Temperley London Harmony black and muted gold mini halter dress, and my Louis Vuitton Spicy python sandals (not as comfortable as one imagined since the fringe kept tickling my foot and ankle). "You definitely look like an object of worship in THAT outfit! Those shoes- be still my heart!" It feels good to have a man KNOW how good you look- I mean really know. I think I may develop a strut...

The party the next evening was hectic; too much networking and shooing me away, not enough dancing and complimenting. Then there was the guy: "Hi" "Good evening" I answered scanning the room for Chester. "He's over there", he pointed with the hand holding his drink; I smiled sweetly. "You know...I went to school with Chester for a short time- Gulliver- you know it?" "Yes! My niece and nephew attend." "Hmm...you don't sound like you are from around here-" "Meaning?" He giggled, "Trust me- It's a compliment! You sound WELL-educated, like you were encouraged to mind your Ps and Qs instead of encouraged to participate in random debauchery-" "Are you trying to give me a hint about you and Chester's school days, then?" I asked, raising a brow. I was in no mood to deal with a spurned lover from Chester's past- male-female dynamics be damned! "HA! Nope! I just remember something very specific about him- that's all", he said attempting to set me up for the cut down. "That's a GREAT dress you're wearing, by the way...and those shoes are amazing! What are those?" "Python- they are Louboutin-" "Wow! How'd they get the skin to do that ruffled thing?" After being around Chester that seemed to know EVERYTHING about what was choice, this guy sounded learning disabled, but he was really just like every other guy I dated. "So that dress is pretty shiny-" "Sequins! It is an All Saint's Murcia- modeled from the twenties-" "So it's like...vintage?" "LIKE vintage- BUT NOT." My patience were thin with him, for some reason. Chester walked up when I was ready to makeup a lie about a sore appendage and excuse myself.

"Hey man! I was just tellin' your- GIRL I used to go to Gulliver with you-" "YES! You were seasonal- from New York, right?" "Yeah Yeah! But ahh...you seemed a little different then...you know..." Chester jumped in before he crassly began utilizing archaic euphemisms, "I WAS a little different then, but it makes me a better man for her now, got it?" The guy, who'd been leaning on a decorative divider stood up straight and smoothed down his hair, "Better, huh?-" "The BEST!", and with that Chester pulled me close, squeezed my bottom and began nibbling on my ear and neck. I instinctively made one of those cute noises I can not help but make when someone touches that part of my neck; this only fueled Chester's naughtiness. I unaware of just when the guy excused himself; Chester was fully willing to keep groping me in public! I whispered chastisements to him as I held him close- people were still watching. When I was quite done, he whispered, "I think I need to move you closer to me..." The next day at work, Chester began going through vacancy listings to find the perfect temporary abode for me in Miami Beach. Closer you see…

A move out of my mother's home, to a KA! location in the choicest real estate around? One of us is dreaming...someone's dreaming because mother will definitely fight it, so WAKE UP!

Into The Wild!

2009-05-02T20:48:00.003-04:00

This safari was to be a journey through unknown terrain...

I was lounging on the chaise in Mommie's room pretending to read Palm Beach's oldest social periodical in a pink, sleeveless Lacoste polo dress. I was in no mood to impress- comfort was my goal. Knowing that I would soon have to do mental and emotional battle with my mother over my 'indiscreet' handling of my emotions, it was best to rest up. My mother entered the room and I pulled the magazine down low enough to allow her recognition through a nod, then lifted it up to my face again. "Come along then", she ordered. I lowered the magazine and lifted a brow, "Where to...a burial ditch in Belle Glade?" "Ha HA! Get up; we mean to take you somewhere-" "WE?!" As I questioned her pronoun, Connie entered the room. "Well, you heard your mother!" I gracefully removed my lazy form from the cushions, "It will take both of YOU to do away with ME?" "How unladylike a thought! I am thoroughly surprised at you, M.~!" Her tone said something else- amusement- "To be sure...you are not" I negated. Connie smirked as I slid into my wedges and bounced into my room through the frosted door to retrieve my tote.

I sat quietly in the back of my mother's jade green jaguar, noticing that we were traveling south and east. Since most bodies were disposed of farther north, I was quite relieved. My mother- I truly believe- recalls the days when disobedient daughters could 'disappear' with never another mention of their names. I should hope I never get on that side of her, but I must gain my independence of thought and action; truly a necessity at my age! We pulled into a shopping plaza and right up to the door of a shop I'd never heard of. As I exited the car I asked, "What is this...the best kept secret in Fort Lauderdale?" My mother and Connie exchanged smirks and my mother rolled over to the lot to park. I was fond of bargain hunting 'Maybe' I thought, 'Mommie's truce will involve the disclosure of a new thrift store of some sort!'. "Well are we ready, Connie?" "Yes indeed!" "You are sure this is the place?", Mommie asked with a crinkle of her nose, "Yes indeed!", Connie answered, and we entered the store. My enthusiastic bounding was checked by an assault on one of my better senses...my sense of taste- in fashion! I habitually lay an open, palm-down hand on my chest when appalled, this was my stance as I glanced around, in gaping-mouthed shock at what I and my friends have come to refer to as "urban camouflage".

I understand that people wear apparel that they like; as do I and everyone else. But what if someone played a dirty trick on you, only allowing you access to a certain type of clothing, even developing marketing schemes to dupe you into believing that some awful attire was really the cat's meow. I point this out not due to snobbery but because I have never seen low-end clothiers carry anything but loud, over-the-top patterns and prints as though the madras-pearls-and-polo set were trying to distinguish the haves from the have-nots in the most ridiculously obvious way. Most people do not look good dressed like five-year olds that have chosen the brightest crayola-colored ensemble from their closets; given a wider variety, I believe less people would go for 'shock'em color' and would gravitate toward more subtle hues. EVERYONE that has less than most does not love having pieces of glass and reflective plastics pasted to their clothing! True SOME people enjoy 'peacock rocks' but I really think those are attention-grabbing personalities period. Nothing wrong with that!

"Well then Princess...", my mother began to whisper, "shop until you drop-" "DEAD!" "Excuse me?" I regained my composure, "Why are we really here Mother- CONNIE?!" Connie's shoulders bristled at the dragging of her name into this farce. "This...", my mother began speaking and behaving like the girl a the Fendi shop, with grand gestures toward nothing in particular, "this is where you will be shopping if you continue to date a man with bad credit, sweetie." "No way!" I yelled, "Yes way!" Connie interrupted. "My granddaughter married for great sex and no income and SHE is the one that gave me directions here!" "You two CAN NOT be serious!" "I am QUITE serious little girl!" My mother grabbed my arm roughly and drug me outside the store as the store clerks and managers looked on in disbelief, "Do you really think all the instruction and generosities your father and I struggled to give to you- The Princess- was for you to grow up and marry a man that could not keep you in the lifestyle we gave you?!" My eyes welled up with tears as I thought about when my father was alive and believed me so special he lectured my brothers on keeping certain types of boys at bay. Every father does, but my father was convinced I was truly some sort of royalty; I was just a tomboy that kept a promise...

My mother began to pace, "What ever will you do, dearheart, hmm? Come to Quinn and me for assistance- Quinn would never do for you again if you marry a philanderous, financially-irresponsible golddigger!-" "Must you soil his name so?!" "Connie- tell her!" I then heard rumors and assumptions that had never reached my ears before. They are not the sort of thing a guy is willing to tell you, even in denial, as he sits in the moonlight stroking your hair and whispering "Monona"*. My mother assumed often but an out-and-out liar she was not. Our ride was silent as we made our way to The Island to meet a woman from Miguel's past. I have never reached for a ringing cellie that was not mine; I do not 'spy' on men I date, nor investigate them...this was quite a new journey for me. I believe my mother and Connie meant to save me from what seemed to be a dramatic episode of INSENSE. It must have been some sort of romantic possession that had me lying and sneaking around, right?

The woman smoked and looked like new, dirty money; she reminded me of the women in New York that catch a guy on his way up with no pre-nup, then take the bank. She eyed me with a sneer- it had to be jealousy on some level because it felt like someone with greasy hands stood behind me and yanked my hair. "Mickey definitely went for the high life with you!" "Mickey is what you said? Well-this is a case of mistaken identity then-" "me GWELL or whatever! I called him Mickey..." One of my pet peeves has always been people who disrespect you by changing your name to suit their linguistic limitations...or cultural bias. It is why I allow people to call me 'M.~' instead of having them slaughter my name. She kept staring at me disapprovingly, then put out her cigarette at the insistence of my mother. "I bet YOU never offended anyone in your life, huh?" My mother ignored her ignorance and Connie began asking her to inform me of the relationship she had with Miguel that ruined his marriage. At the end of her soap opera she warned, "Miguel's family came over here with NOTHING. They won't stop until they have a little of everyone else's, you know what I mean?" I shook my head and mouthed 'No' to which she grabbed the sides of my knees and held my legs. "He will do something 'wild' to you then have you're little trust fund heart wrapped around his finger!" She released me, "Listen to your mother and her friend...he is trying to get in your little innocent pants and take your money because his ex cleaned him out-" "How would YOU know?" I asked indignantly and a little wounded, she sat up closer to my face, "I was there when she did the cleaning! He thought I was going to take care of him- HA!- HE COULDN'T EVEN LIE AND CLAIM HE LOVE ME FOR IT!"

As we left, I pitied her, realizing she was much older than me and was probably looking for comfort and companionship, while Miguel was looking to be taken care of and not work another day. He often told me this was his fantasy...to live a life of leisure. He always laughed when I told him I felt useless if I wasn't at least volunteering. I sat in the back of the car, thinking of how I did not like when my associates tried to use older men as 'sponsors'. One told me I was no different I simply did not have to ask, "They know your type will get bored if you aren't showered with gifts and attention!" she said with venom. My friend had left England and was now in Canada...he sent me gifts periodically, carrying gift cards that read, 'Thinking of you and hoping this helps you remember of me'. Who was I in the societal scheme of things? What had my parents raised...who was I to become? I felt so empty...this was not a fulfilling hunt.

* it means 'cute' but in Columbia it is a reference to one with reddish hair.

I will get over it, do not fret. Besides, I have an acting gig as a girlfriend and this little episode definitely contributes to my Method!

Cycles of Change

2009-04-22T18:12:00.003-04:00

Sitting here on Earth Day, as one of many called to action in salving Gaia’s wounds, in an attempt to perpetuate her cycles of progression and dormancy, the symbolism used in Robert Henrick’s poem, “Hesperides, To The Virgins, to Make Much of Time” has a haunting effect on the dramas (and comedies, as you like it!) of this weekend’s affairs.

Gather ye Rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a flying:
And this same flower that smiles to day,
To morrow will be dying.
The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,
The higher he’s a getting;
The sooner will his Race be run,
And neerer he’s to Setting.
That Age is best, which is the first,
When Youth and Blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, goe marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

Everyone is beholden to the cyclic changes of The Universe…powerless to initiate, force, deny or stall any and all motion that is required by The Divine…The Wheel keeps turning as we cling to it, and slide about its curvature.

The Prideful and their Achilles Heels
“I can’t keep this up- I need to see you!”, this desperate voice could have belonged to any man, but its call of urgency was only answered because it was one man- Miguel, our neighbor’s son. He and I had been taking long walks unbeknownst to our parents, as his mother was prone to bragging and speculative gossip, and mine was prone to fits of elitist’s drama and domination. We were like teenagers (eww! not so much) as we stole brief glances, when he would visit his mother and I would ‘happen’ to be outside, that would have exposed us if noticed. We giggled while alone at the thought of two adults ‘hiding’ from there parents. My body would tingle wherever he’d touched me; these purloin moments, together with Chester’s (my new employer) over-the-top flirtations, had me tempered like a brass statue being thermo-contoured.

‘This cannot be happening!’, I thought haughtily, ‘I have control over my hormones and this cannot be happening!’ . Afterall, the man this should be happening with, was presently out of the country, awaiting my daily phone calls. Had I enough faith in her, I should have invoked the Roman goddess Vesta. So long she has been associated with the virgins that kept her flame, few remember she is the goddess of sexual ‘choice’ for women. To touch or not to be touched, were the choices, not the questions. I invited him to the Polo matches on Sunday, as he said he had never been. “I get so jealous when I see you riding off with your mother and her boyfriend looking so beautiful…”, was Miguel’s take on my trips to Wellington each week. We had to get through thirty-nine more hours without seeing one another. My mother would occasionally wave and greet Miguel’s mother from the mailbox, arrogant enough to believe she’d foiled any interaction between us. Miguel’s mother had taken to greeting me quite dryly, as though speaking to me was unbearable. It was a maternal form of sour grapes. Their Achilles Heels were that we knew them both too well to let them in on our secret.

The Celebration of The Pride-filled
The most promising part of the festivities on Saturday was the participation of Legacy couples displayed during and after the parade. With all the pro/con discourse concerning Same-sex Marriage legality, it was a source of ‘pride’ for me that one of the stereotypes alluded to by a journalist I felt (until that statement) was quite intelligent, was nullified: homosexual men aren’t merely horny, humping, monogamy-spurning creatures, akin to the more primitive of animals. I really become physically ill at the mention of that falsity, especially when I am confronted daily by horny, humping, monogamy-spurning creatures of the HETEROSEXUAL kind! Dear reader, c’est très simple et très vrai: people are people; their choices have little to do with who they are attracted to and everything to do with WHAT they are attracted to. If you are a ‘physically-generous’ person, you will be such whether you are hard-wired to love men or women.

My present lament is at the intolerance of some Same-sex lovers that refer to ‘my kind’ as breeders. Still possessing the capacity of either fertilizing or being fertilized with the help of modern sciences has not lessened the reversal of aggression between them and us. I would not ask my brothers and sisters of same-sex love to forgive me, as there is nothing I have done to forgive. Nor would I ask them to forgive those that HAVE oppressed or abused them; instead I ask that they at least realize if I am in their midst during the first-ever Gay Pride Parade in Miami Beach…I must be there for a GOOD reason. Over all it was a great time (I heard the May versions of Lupercalia and Bacchanalia didn’t get started until dark, farther down the beach).

Her Pride-and-joy Made Poison
My younger sister called my cell to give me the blow-by-blow account of my mother’s harrowing search for her prized possession: a rare jewel known as a pretty unwed daughter. She simply REFUSED to leave home for the matches without me! In Palm Beach County during the Polo Championships, this item can open doors and solicit invites with the mere show of a pleasant smile; ne’er too many “Nos” ; and the right ensemble. The economy is so unstable men whom normally kept wives and girlfriends have had to let go of girlfriends (and occasionally wives) in an effort to secure the family wealth from blasé squanderings. Courting has come back into play; safer sex abounds as men cannot be totally sure a young woman will not simply keep a child to insure future financial security. In otherwords, everyone is a bit pickier. Some have even begun re-evaluating past declines: Rey is one of those people.

When he saw me arrive with Miguel, he silently made it known that he needed a moment to speak with me. It has been many seasons since Rey and I attempted to get to know one another…many seasons. He had just returned from Paris and our affinity for the 17eme arrondissement with its social contrasts (société exclusif and BoBo- bohemian-bourgeois), as well as the Aux Couleurs du Monde’s Asian/Central-american menu and atmosphere deeply rooted in our memories, we seemed to have so much in common. As I walked over to him he smirked as though he’d won some triumph- over Miguel or me, it was unclear. “A FRIEND of yours?” “To be sure…” Rey glanced toward Miguel, “Sorely to your mother I am sure”. Rey was all too familiar with my mother’s strict policies on whom I dated. “He is escorting me, it is nothing to bother yourself about”, I stated dryly, as I turned my nose skyward and began to walk away. Rey grabbed my arm, gently. “But IT is a bit of a problem if I want to come for a visit-“ I shook his hand away, “Not if you are calling upon my mother and Quinn!”. I took care to move more than arm’s distance away this time before I trusted turning around and leaving his presence. I prayed he would not be the catalyst to my premonitions of war with my mother over Miguel.

As I returned to Miguel’s side, I heard the strangest murmurings “How many have died!” I recall hearing one woman squeal. The rest of the time spent at the club that day is recalled in slow motion for me. Having loved and indirectly cared for horses for most of my life, I could not believe my ears, and later my eyes. “Let’s go see what happened!”, Miguel shouted as he began pulling me toward the horror of a fallen animal. Rey appeared from seemingly nowhere and stood firmly in front of Miguel until he looked up. “Take the young lady HOME! This not the sort of sight SHE should see!” Miguel looked toward me and I immediately looked toward the ground, when I looked up again Miguel and Rey were staring each other down. ‘Is my scent in the air?’, I wondered then I feigned weakness, “I feel…faint”. If only to get away from what I was hearing and knew to be happening to the creatures we looked upon as beloved champion athletes. We cmae to cheer on these majestics, rarely the riders.

Miguel kept questioning me about Rey, but I sat silently and hoped that my mother was home. As we pulled up, I saw her car and barely waited for Miguel to stop before I opened the door and leapt out. “M.~! Wait!” I burst through the door, ran toward my mother's voice in the kitchen and grabbed her from behind in a desperately childish embrace, as she spoke on the phone, “Yes, well she is here now…I believe she is quite troubled by this whole ordeal…Yes…” As she hung up the phone, she turned toward me and held me tight, then she whispered softly, “I spoke with Rey…How has one come so lately to being a deceiver?” I attempted to step back to look at her, but she would not release my head and shoulders. My heart and head began to pound; I began to wonder what it was about disappointing my mother that struck so much fear in my heart. “My head needs release, Mother…” I whispered, but Quinn was seated so close he heard me speak. “What was that?” My mother answered, “She said her head needs RELIEF. Be a dear, Quinn, and fetch something for her head, please?” When Quinn left the room my mother pushed me away, and glowered at me. “I hope he was worth it! To take THAT MAN around our friends- on a day so memorable!-“ “THE NEXT TIME will make certain no tragedies are occurring!” My mother stood shocked that I would raise my voice to her as Quinn re-entered the kitchen. “She’s so delicate one could not remember if she took one of these or these”, Quinn joked as he alternately held up two bottles. I walked over to him with an outstretched hand, “I take one of these Quinn, thank you” then turning to my mother I added, “Do call upon Gin, I believe I saw here car pulling in as we were leaving”. I did not wait for a reply from my mother.

A friend of the family’s, Ginny Powell, was one of the medical technicians on-site, and when we got through to her late on Monday, she was still quite distressed and confounded.

This and That

2009-04-17T12:29:00.005-04:00

Yes, yes...I have become quite lazy with this blog. Nothing creative here, just THIS and THAT! The entertainment should pick up after the polo championships (that's when I start working).

Prison Break will be ending this season: it was making me antsy that convicted felons (innocent or not) could just run about like that!

Trust Me is the perfect example of a co-star mucking up a show. You cannot 'trust' everyone with character development.

Jonathan Rhys-Meyers made history believable on The Tudors. As a child reading about Henry VIII, one could not imagine what sort of fellow could keep women after he ‘eliminated’ the first one. I think even I would try my luck at Ol’ Henry if he looked like Jonathan! Alas, he is now running out of nuptial victims; this is the final season.

After years of deep-chested sighs and wayward thoughts about VDO, as well as his character Detective Goren on Law & Order: CRIMINAL INTENT (sometimes simultaneously), the addition of Jeff Goldblum is a bit too much for my respiration difficulties! If they are on the screen at the same time I...will...squeak like a preteen at a Jonas Brothers concert (I'm totally out of touch) and grab my inhaler. WOW!

NYC Prep premieres in June on The Bravo Channel: it is no Gossip Girl! One, it is not drama but reality-drama; two, it involves REAL teenagers whom they claim are “firmly entrenched in New York Society”(some of them now behave like they have learning disabilities and speak like they have picked up English slang as a first language, THEN learned English based on the grammatical ‘rules’ of that mess!). Surely it is not haute société: one could not IMAGINE off-spring of the caliber of a Tinsley Mortimer, Maria Luisa Leviant, Lily Maddock or Alexandra Osipow parading around shamelessly in front of the world. Have these people learned nothing from the MTV show “Rich Girls” (2003)?! I do not believe Ali ever recovered (in a whisper: you should SEE whom she's dating down here!). One thinks this will be a case of life imitating art, since Gossip Girl is so popular kids are actually trying to behave like Blair, Serena, et al.

Speaking of strangies in New York...The Real Housewives of New York, for some odd reason, has captured at least five hours of my attention this year. "...Orange County", nor "...Atlanta" could get me to even surf through Bravo while they were on. I fear an addiction is coming on- not on the level of a "Fringe" addiction- this is COMPLETELY unexplainable! Maybe I DO miss The City...just a little. If I do, I'll go visiting before August (when it is unbearably hot).

Just One More Thing

Ahh yes! My favorite TV series Fringe will be moving production to Canada. Knowing that positive noetic energies will have to travel even farther to my cerebral crush, J.J. Abrams makes one pout a little. I'm sure many people will be tres happy with this move to Johnny Canuck-land...including one of the co-stars; afterall, he grew up there. CTV should send a thank-you card to the New York City Mayor's Office of Film, Theatre and Broadcasting for their inflated filming fees list...the word is that was a determining factor. I wonder if I 'channel' my creative energies to one of the members of ION (Institute of Noetic Sciences) in Petaluma, CA, would they be able to 'forward' that to J.J. in Vancouver?

These weird ramblings are why one should never eat a bowl of Ben & Jerry's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream for breakfast, after eating only spicy guacamole on toasted half-pitas and nasi goreng (fried rice with diced chili peppers, asam and egg; I add salmon instead of prawns or shrimp) for a week. Don't ask!

It's In The Blood

2009-04-11T18:39:00.010-04:00

"So you say you're part flapping-head..."
This was a quote from an ex- you aren't wondering WHY he's an ex, are you? The South Park reference aside, his comment was ill-timed since it was the close of the season and I was trying to consume all things Canuck at the time. NO! One is not such a fan that I divorced over a remark about my favorite hockey team...but it did NOT look good on his marriage resume! You see, cheering on the Canucks is in my blood...

I answered my cell to this comment not long after I arrived in SoFL, "Is there some sort of gypsy calendar that would tell me where and when you migrate?" I laughed outloud, "No BJ, there is not! So sad, too bad!" My brother tires of my travels. He is truly my favorite (not just because he is Daddie's namesake); he and I share a love of sports and the same sports teams, which makes sense since he is one of the people who introduced me to sports. My uncle was an UNC, Cavs, Browns and Steelers (when the Brownies did not go far enough) fan; thus my love of the Tarheels. Daddie was a soccer(does anyone remember the Cleveland Force?) and Canucks fan, but my brother BJ was the only one, besides a few cousins, that was willing to explain the sport to a girl-child. This began when our family went up to Vancouver and we were bitten by our northern family's hockey enthusiasm. As I got older, I was less of a 'tomboy' but even more of a fan. When I became privy to the games on sport channels I was a maniac at times. Some men found this "adorable"; others thought it was an abomination- I was invading their mental haven from womankind, with my love of what my mother deemed a "cold, violent bloodbath". KA!

"So what's up down there anyway?" "The same, only I'm older and more bored..." "Keep moving around and you'll make it back down there just in time for retirement- you'll fit right in!" "Ha HA" "I have a coworker that is retiring from the force and opening a security company down there-" "Because that is so unique", I butted in sarcastically. "He might be your type..." "Why is he 188 and can't wait?" (a reference to my preference for guys a full foot taller than me- 6'2"/188 cm- that are ready to marry). "Not even CLOSE!", my brother laughed. We exited our call with him claiming he had something for me that he knew I would like; the last time he said that he sent me a stress-squeeze clown.

I thought nothing more of it until a package arrived this morning via FedEx. "I was not aware they delivered today...", Quinn stated as I walked into the sitting room to retrieve my package from my mother who was now shaking it. "Mommie!", I squealed as she shook it harder. "M.~!" she yelled, aghast that I would find my way into the house from the pool area in a white bikini and flip flops (truth be told, she was probably more aghast at the flip flops than the exposure). "My package?" "It's from your brother...", she said staring at me with feigned disapproval. 'Feigned' because every plus on me, my mother attributed to her; she mentally 'high-fived' herself everytime my unrequited affections broke a man's heart. I carted my package up to my room, least it turn out to be some embarassing, yet hilarious gift. I flopped on my bed, wondering when my mother would remove the raised plaform beneath it that my older sister referred to as 'a stage'. As I opened the box I squealed with glee- it was a Canucks throwback heritage sweater ('72-'73) with "Kurtenbach" and the number "25" sown on the back in chenille felt-backed letters and numbers. The card read: "Hope this arrives in time for the game; I'm wearing mine! Love, BJ" And THAT is why he is my favorite!

As I sit on my bed, laptop firmly on lap; with my throwback sweater on over my bikini; and the central air on fifty degrees, feeling the 'Hell yeah!' joy of the Canucks beating the Avalanches by one point in overtime, I know my brother and all other Canucks are feeling this good too!

Worth

2009-04-10T16:02:00.006-04:00

The word vicarious seems closer to vicious than to victorious, does it not?

One should have known there was something a foot. Connie told me about a 'professional opportunity' with her cousin's son in Miami; "It's a distance but I'm sure your mother and stepfather would help get you there". The 'stepfather' title made my mother begin coughing and choking while Quinn rubbed her back and smiled. Too funny! I told her I would think about it and we left. As soon as I got home I rushed up stairs and changed clothes, pulling my hair into a ponytail that I wrapped into a bun. I popped back into the family room and asked, "Mommie, could you give me a ride somewhere?". "Anywhere but here dear..." she chided. She then turned to look at me over her shoulder, "To the gymnasium?" "No...the women's shelter-" "NOT again!", her volume startled Quinn who had been cuddling tete-a-tete with her on the sofa. "Moping about in UN-suitable clothing; worrying lines into your face about people you cannot help! Did you learn NOTHING from the years I spent counseling and working in the system?!" I swallowed hard to calm myself, "Then you know it is futile to attempt to stop me from doing for others when it burns within me." We continued to stare each other down as Quinn pointed out how much I was like my mother; he was actually siding with me.

I thought of how I'd lied about my whereabouts the time I was here in 2006, until the fundraiser where I was outed by a family friend. "M.~ is the most like you, Nyah...she has been volunteering at the shelters for months!" We'd argued and reconciled over Hermes scarves and chamomile tea. "We have trunk shows to attend." "I will make sure I come back home by tomorrow morning". In 2006...she thought I was clubbing when I did not return home; I was spending the night at the shelters sometimes to comfort, sometimes to babysit. We were quite silent on the ride there. I knew she was only trying to save me from the heartaches and sympathies that 'burned her out' during the years when she was at work more than home. She won accolades and recognitions...but we just wanted to see her face before school. We were old enough we did not need laptime, and we felt selfish for wanting her home. "Don't bring your work home with you", she warned as I leapt from the car and ran inside. I remembered how stories of regret begin and ran back out to yell, "I love you!". She signed the same back to me and drove off. Just after my arrival I made arrangements with the car service to pick me up at ten PM.

I awakened the next morning at five-thirty AM to a call from my friend- you know...the one who bespoke too soon? There were many 'I miss you terribly's and 'I am truly sorry to have offend you's. I appreciated them all, however, my candor invited his lasciviousness later in the conversation, and I ended the call, rolling my eyes. The quality of linens at my mother's home is spectacular; so much so I tend to bathe in the evenings and sleep in the buff. Our adjoined rooms, separated only by a frosted glass door (with a lock and shoji screen only on HER side of the door), is further secured by my lack of clothing while sleeping and my mother's desire NOT to see me as she first saw me enter this world. One dozed off again only to be awakened an hour later by a short voice on the intercomm that said, "Breakfast Princess!" I assumed it was Mommie. As I pulled on a lounging outfit and a robe, then trotted down the back staircase, I heard my nephew Genesis cooing. I walked over to his basinet and asked his mother while tickling him, "What are YOU doing here?" HER answer, "Mommie called me over to make you breakfast". "I know how to cook!" I pouted. "Are you SURE~? Because I have been cooking for you since I was fifteen!" "Mommie-!" "MOMMIE what?! We all know the drill: the princess must be catered to because she is Mommie's favorite" my sister taunted me, mimicking my mother's air and diction. I picked up Genesis and kissed his infant forehead, "To be sure, I am not. Is your nanny sick?" "Day off", she answered curtly.

My younger sister began banging pots and pans around and glancing at me less than pleasantly from the corner of her eye. "Where's Imelia?", I asked trying to coax conversation from her. "She hasn't worked here in a year; the new housekeeper is ANNA." Now I REALLY felt like a horse's bum; sure, I'd noticed there was a different woman keeping the house tidy but in all the hustle and bustle I neglected to learn her name. My sister stopped and stared at me, "Have you ever gotten tired of having everyone cater to you? I have TWO children now, but heaven forbid I tell our mother I REFUSE to come over early in the morning to cook FOR YOU!-" "If you really want to burn her britches I know how..." I interrupted, wanting to wet down my sister's fury. "How?" "Let ME cook for US." It never ceased to amaze me that I'd been married and engaged, yet everyone acted as though I had never been in a kitchen (or a bedroom). It was all just a side effect of a deeper maladjustment: my mother's need to live three different lives through her three very different daughters.

As I cooked, I explained to my forgetful younger sister the 'why?' of all this: "YOU are our mother as the virtuous young wife, knowing only one man and married to him. Devoting your life to children, husband and home. Never allowing the professional world to keep you from your duties. Tiffy is our mother as the alpha-female: in business she is highly successful and her husband and children are cheering her on. She has attained heights in the professional world our mother wanted to gain but feeling the tug of home relinquished." "No such problem for Tiff", my sister observed. "Then there is me: I am our mother had she taken another path completely. Having loved and committed but not being teetered to the ground by a family; instead flying away wherever and whenever she chose-" "You mean as a childless, well-loved gypsy in couture?", my sister could not resist biting. I self-consciously looked to the floor, "Yes...I am she." My sister's face took on disappointment, "So you DO regret being carefree, sometimes?" "Fatimah Selena, I have DREAMT of sitting on a sofa in a well-decorated home, watching a handsome but dorky man debark from a minivan with four children that look like us, and that thought has filled me with longing for what could have been- but not regret." "M.~...I have bad news...that IS regret." We sat and ate, occasionally sharing knowing smiles, while watching television and the baby as he slept.

The trunk shows were a whirlwind for me! We bought so many billowy dresses from one designer they couriered a rolling garment rack to our home. My memorable acquisitions: a distressed leather gym bag; a lemon yellow gym bag (that will be used as an avant-garde handbag for me) and eye pillows all from Lululemon; a beautiful set from Piranesi, courtesy of Quinn; five tunic dresses and a Garcelle Beauvais-Nilon dress from the Jubilee Collection (she is one of my fav poupée Haïtienne célèbre); of course there was that two days of frenzy at H. Stern's shows that left my mother and me wide-eyed and euphoric. Mommie and Quinn were QUITE generous; this normally doesn't make one suspicious except it was not my birthday or any other gift-giving holiday. Then the reason was found in one phrase: "M.~ sweetie, put on something sexy we have company coming". I foolishly assumed it was Miguel, our neighbor's son, then I recalled my mother's reaction to him. "Who might that be?", I asked nonchalantly. "Connie's cousin's son...", she was in the other room awaiting my tantrum; it disappointed by not arriving. "I thought I said I would think about it?" "How much thinking can an unemployed houseguest do?" Touche'! I frowned slightly, "Why 'sexy' then?" Without looking up from her Departures magazine she said, "The bulk of your duties require being pretty...it's sort of like a Vanna White position only you get to speak more often..." I was appalled my mother would place me in such a position, "What on earth will I be doing for him- Geisha, Escort, LAPTOY?!" Still undisturbed my mother said dryly, "You should be ten years younger for those positions...you will help him sell condos off Collins- that's all." "I'm not licensed-", I began as she finally turned toward me, "You need only be as useful as you are presently to your male admirers about town, sweetie, so chop-chop!" As I entered my room I heard my mother's voice over the intercomm, "Put on a bikini so he can see your form". I refused!

I descended the stairs to my mother moaning, "Did I not tell you to put on a bikini?!" "I will NOT display myself in that manner-" "THIS from the girl that sunbathes next to the golf greens!" "I lie next to the enclosed pool and Fatimah stands watch!" "Oh let me look at you!" I was wearing the tiniest white stretch-cotton short shorts I could find, a Ralph Lauren navy blue Julie long placket polo shirt and Christian Dior 'Miss Dior' sandals (uber-sexy camel sheer strappies at almost five inches). This was the extent of my pandering: if he couldn't see the goods in THIS he was blind! "Put on some David Yurman and go lounge by the pool!" What my mother gets me into MUST be a crime in some state. As I 'lounged' my mother told me about how beautiful this man thought she was; "Even though none of you girls really LOOKS like ME~...well, you are the closest to the essence of me." I was praying for another coughing fit, the likes of which seized her when Connie referred to Quinn as my stepfather; no such luck. When he arrived she showed him into the pool area grandly. As she spoke I knew my cue to stand and stroll over to him, "THIS- is my daughter M.~!" "Ooww! 'M~' so mysterious!" "Not know that you have met me", I answered sickening myself with my feigned charm. I gave him a once over: he was attractive (which is why my mother cared so much about his compliments to her) and well-groomed to a fault. He reminded me of someone else...someone from my past. The connection escaped me. My verdict: I STILL would not date him for a job! The answer to the 'what?' of my job description came as soon as he glanced at my feet: "Ohmigawd! WHAT size shoe is that?!" "A six- but she is actually a five-and-a-half!", my mother answered for me. "OHhh! Your feet look so yummy in those Dior's I could just eat them! Honey, if I were a lesbian I'd date you!", he finished with a wink. I was to be his skirt it seems; some woman so ultra-fem she made him look metro-sexual to those whom are still bigots about sexuality. For some reason, this made me feel a bit more useful than what I presumed. My salary is an outrageous fortune for learning a few floorplans and interior design vocabulary words. I thanked Mommie profusely! "Mommie always knows best sweetie! Mommie knows what beauty is worth!" As I bounded up the stairs, I stopped at this comment, remembering the conversation with my younger sister a few mornings prior, and thought with a heavy mind, 'Yes...and this DNA will always gain its worth'.

One should have known my mother would not overtly 'pimp me out' in such a manner, but as they get older...one wonders...

To The Castle- BOUND!

2009-04-02T11:25:00.008-04:00

Sometimes one's pouting can only be checked by familial wisdom and selfless acts.

Seeing Krista at the airport was truly Divine Intervention; I'd been troubling myself over the shelters I'd volunteered at before I left in 2007. I felt like I abandoned all the hearts and lives I'd made cursory connections to at the shelters. Knowing professionally one should never cling, I dared not call and inquire. But catching up briefly with Krista as we waited for our bags and having her invite me back, lifted my heart! My chatter in the car with my younger sister centered around my excitement about returning to the shelter and her preparations for her nuclear family's summer in the Hamptons. She had gone each year for varying timeframes to her present in-laws' estate in Southampton, 11968 since she was eighteen. That first summer I'd gone as chaperone and was a bit of a bother to her now-husband Rickey (think the robot with the virgin-alarm in "Spaceballs"[1987]). After that, she travelled sans-chaperone; much to Rickey's disappointment, she remained virtuous in my absence. "You prepare earlier and earlier each year; I should fear you will be packing Christmas gifts for the trip in a few years." "Never THAT early!", she answered and we both laughed. As we lugged my baggage into my mother's home I wondered where my younger brothers were. "Is there no male hand in the house?" My sister rolled her eyes over her shoulder toward the front door, "Quinn's here but...", she did not need to finish the sentence. Quinn, my mother's on-again-off-again beau, once stopped a jogging neighbor to assist him with HIS baggage. The most embarassing part came when he attempted to 'tip' said neighbor; in a neighborhood where the houses easily market for a million-plus, treating a fellow homeowner like the help was too-too much! "Mommie, M.'s here!" my younger sister yelled as we entered. My mother's voice came over the intercomm, "There are devices within this abode for such announcements to be channeled, dearest!" Mommie was not pleased.

"Where are the children?" I asked my sister as we sat on the bench in the foyer, watching the landscaper remove his shoes so he could assist the housekeeper in lugging my luggage up to my rooms. Quinn had orchestrated this proactive maneuver as an offense to either of us asking for his help. A relative to a few members of The House of Lords, the most manual labor Quinn ever performed was to impress my mother during the first two years of their courtship. My father was a man's-man and very athletic. To be sure, those are difficult shoes to fill. We all breathed a sigh of relief after my mother allowed him to relax and be himself; before he hurt himself. "Makayla is in school- you remember?- and her brother is with the nanny." It still made me uneasy that my sisters seemed to have forgotten the sacrifices our parents made to keep our lives 'normal'. Most of the sacrifice involved their time, since the only sibling to have a nanny was my oldest sister. But with this heat, I did not bother myself about the landscaper and the housekeeper going beyond their job descriptions (until now). Hmm...

My mother's voice came over the intercomm again, "Mommie is in the kitchen!" My sister and I joked as we walked through the house, 'Is she REALLY is she REALLY in the kitchen?' Just as we sat in the breakfast nook, my mother must have noticed my sister's outfit at the very moment we noticed hers. There was the eeriest simultaneous "WHAT are you wearing?!" that came from all of our now gaping mouthes. My mother raised a well manicured hand with her delicate arm then lowered to calm everyone. My mother began, "I~ am at home, sunning and enjoying the perks of being mature and child-free..." To those of my friends that recall my mother's T-back, deep scoop-necked one-pieces from our youth, consider yourself fortuitous that you were not at her home this day. We are older, but she seems to have frozen in time, making the KA! designer monokini she was wearing that much better (or worse?). "Quinn! It looks like you have a younger woman" I chided. My mother snipped, "NOT if they dress LIKE THAT!" For years now we've taunted my younger sister with the nickname 'Hip-hop Barbie'; dressed in KLS (Kimora Lee Simmons more pricey line) from head-to-toe, she was promoting our cousins's employer full-throttle (two of my cousins regularly work as models: one for Baby Phat, the other for KLS). My mother was never one for gilded ostentatious daywear- unless that was the theme of the charity event.

"Mommie leave her alone, please?" I asked. She glanced back over at me, "Fine...I'll leave her alone and bother YOU..." I was puzzled concerning her mal mood until she spoke again, "You ran away from a perfectly decent gentleman because he got you an appointment at Turnbull & Asser?" "Making it seem that frivolous is COMPLETELY unfair mother!" "Really, it is not!" She nibbled another slice of mango as Quinn cut them neatly and placed them in a bowl, then continued, "Remember when you drug that 'starving artist' to Paul Stuart? Was THAT insulting?" "It wasn't his assistance that was insulting, it was what he said-" "What was that?" Quinn interrupted. Over the years he has gained a great deal of respect from my mother's children as a paternal figure, however, on matters of fashion, he should really remain mute on an issue thus moot. "Besides" I continued ignoring Quinn's inquiry, "I couldn't let him show up in grudgy jeans, a thrift store corduroy blazer and one of those WRINKLED buttondowns he was always in...he would not have been comfortable." "Snob!" my younger sister, teased. My mother and Quinn chuckled, "Really M.~ I believe you are running away from romance..." "Yes" Quinn added, "and with the manner I've seen you treat others when it comes to clothing, you should receive advisement in the same heart as you give it. That said, I believe you have been haughty in your concern over other's style in the past and are a bit embarassed at the same treatment from another."

They gave me a moment to ingest their all too truthful words then my mother spoke, "Now get that depressing New York ensemble off your back and put on something sunny! I want to take you to see Connie's condo at the Brazilian Court Hotel." "Yes! Please hurry, I feel it's important that you see at least one since they donate a precentile of the sale to Evelyn Lauder's Cancer Research Foundation." My mother added, "Yes, yes. Quinn instantly thought of you when he learnt that fact." As I rounded the corner to begin my climb up the staircase, I stopped and ran back over to where Quinn and my mother were standing. "You thought of me Quinn?" I cooed sweetly, embarassing him a bit; one of the 'cons' of dating my mother, according to Quinn was "all those female children", as he put it. There are only three of us, and when he meet my mother two of us were adults, but I suppose that is a valid fear when your girlfriend is that hot and youthful-looking. "Yes well...you are always volunteering and such and I remember those affairs you drag us to..." I patted his hand as it rested over my mother's little brown one, then gave him a gift that has remained unspoken although my siblings and I have felt it for a while now, "Thank you Quinn...we really appreciate you being with us." I tried to remain more stationary in my emotions and aloof in my conversation with Quinn for the rest of the day, in order to help him properly recover from the swell of emotion from earlier.

I entered my room and of course, it was immaculate and held the aroma of vanilla and roses; my favorite scents. Vanilla, because it is the scent that works best with my natural essence, and roses for The Virgin Mary (she and I remained close until my wedding night). I quickly dressed- perhaps too quickly for my mother's pace- and began haunting the downstairs areas of my mother's home to kill time. I bravely strutted around the pool in my four-inch Louis Vuitton Grapefruit sandals in calfskin and damier azur. Although most of my Louis has been replaced since the fire in NC, family and friends still shower me with new Louis items like others shower surviviors of tragedies with hugs. The greens behind my mother's house looked so perfect I decided to brave the heat and gaze upon their lush splendor...the spring door slammed behind me and I was trapped behind my mother's home, beyond the pool enclosure. To be sure, I am not helpless! I simply dreaded the trot around the perimeter of my mother's house...in four inch wedges and my Dolce & Gabbana pale blue strapless shantung dress (note: I have only seen it in sheath style in department stores). I was also weighed down by a graduated diamond tennis necklace that my mother suggested I wear to visit her friend Connie. I began rounding the pristinely landscaped foliage and mentally mapping which side of my mother's home might be the shortest distance to one of the garages. 'Surely the housekeeper will hear me knocking on the door', I thought. As I was trying with some difficulty to recall what car was in the single carport, I heard someone call my mother's name- to me.

I turned and saw a golf cart rolling toward me with a woman calling to me and a man driving. Out of habit, I raised my arm to shield the sun, even though I was wearing my Bulgari white-framed shades. "Oh! Oh my- you DEFINITELY are not Nyah!" "Sorry to disappoint..." I answered sweetly, "It would seem my mother is 'trapped' on the inside of our home...as I am trapped outside-" "Those doors swing shut pretty quick!", the man driving the cart added. He was close enough now for me to see what he looked like...but for reasons I am sure will become apparent, he still seemed (BLINDLY ATTRACTIVE!) like there was much too much sunlight around his face. I involuntarily smiled at him- I was NOT flirting! He dismounted the cart and held out his hand, "I am Miguel...and you are...?" I shook his hand and began to answer, "I am-" "You're Nyah's second oldest daughter- the one I keep missing!", the woman interrupted. She began to recount the times she missed meeting me and why, and how she'd learned so much about me through the pictures my mother would show her, that she- and her son, Miguel- felt as thought they already knew me. "When I first saw a picture of you, and your mother told me the meaning of your name, I said to my son 'MIGUEL she is as beautiful as she SHOULD BE with such a name! You must meet her!' And Miguel told me 'No Mom! Don't play matchmaker!'..." her voice trailed off as I kept attempting to sneak glances at her son who was wearing an embarassed grin and occasionally glancing at me...and licking his lips. Something hormonal was occuring but I decided to blame the sun, "I feel so warm I must get around to the carport-" "I can give you a ride to your front door, if you'd like?" Miguel's mother stared at her son with a proud, knowing smile on her face, "Well, it IS warm...we live right next door- it's no bother." "Thank you", I said as Miguel took my hand from my side and began leading me toward the cart. She eyed Miguel's expression again then added, "You can sit in the front; the thought of you falling out of the back of the cart would give me NIGHTMARES if it came to pass!"

The ride was ackward only because I regressed to FIFTEEN, and he kept eyeing me like I was wearing something abbreviated and naughty. The housekeeper was waiting at the front door as we rounded the last corner of the house, "Oh goodness Ms. Lauder! I saw you out back and you got in the cart before I could get around the pool-!" "It is quite alright, our neighbors came to my rescue." As Miguel assisted me out of the vehicle, my mother came to the door with a smile that melted away as she saw who I was accompanied by. "M.~! You REALLY must be more careful! Come in and get dressed, we will be late!" Since my mother PICKED OUT my outfit for the visit, she knew full well I was already dressed. We were brought up not to speak against our mother, so I simply assured her I would hurry...but not before giving Miguel my cell number.

During the ride to Connie's, I had to endure any number of illogical statements that were supposed to dissuade me from wanting to pursue any sort of social interaction with Miguel. "Really sweetie, Mommie is NOT a snob, but after his divorce, he could never afford to take you the places you are used to travelling...He's never even been to ST. BARTH'S!". This statement sealed it for Quinn, "Where is that family FROM?! Why, it's just across...", he grumbled with distaste. My mother finished her tirade as she turned toward the space between the bucket seats, "You WALK in Louis for goodness sakes! What could HE possibly afford to buy you that I have not?" As we entered the building, my mother told me the Cliff's Notes version of Connie's selflessness towards her loved ones. She'd given her palatial mansion in Wellington to her wayward granddaughter that was married to a social worker, because they were now pregnant; opting to move into The Brazilian and suffer. Her pedigree affirmed my suspicions: my mother's elegant waltz up the social staircase on 'The Island' was moving swiftly. We entered Connie's Mediterranean-style quarters at The Brazilian and she dramatically gasped at the sight of me. "NYAH! You must be so proud- she is a VISION of perfection! Her perfect little figure rivals any procedure these Palm Beach princesses could obtain! How DO you stay so doll-like and lovely?" I smiled sweetly, walking farther into her sitting room and placing my white Gucci Queen satchel under my arm, "Well...", I spoke flatly, "carrying this quality of DNA is quite the toil." I could feel my mother's eyes burning a gaze into my back through my flowing tresses, as Connie laughed as though she were beside herself.

I have a sense, a preternatural knowledge, that this visit will bring a major change in how my mother and I interact. I pray neither sheds tears.

Bored To Good Measure!

2009-03-24T11:25:00.006-04:00

Some are left better un-bespoken!

Having your newest pseudo-beau make suggestions about your wardrobe, is one thing...having him tell you, for the better part of your BREATHING LIFE, you have been a fashion mistake, is quite another! I have proudly admitted my missteps and faux pases-of-fashion throughout my teens and lean-green years; these moments have cost me nothing and taught me much. To be sure, my maternal ties have lent some odd combinations to my style: my MOM wears embellished thai jackets with modified sarees and I have too; but most of the time I am spotted in something simple and classic. Which brings me to the 'discussion'...

He asked gently enough what labels I wore while growing up. From Ohio to Upper Michigan, throughout California and all states southern, my mother kept me in basically the same labels: Best & Co., Ralph Lauren, Gloria Vanderbilt, Vineyard Vines, LL Bean, Lacoste and black labelled Gunne Sax for nostalgia's sake. We shared Petit Bateau once the women's line became interesting to my mother. I sometimes was not popular (in a positive way) due to this type of clothing, but I had no real say until I was older. By then, I was a regular at every thrift store from Miami to Palm Beach reverting to tailored Brooks Brothers, Paul Stuart- Women and others when I needed to make an appearance with Mommie. Those my age whom were unfortunate enough to have met me while I was with my mother- being the proper daughter- would joke that my hair bun was too tight; my skirts too long; my shoes too plain. I was virtually unrecognizable in my club clothes- not because they were risque, but because they were to-the-season haute! Now that there is a great deal less club-kid in me and a great deal more of my mother's hoped-for daughter, my pearls dangle more often from my delicate neck than a chucky Miu Miu necklace. I believe it was the parachute minidress from All Saints that ruffled his feathers: the 'younger woman' on his arm, that looked younger than she is (made up or not), with the trendy cocktail dress, gained him his embarassment. Is it MY fault I am the height most of those women were at twelve?! I suppose I should risk skin cancer with constant sun exposure in order to age my skin to its proper years? One thinks not! After the multiple tailoring and bespoken gifts that DO compliment my wardrobe but insult my individuality...I have runaway to Florida. New York wasn't warming up as quickly as it needed to for my taste!

I have heard men whispering that women attempted to/succeed in changing them; they either sound as though there was some sort of relinquishment or conquest involved. I once had a male friend announce to us that he would be wearing more suits and ties for his Eurodoll of a girlfriend. He did not realize, until he'd spent the cash that although she looked, and for the most part acted, the well-refined Eurodoll, she was NO LADY. After having her embarass our circle on more than one occasion (with mannerisms and talk better described as euro-trashy than avant-garde), he was so disappointed, he abandoned the relationship and the style. Remember: everyone appreciates a lady whom speaks her mind only when she expresses her RIGHT mind- be logical and reason what is appropriate.

I will not be so drastic...I will invite my newest beau down for walks on the beach and sailing off the coast. Who knows...maybe a few lunches at the Club with Mommie will make that wonderful feeling return that I had for him at the Inauguration and the Super Bowl...

All this Pygmalion drama is possibly due to a lack of Vitamin D from minimal sunlight in Gotham. However did I survive the first time I lived there?

Is It REALLY a choice?

2009-03-19T18:55:00.006-04:00

Asked, what a friend believed to be a difficult question, one has been discovered A FRAUD!

While planning our ‘bored in the city’ evening at Le Scandal Burlesque, my dear friend asked about a stereotype of Midwesterners she’d once heard uttered in NYC. “Is it true that Midwesterners are OBSESSED with the relics of Society?” “Define ‘society’?” I demanded. She began mumbling and garbling together a hodge-podge of past and present misnomers and assumptions attributed to ‘real society’, ’socialites’, ‘socials’, ‘nouveaux riches’, ‘late twentieth century nouveaux riches’, old money and- egads! Hollywood.

I sighed and began an attempt at explaining the relationship between the ideas begun by the Industrial Age and insulated within the midwestern state of Ohio and its varied regions today. “Have you ever heard Ohio’s slogan, ‘The Heart of It All’?” “YES! It’s a reference to its shape, right?” I smirked a bit then continued, “Not exactly…Ohio is thought to be the beginning of the Midwest region from the east, yet the regions within the state somewhat ‘mirror’ (for lack of a better description) the stereotypes of similar regions within the United States.” “Hmph! You mean…the south- is like The South?” “Mon Dieu! Vraiment!” She laughed and I continued, “Those in the northeastern part of the state tend to socially mirror East-coasters- they DREAM of mirroring New York 'Socials', but tend to fall…a bit…short.” We both giggled.

I have often heard from those I have encountered in my travels abroad, that with my vividly entertaining descriptions of my childhood and recent years in Ohio, I do the world a great disserve by not retelling these anecdotes in literary form. In due time, to be sure. The most enthralling seems to be my recounting of cotillions and debutante balls as though one was preserved from an earlier era of American society. “They still DO THAT?!” many have exclaimed; to which I only answer, “Why not?” Teaching those who have notability due to family or wealth the civic-mindedness of merging fund-raising with event sociability should not decline, as far as I am concerned. But back to the conversation.

I gave her the BRIEFEST of history lessons citing Rockefeller and Standard Oil and my hometown area's status by the end of the Civil War as one of five cities that were centers for the largest oil refineries in the nation. Cleveland was also the scene for the origins of the business world’s most infamous monopoly called The Cleveland Conquest (there's a bit of drama one might want to look up later). Carnegie Steel, Central Ohio Coal, Goodyear Tire and Rubber, Firestone Tire and Rubber, King Iron Bridge Co., Bridge Manufacturing Co., Toledo Shipbuilding Co., as well as various shipping (the industry that brought my Irish-Canadian grandfather to the region) and railway companies contributed to the American wealthy’s presence in the state. The streets of Cleveland still bare names that paid honor to the wealthy that called the area home; a certain area is still referred to as 'Millionaires Row' by people in my grandparents' generation. With all that skirting of the mighty and their lifestyles, blue bloods, the nouveaux riches and society types in general were the 'celebrities' to emulate for a long time. Hollywood was still so new and movies not quite the past-time of the midwest, yet.

"My grandmother believed the less you were talked about the better. She once paraphrased a blue blood of New York's old society- I believe it was the elder Mrs. Woodward- by stating that one's name should only be in the news three times: at birth; when engaged or marrying; and at your demise." "Are you kidding me?!", my friend asked in disbelief. "I kid you not." I at one time I believed my grandparents being emigres and coming here with fantasies of the American Dream fueled their interest in the lives of the wealthy, but it wasn't just them- it was most of the people in that area. A country club membership; prep schools; and buying items in anticipation of them being 'heirlooms' was the closest many got in certain circles to emulating those families with historic names and ties to the founding of our country. "Things changed and a word that meant ladies and men of leisure was coined, it was 'Socialite'." "Why is that word so taboo to you when I use it to describe people?" I sighed, "Because those are not Socialites, those are 'Socials': members of society that believe they leave a purposeful mark on the world that is not just limited to wealth and festive events; their social gatherings have a purpose-" "Like 'partying with a purpose'?" "Exactly." "So socialites are-" "Paris Hilton, NOT Tinsley Randolph Mortimer!"

My friend guffawed too loudly. "The way you say her name-!" "What?!" "M.~ you really dig these people and what they do, don't you?" I tried to measure the consequences of my answer, but the truth of the matter is one is stuck in idolizing the well-travelled New York Upper Westside/Palm Beach/Katonah/Greenwich set. People that get stuck to The City like they fear losing their place in some imaginary social status line bore me. "I suppose I am very much fascinated..." "Even more than with celebrities?" I realized at that moment if the scope of my interests became limited to either one or the other, like my grandmother's granddaughter should, I would choose true blue over creative & new. "Yes, sweetie even more than celebrities-" "Then...you're more like a mere mortal worshipping The Elite?-" "Not true! Think of me more as one of those jealous goddesses that wishes she could play like mortals." I won't give up my throne cloud yet!

If you are wondering where I get my 'fix'...try one of my expresso-sized jolts NEWYORKSOCIALDIARY.COM. Kisses, M.~

A GODDESS CALLS IT!: A Baby Bigot, A Baby Machine, Destructive Patternization, The REAL Dramas & A Celebrity Fix

2009-02-12T08:17:00.019-05:00

On the horn with a 'Sloane Ranger' from across the pond...

Ginny and I continue laughing as we crack-wise...
"That kid has not been right since his brother hung him from the window at The Palace!"
Ginny is gasping for air, "Remember that Nazi Halloween costume?!" "NO ONE accidentally goes to a party dressed as a Nazi! 'Poor judgment' my EYE- that kid has been trying to express his socio-political views FOR YEARS!" "They should just let him crossover to the dark side...Third-in-line is like saying, 'Someone needs to bomb London again while you are out of the country for you to have any power passed on to you'- Jeez!" "I totally blame the monarchy...no one spent any time developing that child...they put all their work into Wills- such a shame!" We are referring to the sensitivity classes Prince Harry must take due to his bigot's tongue. Tsk, tsk!

"What about that woman with fourteen children?" "Please DO NOT make me comment on that welfare mother whom is unemployed but obviously had money to get a nose and lip job at some point!" "I bet her undercarriage is VERY relaxed!" "Eew! to be sure!" We chuckled in disgust. "What is going on over there with that pretty girl singer and her beau?" "I'm sorry...did you ask about the Economic Stimulus Plan?" "NOOOO! I asked about Re-Honor (I LOVE the way Ginny's accent makes her mispronounce names that end in AH sounds!)" "You asked about President Obama, then?" "M.~!" I am reluctant to offer any opinion whatsoever on this drama even though this is tres Hollywood scandalicious. "I do not want to hear anyone older than them coming out and CLAIMING to be close to them or- Heaven forbid!- their friend! It makes me want to start slapping people!!" "Oh my! The goddess is in the mood to smoot someone?", Ginny taunted. "IF they were close and cared about them in ANYWAY, they should have intervened BEFORE the situation reached this scale! That kid came on Tyra Bank's show and mentioned that he grew up in an abusive home!-" "But you know how those Caribbean Sirens are! 'He doesn't love me unless we fight!'- and all THAT nonsense!-", Ginny's reference to Rihanna's background. I composed myself after that statement to further my point; it is difficult since I know Ginny is half-Brit, half-Jamaican and does not think highly of what we call 'Island culture' (stereotyped folkways). "I don't care if while they were in bed she told him to slap her before he tickled- they are YOUNG, very young- and all these so-called friends and concerned parties are full of it! I see someone younger than me acting out learned patterns that are destructive mentally/physically or emotionally and I TELL THEM to seek help or at least examine the 'why?' behind it!-" "But then...you are just one of those caring, selfless types; you are not a self-absorbed, materialistic, self-promoting celebrity- are you? These people probably sat around laughing to themselves as these children sunk deeper into dysfunction crunching the numbers- 'If they kill each other in some drama, my next album will definitely be a money-maker!'- that sort of thing..." We were silent for a moment, my ire for these people 'choosing sides' boiling my blood; her regretfulness at bringing the mood of our conversation so low. Then...

"The last movie I saw was Valkyrie (2008)." "Did you enjoy it?" "Of course! Tommy is my heart- you know this!" "So even though you pretty much KNEW the lead-in story and the ending you enjoyed it?" "I think he is a phenomenal actor!" "That is not what I am asking Ginny, I am referring to the plot..." "Oh! Yes, yes! Indeed!" "Hmm..." "What is it then?" "I have been having a few MOORE-moments, recently..." "Like MICHAEL Moore?" "Indeed!" I related another, 'Whilst I sat at my grandmother's knee' story to Ginny and she laughed. "That is how it will always be for those who cannot multi-task their mental energies! I'm beginning to wonder if you really ARE as smart as I have come to think- did you REALLY study social psychology?!" I cannot help but laugh at her sarcasm, "I studied Cognitive Processes and Behavioral Psychology-" "Yes that's it then! You are SURE you graduated WITH HONORS?" "Really GINNY!"

My recent Moore-moments, as I have referred to them since Fahrenheit 9/11 (2004), involve instances in which the public-at-large must have been affected by wormwood like it is referenced in The Book of Revelations, because they are given a bit of information by a news source or a documentarian and they act as though it is news to them...like they did not live the history of the matter, or something! Wall Street's Annual Bonuses; Extravagant Lifestyles and Expenditures of the Moneyed; Sneaky Business Dealings (even within one's own social circle)...these things are not new! 'There is nothing new under the sun', simply means that the light of knowing has shown on everything that transpires...you simply turned your back and 'pretended' to be unaware! While you and your significant other were arguing about the day-to-day, the mundane, the world continued to turn (and slither, like a snake) around you. 'I didn't know!' is NOT an acceptable reaction to C-Span, MSNBC and Face The Nation.

On the horn with my sister and her friend...

One of my sister's friends (and present Board members for her organization) attempted to 'school' me on the latest House of Representative Hearings just yesterday. Before my sister could save her from my acerbic tone, I said "Go back just ten years and reference all the 'friends' of these presently outraged Representatives and Senators...you will find they are scolding them presently." It is drama, camp...no one can believe this is anything but bread-and-circuses to quiet the anger of the impoverished masses, that have found their voices again, finally. One was fully willing to let the situation go at that, but out of embarassment, she continued to be catty. So I stuck the knife of knowing-more-than-you in deeper, "Do you know what I do for a living S-?" "I can't say I-" "I do research, statistical compilations and fact-checking for organizations that need the truth in hardcopy ASAP. Some have mentioned they feel it is divinely-inspired that I, named for the Egyptian goddess of Truth, Justice and Universal Order, would be in such a profession...I believe it harkens back to the type of person I developed into from childhood. People like ME do not need expos'es, Keith Olberman or Chris Matthews, nor any of their guest participants to inform me of what is going-on...I simply pay attention as I live and breathe. "BTW..." I could not help but add, referencing a past conversation, "Calvin Klein and Anne Klein are not related: her name was originally Hannah Golofski. Both began their lines in 1968; she passed away in 1974 and her line was continued by DONNA KARAN until the late 80s, when she began DKNY. When you claimed to 'upgrade' from an older Anne Klein suit to a DKNY, all you are doing is trading vintage Donna Karan for more recent Donna Karan. It is sort of like the fashion trick played on Mossimo customers that do not shop at Target..." My sister, knowing I had caused S- to seeth, remained silent. "How do you know so much about fashion?" S- asked snottily, "After wanting to be an architect, then a teacher...I became a fashion design major at the first college I attended. I PAID ATTENTION to all aspects of the fashion design industry- studying it from the origins of couture to models' beginnings. I decided that my designs were better geared toward my tastes, and now I only design for me!" She will not get over this...like most people I have shut-up, she will try to find some bit of information that I do not know to 'nah-nah' in my face; it never works- they always fail. Like my grandmother I so often write about, I can ingest multiple sources of information almost simultaneously: two novels; multiple newspapers; internet information sites; university archives; history volumes; and countless reference sources! Rarely do the regular people get over on 'a sponge'.

On a more exuberant note, my dangerously dark heartthrob, Joaquin will be spending time with me on Valentine's Day! Of course, Mr. Phoenix does not know this but, some unsuspecting fellow will act as the fifth wheel for our 'date' this Saturday afternoon as I view "Two Lovers". Maybe he meant he was Re-tired- as in, he is tired once again? The man has been acting for THIRTY YEARS, for gosh sakes!

On the horn with the office...

I was discussing the professional histories of those on my favorite show recently with an insecure fellow from AGW, Inc. He had to take a shot at one of the male main characters. "He is so D-list!" "REALLY?! How so?" "He like..." he stammered as he did not know exactly what constituted the lettered listings of celebrity, "He did that show as a kid and a couple of movies but-", his statement trailed off. "You really should not rent yourself out as a researcher if you will simply POP any little bit of nonsense out of your mouth without checking the facts." He was startled by my cruel tongue, "Ouch!" "Not 'ouch', 'C'est vrai!' That young man has performed- well!- in more films than years he has spent on this planet...you did not know that, did you?" His comeback? "Well he STILL doesn't deserve a girlfriend that hot! She played the most amazing woman- EVER- in a movie and she's with HIM?!" "She supposedly started a war and that makes her AMAZING? Cleopatra ran an empire; bore children to THE MOST POWERFUL men in the ancient world; a single mother of four- including one set of paternal twins- she fought alongside one of her lovers into battle on water; and, although she sold him out and he failed against Octavian, he would not renounce his love for her. THAT is an amazing woman!" "Sounds like haterade!" "NO...I DO believe that ----'s girlfriend- the one you feel is too amazing for him- mentioned in an interview that she felt the character was beautiful but didn't know how to use it...in and of herself, (the actress) IS amazing." His interest was peaked, "What do you know about her?" "I only know the blurbs and fodder, however, if any of it is true...they are two people to be admired..." "So tell me what you've read?-" "Sorry, I have something in the stove-" "Come on! Cut it off and let's talk!" "I can't- I simply can't! It is a dish of humble pie for you and we mustn't waste it...Ciao!" Here's hoping he looks her up on his own and falls even deeper into his infatuation! Unfortunately for him, he is not half as tenacious, talented or attractive as her present boyfriend...Tsk, tsk!

Do not fret...I will not be changing the format of my blog. I just wanted to change it up a bit!

My Inauguration Post

2009-01-28T21:36:00.005-05:00

SISTERLY FAUX-PAS AND THE FIRST MEETING

I was WARNED by my older sister not to “make our family look bad”. It never ceases to amaze me that she can be so insulting and still be tolerated. Hmm…I did not bother asking how she thought I might embarrass the family but as a preventative measure, I decided to brush up on my poli- knowledge. This wasn’t time-consuming since this election and the issues plaguing our nation (and the world!) for the last decade have been bothering what will soon become my first wrinkle centered on my brow (seriously goddesses wrinkle too!).

I was armed with intelligentsia-worthy banter and profession-specific answers to the questions “Who are you?” and “What do you do?” I pre-planned every ensemble and coif so as to be picture perfect at all times; I was afterall, going to briefly meet the President and First Lady (while they were still the President-Elect and the Future First Lady), for the first time, although my sister and her children have interacted with them for years. The irony? My sister seemed to be the one expelling faux pas after faux pas throughout the brief visit with the President-Elect and his family. The most cringe-worthy came as he shook my hand and she felt the need to ‘explain’ our differential aesthetics by stating that we have different fathers and “She has white in her too.” Eww! It just reeks of separatism and prejudice. I chalked that one up to her being nervous in those surreal surroundings and quickly added, “Since we both belong to that same group, maybe I should have given you the SECRET handshake.” My goofy joke made him smile.

Just before our time with the family ended (we would not see them privately as a group again), my sister mentioned my new Sci-Fi crush. I blushed, to be sure, and began singing the praises of his intelligence and creativity. “I cannot WAIT until his Star Trek movie comes out! So choice!” I gushed. If I’d known the catalyst of rapport this statement would be, one should have made it when we first shook hands. It turns out I didn’t really need to be ‘in-the-know’ when it came to politics or social issues to leave a positive impression on the Obama family…I simply needed to utilize my knowledge as a fashionista; my status as a closet Trekkie; and my family’s nasi goring recipes.

A BRIEF TOUR OF MY MEMORIES

The odd paraphernalia- did everything HAVE to have his face on it?; My Invit to the Latino Inaugural Gala, "Celebrando El Cambio - Renewing America's Promise," at Union Station on the 18th: No…I still don’t speak ENOUGH Spanish. I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS GOT ON MY ITINERARY; The Huffington Post/MySpace Pre-Inaugural at Newseum on the 19th – Grace Hightower DeNiro and the “Your dress is blue with black accents and mine is black with BLUE accents” Aha! Moment with Shakira; The Bipartisan Dinners: McCain was at the Hilton Washington and I felt rushed for some reason. While Colin Powell was at the National Building Museum and I almost did not get in! The liaison assigned to my sister’s family and me was able to find a place for me to stand around 8pm when Obama took the stage. I think I was only given invitations due to my Republican status- whatever!; Hilton Washington Youth Inaugural Ball: my niece’s question about the crowd outside “Auntie are those party-crashers?”

WOW!

Receiving VIP treatment in a town where people practically sell their souls for it, is pretty heady. I almost (ALMOST) felt bad for those who spoke of being locked out of events and not being able to join the throngs at the Memorial to see the Inauguration. If it shows how much I relate to their pain, I will recount my peril at realizing my tushie went to sleep while I sat down and watched the Oath Ceremony. It wouldn’t compare? Oh well, sorry…

I met so many celebrities that I began to get impressed only by the politicians and journalists- seriously! Whomever referred to Politicians as ugly rock stars didn’t realize that Washington, DC is Distinguished Gentlemen heaven for me! I fought the naughty urge to sit on laps as I was offered several laps to sit upon. The thing that stayed with me the most about the whole five days I was there wasn’t the day-to-dayers that did not (or could not) join in the celebrating; or the destitute that acted as visual reminders of the 'why' behind our hopes that Obama and his team can change things; but those I met that seemed to be ‘playing a role’ in the festivities. They rarely smiled unless they noticed a camera; they positioned themselves around minorities for photo-ops; one, upon finding out I am African-American asked if I knew where “the other Black people like you are hanging out”. I blame the luxe coat and outrageous handbag.

My biggest WOW moments came when I was somewhere not on my itinerary and I bumped into my sister’s crush, Keith Olbermann- he took a cameraphone photo with me instead of giving an autograph- cool beans!; and meeting the guy that found out I had The Gap Band discography on my iPod that invited me to the Super Bowl. Yes, he is a considerable number of years older than me; and yes my mother was stunned that I would accept an invit that landed me at a sorority sister’s home in St. Petersburg, FL; but I have been having A LOT of fun, thus my not writing this blog until now! The Sunday after, I’d returned to NYC and was packing for my Super Bowl trip. I was chided by a youthful and smitten writer about missing a get-together at Old Ebbitt Grill in DC. It was called the Inauguration Survivor’s Brunch; he seemed to think my ‘experiences’ might have garnered me an invit. I am being quite selfish with most of my memories as I am filled with so much information and sensations. Name-drop or share all that I have gained from this experience with a roomful of reporters or on a blog? One thinks not!

FYI: Dear JJ Abrams: Even though our new president is quite busy, and when it comes to Star Trek, he can be a bit of a ‘purist’…you may want to send him a complimentary invit to the premiere in May. If nothing else, I may be the recipient of said invit by default since he knows my sci-fi status. Kisses, M.~

Open Email To Donny

2009-01-16T12:25:00.006-05:00

Dear Donny:

Imagine my fright at hearing that your flight crash-landed into the Hudson! My and your other friends' frantic calls only reaching the generic recording stating that something was wrong with this customer's service, only frightened us more.

Hearing that everyone survived with little injury did not deter us from wanting to hear your voice ourselves...to know for sure 'Donny was alright'. Calling Cindi from a payphone and me from some stranger's cell was genius: we are the alarm-sounders and disseminators of information making us able to soothe everyone's fears quickly. How silly everyone felt when we realized your cellphone sunk into the icy waters as you were gathered out of them!

Should you get a chance to thank your pilot personally, please let him know that my brother- a pilot since he was seventeen; and my former brother-in-law- an ex-fighter pilot/ex-NASA astronaut candidate/ex-commercial airline pilot/present-day construction magnate, believe he is...THE MAN!

Kisses,
M.~

When I think of what happened yesterday and I feel my heart pounding; my palms grow moist; and my eyes mist over...it is easy to be in love with your fellow Man when they rise to the heights of those who assisted as non-professional rescuers did...God bless!

One Moment In Time

2009-01-15T18:36:00.009-05:00

Call it The Obama Bandwagon if you choose...but nepotism has it's privileges!

I have received countless emails (at my private email address!) from friends and those loyal (and found not to be e-stalkers) to this blog concerning my lack of mention of the campaign and election of our first African-American President. "Yours above all others is the opinion I am most curious about..." one friend wrote. Her curiosity was stoked by my multi-culti background and my philosophy of 'the safe negro'. I will not write my personal opinions on this matter...I will simply say that I did not dare hope for this milestone in my lifetime. Of course, one never saw the rapid fall of Communism coming either!

I exhibited a certain audacity of assurance on Election Day. My loved ones were on pins-and-needles...there was no doubt for me, after the last debate, that Obama would win. So, as he gained Ohio (our birth state); and my older sister received an interesting phone call with a half-joking request for prayer from an old friend; with an added promise of attendance to the Inaugural Festivities; I joined in the prayer with my added request for a Karmic response from the Universe; and I too was assured attendance. And that is how I am attending this historic event!

As I ship items to my sister's home (ball gowns, expensive coats, jewelry) to be driven to DC by a trusted friend (who can trust the airlines at a busy time like this?!); and pack my luggage to arrive Saturday morning at my cousin's townhouse (thank GOD for Howard grads that stay put!); and check into the hotel (YES the preens needed to have all the space in the world to prepare for their fetes); I realize my color scheme for my attire is very...dark. Every ensemble I have put together for the five days I will be there is either black, tan or either of these colors accented by muted gold. NYC has infected me so quickly? It is probably my knowledge that even though the Spring lines are showing, it definitely is NOT Spring in DC. One bright item I can be proud of is the ---- strapless seafoam gown I snagged. It is still on pre-order elsewhere but I let them know I wanted to wear it to the Neighborhood Inaugural Ball and they shipped it to me- CHOICE!

My mother has taken to sour-graping me, assuring me that I will have to replace my dainty stilettos with booties since I cannot bare to have my toes be wet and cold. I have prepared for this, just as I have gently treated the fabrics of my longer dresses to prevent salt from ruining them. My daywear is fairly tame except for the Alexander McQueen Degrade dress and that Anna Beth Jacquard dress from RL’s Black Label. My sister is waiting to see how I pull that one off! With flair (a fitted cashmere t-neck)and a blaise attitude like my decision to carry my Gstaad green python bag and the pairing of my khaki cashmere wide leg pants with my Stella McCartney sequined top. I will be attending four balls but I am bringing six gowns: two from Vintageous.com that I had tailored; the seafoam I mentioned previously; and three budget items from one of my favorite Chinese designer's Phoenix Evening Line. Two will be paired with my Tahitian Baroque pearl necklace from the breast cancer site; always the American Cancer Society volunteer, perhaps I can turn heads AND open wallets. A few casual pieces from Brooks Brothers and Brunello Cuccinelli paired with my shearling from Gorsuch, my Epic Assymetrical Coat from Barrie Pace (that I had the buttons switched to enamel vintage ones) and my long coat from Brooks Brothers, I will blend in, not look as though I was attempting to be noticed (futility on my budget).

When my sister met Mrs. Obama many years ago, during her employ at the University of Chicago, when my sister's company was still developing; then later was called upon to work with various programs while Mrs. Obama was working for the Chicago office of Public Allies; and once again while she was at the University of Chicago Hospitals, I am sure she was not thinking 'one day this woman will be married to the President of the United States'. Even when Michelle became her Honorary sorority sister last year (joining the likes of Eleanor Roosevelt) we were all still simply 'hoping'- hoping for what we believed would be best for our nation. Now we all sit on the cresting of "A New Birth of Freedom"; we now have tangible evidence that we are not just ready for a change...but to realize 'The Dream' of King. The 200th Anniversary of the birth of Abraham Lincoln, is a theme that is reflected in this monumentous event; my older sister with whom I have shared so many first (even those I felt hestitate to tell my mother about) will be my escort, and I could not think of a more appropriate person with which to share this moment in time.

I'll be back next week! Kisses, M.~

Holiday Update

2009-01-15T17:53:00.011-05:00

There was much to-do concerning my not being in South Florida for Christmas!

"Is she angry?", then a dramatic gasp, "Is she PREGnant?!" My brothers cringed and became nauseated at this prospect; the thought of their eternal 'little sister' in a state of womanhood beyond puberty was too much for their denying psyches. "Don't SAY things like that Anishka!" My younger brother scolded. My sister-in-law, eleven years my junior and the mother of four biologicals and one stepson, simply shook her head. I assured everyone on speaker phone I was neither irritated nor...fertilized. I simply wanted to be alone with my thoughts and participate in my own plans for the holidays. I promised to spend New Year's with them if they just let me have Christmas to myself.

I took Puppy to a trusted friend and attended Nativity Mass with another friend in Westchester. I had this ironic train of thought while we drove from the city into Westchester concerning all the ghost stories (especially the witch tales) of the area. We originally wanted to attend St. Catherine but changed our plans and I could not help but draw a parallel from one oppressed and tortured woman toward others. Her, the daughter of an important man in Alexandria, Egypt and my namesake offered their own connection for my travelling companion. "But I am named for the incarnation of a GODDESS; my name is a theophorism-" "I know, I know! But aren't saints modern-day gods and goddesses?" His sacrilege aside, I understood his analogy; it was drawn by those who practice Houdu and Santeria. I always held to the theory that the polytheistic deities of early civilizations were simply various incarnations of THE ONE GOD. But no need to get philosophical...I wondered about those who simply went their own way and were labeled outsiders and finally...WITCHES. I said a silent prayer for their souls as we hung out awaiting our reservations and the rest of our party at Aquario.

The change in climate had my head stuffy for the first day at the house in Parkland. There was plenty enough to warrant my family's insistence that I celebrate with them: my sister's company has gone international (although she has worked in the Caribbean, Britain and Canada, she now has a HQ facility in Edinburgh, Scotland); the impending arrival of Genesis my younger sister's first son; and my youngest brother's Law School graduation. I 'did the tour' with my brothers, sisters, sister-in-laws, as well as a few cousins and friends. Life can be like a kaleidoscope of colors and sensations if you close your eyes to anything but what is in front of you...and that is what I did in Florida as I rung in the New Year with kith and kin. Reality struck again as I listened to the voicemails on my cell (no doubt left while I was traveling)and found an odd one left by my mother. "I just was viewing one of those early morning shows that is produced in NYC...Why is the Christmas tree still up in the square?!", my mother asked in mock shock. Then she began with the questions about my love life and the accusations of spinsterdom. The weather outside might be a bit frightful but freedom from 'The Princess Tower' of familial responsiblities sure is DELIGHTFUL! Since Mommie so hates the cold...let it snow, let it snow, LET IT SNOW!

As a self-professed mommie's-girl, I am not knocking my mother...well not her personally...just some of her ways. They're a bit oppressive...and when repeated...torturous. Kisses, M.~

A Lesson from the Saga of Max

2008-12-21T11:08:00.006-05:00

Not all Holiday cartoons are 'peace on earth and good will toward Men'.

I received all my Christmas gifts yesterday. The final delivery man was cold, wind-whipped and one has to say, heartbroken when he saw that he could not simply hand off my 32" Samsung LCD HDTV to ME to carry up. That would have been a bit cruel to do to someone whom can barely see over a two foot box she's carrying up the stairs!

Like an impatient child, I tore open the packages as they only arrived to identify my gifts: a Kalyn Raphael raw diamond necklace (my brother BJ); a twill hitch mini skirt, parachute short dress, pious vest and feathers gilet from All Saints (Quinn, my mother's boyfriend); a fur collar from Neiman's (my ex brother-in-law also enclosed a note with an offer to fly me to Florida for the holidays if only I could make it back to North Carolina- I declined); a Japanese paper lantern made to look like a Santa Claus head (my nephew in North Carolina); Bikkemberg athletics, Ballatyne sweaters, Diane von Furstenberg dresses and an Autopsie Vestimentaire dress from yoox.com (my friend Tam is my little bargain hunter and shares her knowledge with my brothers in Ohio!); and a few pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage from my ex-fiance (I am STILL trying to replace things from the fire). As I opened each item and cooed at it, I also contacted each gift-giver by phone, fax, text, V-mail, email or...smoke signal, to thank them profusely. I joked to myself and the puppy I am sitting during the holidays (his mom and dad are in Chicago) that it was a shame I left that Wellendorff Aubergine ring off the list...I may have gotten that too!

The last person thanked (certainly not the least important gift!) was my mother- the 32" LCD. Without her gift I may not have kept up my love of Tuesday evenings...what with the stars on my favorite show's heads so little and the action so grainy on my old television. "Mommie could have sent for you instead of buying you a television", my mother sniffed with melancholy into the phone. I rolled my eyes and smiled, "Yes, but Mummie would you have missed me this much if I were there?" She chuckled at my nonsense and inquired as to why I did not try to catch a train or bus out of NYC to reach North Carolina in enough time that my ex brother-in-law and his co-pilot my brother, could have flown us all down to Florida. I explained how some years I LONGED for family and others I longed for solitude. She could only sigh. "Ever since you were a little girl, you have always seemed to go your own way..." then her voice perked up, "I remember when your father asked you what you learned from 'How The Grinch Stole Christmas' (1966) and you told him that peer pressure was wrong!"

The memory my mother produced was a bit fuzzy but I seem to recall it differently...

I remember sitting on the floor with my paternal cousins who seemed to take glee in getting "Daddie's Little Princess" (read: ME) in trouble. By that time I was wise to them and stayed out of rooms where I was alone with them without adult supervision. To this day I will haughtily announce that they are not- nor have they ever been- as smart as I am. Unfortunately for me, a few of them WERE always more deceitful and mean-spirited. And I too trusting. But as I have said, by this time I was a bit wiser. From the atmosphere of that room and the viewing of that movie, I perceived in Max, The Grinch's dog, a weakness of character surely initiated by his canine-blind loyalty. I experienced this level of DOGmatic loyalty one time as a child. A neighbor had given me a Doberman Pinscher puppy that I named "Princess" for Christmas. I was allowed to keep Princess throughout the season, then she was re-gifted to another family at our church as we were moving by car to another state and it would be awful for a puppy (I was told). I cried my little heart out...and judging from the manner in which I am spoiling this puppy, I STILL have not gotten over it. I digress!

"Max", I told my father as an explanation, "...should have run away when he realized The Grinch's evil plan against the Whos in Whoville." "You can't just runaway from situations like that Princess" my father reasoned. Then I used words I'd over heard my uncle using while describing his two years in Richmond, BC, Canada, "He could have been a 'conscientious objector'." My father laughed so hard I thought he would fall to his knees! I was precocious and at that time knew three languages other than English; my pronunciation was impeccable but my grasping of certain concepts was sometimes too literal. After my father asked where I'd heard that phrase, then explained why my mother sent her youngest brother- her favored sibling- to Canada during the Viet Nam conflict (war), he added, "But I swear I remember your uncle not wanting to go..." My oldest maternal uncle- my mother's older brother- was already in the Navy and overseas. He remained safe and came back 'safe' (as far as I know) and with 'minimal' emotional trauma (God blessed us). Two of my mother's older cousins (a brother and sister) were over there throughout most of the conflict (war); they too came back 'in one piece'. But the thought of her 'baby brother'over there, whom she thought of with the fondness of someone who has kissed chubby cheeks and wiped a nose...was too much.

Years later, I would ask my uncle about his two years there. He told me he enjoyed himself but he truly did not want to go; my father had a good memory. "Then why DID you go?", I asked, by then a 'conscientious objector' to childhood peer pressure on any level. "I went to your mother" he said with a bit of difficulty and a crack in his voice, "and told her my draft card was called...", he looked down at his feet, "You know...they started bringing guys home and I..." he stopped speaking. After a silence I knew even as a child was necessary, he went on, "Your mom really loves me- I know she meant well...but I have NEVER forgiven myself..." He looked at me with a strength in his eyes that seemed absent in his rounded shoulders and failing voice, "I REALLY didn't want to go to Canada...but she and her friends kind of made me feel like I had to!" My mother protested the war because of the hippy in her that screamed, 'make love not war'. So many died and she could not imagine hearing that the person she taught to ride a bike had died before he was even twenty-one.

My lesson to you, dear reader, this holiday season (whichever holiday it may be to you) is to learn your heart and follow it. Your instincts can keep you from life-long regrets. Max the dog was able to redeem himself and his role in the 'grand theft' in Whoville quite quickly, but many of us do not get that chance. I type this...as I sit in my apartment with Jack Frost trying to find his way into my drafty apartment; remembering an instance of draft-dodging; snuggling someone else's puppy; while my family gathers at homes in South Florida; and thanking God that I live my life, mostly, with no regrets.

Compelling History Is Remembered By Scholars

2008-12-16T10:44:00.011-05:00

We have all heard Winston Churchill's aggressive, patriarchally-inspired declaration "History is written by the victors". However, this is one of THE most misquoted, misrepresented quotes in history. "History will be kind to me, I intend to write it" is the more accurate quote. Spoken by the man who was leader of a country bombed out during the second World War, I would not call that 'victorious'. But what if you were given a glimpse of the portions of history 'remembered' by scholars?

We gathered in North Carolina this weekend to 'cheer' on my niece (the one I refer to as "Little Me") in her first Cheerleading Competition. Out of the pool of potentials (read: eighteen nieces and nephews), only five have attempted to participate in cheerleading (all females) and only three have stuck with it. 'Little Me' is the one who sees cheerleading from the competitive athletic perspective I have held for years. Not content to simply be "adorable" in her uniform, she elected to participate in this competition, with her cheer coach's blessing and encouragement. My oldest brother came, bringing his silent apology to me, under the guise of bringing my niece "C" to cheer on my younger niece. I am not being self-important: my oldest brother is not related to my older sister and her children except through me. He is my father's oldest son, born before my mother and father joined together to make me; even before my mother bore my older sister. He is not a talker (or an apologizer, to be sure), and I am more greatly influenced by my maternal family's form of communication. We refer to it as 'random speak': we will tie several subjects to a primary subject, indirectly informing (or boring) the listener with more information than was originally solicited. If you haven't noticed that happens a great deal in my blog posts!

The reason for my brother's remorse? His callous handling of the situation concerning my posssession of our father's ring and the fire that destroyed the majority of my personal property. Our phone conversation began with me attempting to assure him that I was not harmed and safe; it ended with me sobbing and feeling unworthy of a family heirloom. The actual tone of the conversation made me feel as though I were speaking with a more lucid and intimidating Golem from "Lord of The Rings". So I ended up FedEx-ing the ring overnight back to Ohio ("MY precious!"). This ring was purchased in a store in Dublin; it bears my family's crest. There were many crests, as the surname is 'popular' to be sure, but my father and his father did the legwork and the research to find out which was truly OUR family's crest. While in my possession, I would absent-mindedly run a fingertip across the eagles' heads of the crest and my father's name imprinted on the inside of this solid and heavy ring. I wore it around my neck on a chain. The weight never mattered, only the gravity of the symbolism. So when my brother, who had gone with my father and grandfather ("Da") on the Heritage Tour, allowed me to bring the ring with me to North Carolina from Ohio, I was overjoyed. Then, he demanded it back.

My mother (not his biological mother) was not pleased. Knowing how I was denied permission to join them on their heritage tour, she felt I was wounded harshly indeed. I suppose I have gotten over this a bit better than she. As she looked at the ring on his right ring finger, she ran her thumb over the indented crest. "Funny...I believe heirlooms like this should be given to those denied other advantages of heritage." My brother was wounded and furrowed his brow, but would not let her get the best of him in front of his wife and children. "You couldn't mean M.~! She is the only one with our father's freckles and red hair!" We all laughed uncomfortably and began discussing other things. I knew my mother was also referring to my growning up with her maiden name. My father believed I would "just grow up, marry and change (my) name anyway" as he put it. His family's last name was for his male children, of which he had three. Never imagine I was TOO neglected...but being "The Princess" in the tower is sometimes lonely and oppressive.

As I later helped my mother hang her clothing in her hotel closet, I saw a shirt that reminded me of one I'd bought for a former coworker. "I should call Zuly and see how she is doing!" I remarked. My mother's head swung around, "Zuly?!" I answered timidly, "Yes...her name is Zuleyka-" "Z-u-l-e-i-k-a?" "No. A 'Y' instead of an 'I'-" "Where is she from?" I had no clue why my mother seemed so stunned and manic, "Boricua...why?" My mother had gone to Puerto Rico when I was very young to help the women of the country defend themselves against what she and others deemed a form of religious oppression and culturally-geared population control. For years, the poorer, less educated, mostly Catholic women of the island were being duped into getting tubaligations and some were given hysterectomies, having signed consent forms in English and they were barely literate in Spanish. My mother- herself fluent in Spanish- upon her return (fluent in Puerto Rican culture), felt it was respectful to refer to Puerto Rico by it's historic name, Boricua. "Have you been in Mommie's purse?", it never unnerved me that my mother referred to herself in the third person to her children until now. I chuckled, "Not YET, why?" "I have a movie I want you to see...", then smiling to herself she said to her camel hair blazer as she unpacked it, "I SWEAR that girl is psychic." To be sure, I am not! I believe I might be...intuitive at very random times; homing in on cues from those around me, but never psychic. The movie she had to show me was a DVD of the movie "Zuzu Angel" (2006), the story of the life and death of international fashion designer Zuleika Angel Jones.

For those of you who believe the only Brazilian Fashion Revolution involved models, you must search Youtube.com for footage of Zuzu Angel's 1970s New York Fashion show that became the first recognizable political protest fashion show; a tribute to her son Stuart who was a political torture victim. Brazil is historically notable for it's progressive economy...but then there is the story the scholars wrote, of political revolts of various affliations lasting until the mid-1980s. I will admit, like so many others, I learned only what our government placed in books concerning Brazil; our countries temperamental ties with the progressive but oppressive military-based governments ruling Brazil from the 1930s until the 1980s would dictate that that would be the case. Just after watching "Zuzu Angel" I researched as thoroughly as I could that time in Brazil's history. I was saddened that I was so ignorant. I could sit here and type information about the union between the elite-wealthy and the miltary; the era of Vargas; the oppression of labor under fears of socialism; Branco's initiation of democratic balance without a total revolt against the military; etc. but I urge you to feed your own brain and develop your own perspectives, just as my mother did when she showed me this film. I will leave off by saying that, for a woman who began as an apolitical, rags-to-riches fashion icon, Zuzu Angel has now joined the illustrious ranks of the 'Evolutionaries' I admire and the Mothers of Tragedy I adore. Her suspicious death adds her to the list of those I pray for November second...

After the competition my mother and I encouraged my niece to tote around her trophy and re-enact her cheer formations. As we did my brother found his way over to me. "How can I show you how sorry I am? How can I apoogize?" His heart was truly pained, yet my mother could not help sticking the knife in deeper. "If you're really sorry, buy her Bulgari!" Her answer was so contrived and shallow, my brother and I both laughed! "You know how you can apologize?" I answered sweetly, "You can tell me how it felt to travel to Vancouver, then Ireland with Daddie and Da." "I never told you?!" "No! I guess I was too young for you to talk to about such things. I only remember you bringing back Seona, your wife!"

Familial thoughtlessness is not a crime! But to forget the fatal cause of a family member most assuredly would be. My heart goes out to Zuzu Angel's daughter, a Brazilian journalist that fights for the truth daily. God bless!

"Ilusi Dipukulin": A Tribute To Bettie Page

2008-12-12T13:17:00.002-05:00

One needn't know every detail of a celebrity's life in order for them to positively influence yours...

Approximately a month ago, when the indomitable Ms. Page entered the hospital, I meant to call my cousin that I simply call Chandra, although her name is Chandramathi (Tamil name meaning “one who has a face like the moon” expressing celestial beauty), and tell her. Getting connected to anyone by phone in Indonesia is difficult to be sure, but she moves so fluidly between the islands as a photographer, the undertaking becomes a lot like tracking down…me. When Chandra came to America to stay with us and finish school, the first thing my relatives here could think to do to her was fit her for braces. It is not enough you are new to THE COUNTRY and speak English with difficulty, adding metal to your mouth will definitely assure your status as outcast! She adopted a pensive, closed-mouth smile that made her sadly pretty to most who did not know her; being the goofy cousin I am, I would cause full, brace-shining smiles to erupt on her face. She was always beautiful to me. With her dark, luxe hair, light grey eyes, and tawny skin, she was unique enough that she did not blend in with my mother’s other relatives- like me. We were tomboys; late bloomers with slim athletic builds. And we both longed to be more feminine…

We are both October babies and send posters as birthday gifts. I received a beautifully framed Vargas girl print of a redhead in a gilded swimsuit; she received a lovely Bettie Page on the beach in a black and white bikini. The first year we decided these gifts were adequate and pleasing, I was sent a Rita Hayworth as Gilda movie poster; this lovely item now resides at my mother’s home in Florida- thank God! (remember the purging flames?) Her poster, because she’d just returned to Indonesia after years in America and was complaining of the ruralness of Sumatra, was a Bettie Page ‘jungle girl’ poster in which Bettie is wearing a knife on her hip and seated on driftwood. I paid a guy to add in purple lettering “Careful- it’s a jungle out there! Love, M.~” to the bottom of the poster. “Thanks for the poster” her e-card read, “And thank you for the memories.” During that awkward time, when we occasionally sat in the window, seemingly melancholy (waiting for the breasts fairy as Bill Cosby has speculated), watching girls our age in summer outfits possessing the curves we feigned to shun, we both made separate wishes.

Bettie Page with her petite and curvaceous frame (women under 5’6” ALWAYS seem to have an abundance of curves…it is the unfair advantage of having everything fitted on a smaller model), light eyes and dark hair was the perfect recipient of Chandra’s womanhood wonder. My male friends with their awe at our curiosity would secret us away in their rooms for hours as we positively critiqued Ms. Page’s pictorials. Did our wishes come true? I believe Chandra’s did! She is an exotic, smirking version of Bettie Page that does not take herself too seriously. When men trip over objects and stare too intently, she is known to whisper to a knowing relative “ilusi dipukulin”. This phrase, loosely translated, connotes being foiled by an illusion. After Bettie Page converted to Christianity, became a missionary and began fighting the good fight against schizophrenia, there was a ‘revival’ of her images in the eighties and early nineties. Most of these people had no clue what her life was like; my cousin and me included. We too were ‘foiled by an illusion’.

Upon calling Chandra today, I asked if she’d heard the news of Ms. Page’s death. “No” she answered solemnly, “But I was not close to her…just her image.” And with that straight-forward answer, Chandra and I began talking about our family.

Bettie Page had the heart of a caregiver and humanitarian long before her conversion to Christianity at that church in the Keys. She loved the people of the island nation of Haiti and chose to help them before it became popular to help a nation that could not indirectly give you good PR. May God bless her soul.

They Began With A Dream

2008-12-11T15:10:00.004-05:00

I had a strange dream last night...it resulted in a short story and this poem. I like the story better but I will post the poem anyway. Kisses, M.~

Pro Tempore*

I don't want to lose you
to some
unspoken word,
or someone's intruding emotions

I still yearn for your acknowledgement
as the sculpted David
must have
of Florentine beholding**
I desire completion
at the direction of your chisel
and rubbing cloths

I want you to study my smooth curves,
my unlabeled postures
and make me
whole

*PRO TEMPORE: or pro tem, "for the time being". The phrase is used to describe a placeholder for an absent superior and sometimes denotes an indeterminate amount of time.
** Ah DAVID! One would think a young, nude male would not have to wait so long for attention! A sculptor named Donatello and his assistant were commissioned to create a statue of David in 1464. Not long after, Donatello passed away and his assistant did not continue. In 1466, Rossellini was commissioned to complete the sculpture; unfortunately, his commission was terminated soon after. For TWENTY-FIVE years, David was in a quarry, literally unrecognizable as a work of art. Though many were consulted- including Da Vinci, no less- a young Michelangelo was granted the undertaking in 1501, with his work being completed three years later. Just one year shy of David's fortieth birthday; by then he was surely distinguished! LOL

Tart

2008-12-10T11:08:00.007-05:00

Over-analysis of ANY aesthetic is damaging to us all!

It started out innocently enough...I was replacing items I'd lost to 'the purging flames' and decided I wanted to right certain 'imbalances' within my past wardrobe. Like,... no matter where I've lived, I've kept my boot collection to the basest minimum. While I was in Ohio this last time (TO BE SURE! it is THE LAST time!), I had three pairs of boots. According to my mother, one did not truly count as a fashion boot since I'd originally purchased it as a field boot for riding. Then there were the booties and the Uggs. This sparceness caused considerable damage to my shoes that I would often trot out into the harshest weather, never a care of whether the leather treatment was still working. I knew my moving- even temporarily- would cause a dent in my finances... I decided to stick to my neutral-tone philosophy again where my wardrobe was concerned, and allow my accessories to be my true palette. This was my philosophy before yet, it had been horribly ignored within the past three years. I am still acquiring 'replacements' for my favorite ensembles...you cannot go wrong with outfits you were always complimented on. Moving here, my darker palette is reigning supreme...which brings me to the 'obsession'.

I have ignored, damned and flaunted my feet for years: ignored because they seem to be functional and never give me half as much trouble as my naughty tresses; damned because finding adult-styled shoes for a size five-and-a-half/six foot is a fruitless mission at times; flaunted because at times the gods do smile upon me and my being able to wear the display model gets me discounts in South Florida and LA boutiques! So,when I saw that a few of the designers I love and many of the styles I adored were on sale on the 'Net in MY SIZE- boots no less!- I jumped at the opportunity to pluck this foot-oriented ambrosia from the fashion orchard. I bought new Hunter wellies first...my past pairs had served me well through trips to Vancouver and New England. Then there were the 'dangerous' pony-hair boots with the python design; the versatile velvet thigh highs; the LL Bean hikers; the Gorsuch ski boots; the suede wrap arounds with the wedge heel and the fox fur trim; the leather and suede combos with the woven leather shaft (in various colors and designs); the thigh high 'robin hood' style with the flat heel; the various leather/suede stack heel boots that look so retro (think Stevie Nicks in Fleetwood Mac); and just last week, the black stretch PVC thigh highs from Victoria's Secret. I have worn these day after day.

It has been rainy/snowing and going from the fifties to the thirties...what better fit for a girl that loves minis? Before I made the purchase I DREAMT (EVERY Fashionista dreams of KA! clothes and accessories- don't they?) of a pair of thigh high woven leather Bottega Veneta boots with a three-and-a-half inch covered heel...in my dream they were so yummy I wore them over skinny Rag & Bone jeans with a vintage The Clash tee...the outfit was attention grabbing at best! Why dream about BOOTS and wearing said boots while prancing around The City? I was content to assume it was because if acquired, these boots would NEVER leave my feet! Alas, I had to pacify my Budget-worrying Self with the stretch boots...they have helped soothe me. Missing milder climates more often than usual (if only my Floridian and Bahamian friends would stop calling!), I have taken to only going out of the apartment as it is direly necessary. This allows me to prance about the apartment in wool shorts, patterned tights, grudgy tees...and the boots. My boots were quite friendly when I went down to retrieve the mail...they made a new friend. Although he was not anyone I would pal about with, my boots seemed to appreciate his admiration. I declined this gentleman's invitation to 'chaperone' an evening with him and my boots, and we parted ways.

Early yesterday, my mother and I were utilizing my recently plugged in webcam. My mother often asks, while on the phone, what I or my sisters are wearing. She is not superficial but truly believes your daily dressage connotes who you are, or at least, who you would like people to see you as. Yesterday, I had to make a quick run to the organization I am doing research for, then it was back home. My mother only saw my Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater and pearl necklace, thus assuming the bottom was as conservative as the top. After almost an hour of back-and-forth, I became thirsty and excused myself to retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge. As I returned to my chair, my mother's face showed quite a bit of surprise. "Mummie?...something wrong?" "You went to the office today?" "Yes?" "How long were you there?" "Not long enough to remove my coat-" "How LONG IS your coat?" I laughed, "Mother! the one I got from Neiman's before I left Ohio!" "Good enough I suppose...what is that you're wearing on your backside?" I smirked then stood up in a grand fashion, "A skirt-" "What is SKIRT made of?" I glanced down for affect, "Pleated satin- I believe." My mother raised an eyebrow, "It would seem one is going about on a great deal of faith today-" "How so?" I asked while reseating myself. "You seem to have absolute faith that those around you will deem that outfit appropriate." Her comment was not lost on me, but to show my disapproval of HER judgmental attitude, I decided to feign ignorance to the true meaning. "Oh don't worry mother...I have on these fishnets and the boots are PRACTICALLY up to the hem of my skirt. Well, I must be going-" "Before you go skipping away in that naughty school girl getup-" "MOMMIE!" "Listen- what was on your mind when you decided to put that outfit on this morning?" I though very carefully about what has been going on in my life within the past four months...Colin, Andrew, TJ, the fire, my conflict with my sister, my moving here... "Well...I supoose I was feeling a bit...rebellious. Like, I needed to control SOMETHING." My mother nodded knowingly, "I see...Have you gotten that quite out of your system now?" A smile found its way across my face, "Not quite yet- no." My mother giggled, "Then Mommie will let you go then, just be careful..." then she added, "I don't recall raising any TARTS!"

You could be one of the nicest most intelligent women in the world- the second-coming of Mother Theresa!- but contrary to what men tell women in clubs, short skirts DO NOT a smart girl make. Unless,...of course, she is going for some affect that manipulates a situation in her favor...then she is a VERY smart girl indeed!LOL Do not be oppressed, dear reader, by what other's think of you; but always remember lazy minds utilize an Ockham's Razor approach to judging others: 'Whatever is on the outside must be true on the inside', to them it is the simplest answer. Wear fashion like body armor: let it cloak and protect you, and sometimes intimidate others! Remember "The Devil Wears Prada" (2006)?

Those Missing Chapters of The Fairy Tale

2008-12-04T11:15:00.005-05:00

Be careful what you wish for...it might empower you.

Tony’s reddening face crinkled, “THIS is where you’re staying?!” He did not display this same reaction when he was outside lifting my bags from the car, however, the building does look surprisingly less attractive on the inside. “It’s simply aesthetics TJ.” I mumble as I climb the stairs ahead of him. “ASS-thetics!” he teases. As we bring in the last of my baggage, and Tony’s color begins to return, I walk over to one of the few pieces of furniture I have brought to this temporary dwelling, a full-length mirror. I focus on reflections of my mind’s eye as opposed to anything reflected therein and Tony walks up behind me. He gives me a down-then-up once over, then wraps his arms around me: one about my waist, the other about my shoulders. Although his embrace brings back nostalgic feelings of comfort I know I must stop this affection from going any further. “TJ-“ “Let’s go into that other room you insist on calling a bedroom…” I tap his hand attached to the arm encircling my shoulders to get him to look into the mirror at my expression, “TJ…let go…” This will always be easier asked than completed as TJ- as he is known to those close to his family- A.K.A. Tony is that rare individual who really cannot let go of the past. I am always to be- in his mind- someone he possesses on a metaphysical level. I am his ex-wife, to be sure, but he upon marrying me joined an exclusive group of men in my life; those who pledged to protect me, provide for me…no matter what. Unlike many ex-husbands, his desire to continue ‘protecting and providing’ is given much of its longevity by the fact that I was quite symbolically his dreamgirl. On our wedding night he became the first man to introduce me to my sexual Self. To be shown his proclivities without judging and to subconsciously make them my own; this can be done by any open-minded female in any latter-day relationship, yet when this situation is explained to my male friends, they always refer to it as, "the virgin bond".

The year we married was 1997, and I was the Goddess of Conventry. I went back to Ohio for my grandmother. The news of her cancer diagnosis hit me hard; she was my only living grandparent but more importantly, intellectually, she was my modality. As she assured me it would be quite alright if I got a job and lived a little, I met up with old friends and was introduced to new ones. My apotheosis originally came about from my past legacy of gypsydom. “M.~ has lived EVERYWHERE!” my older friends would exaggerate, then I, as if on cue, would begin telling of my movement throughout my life. My most devoted worshippers were those whose parents had the means, yet would not untie their purse strings in order to let their children embark on journeys of Self-discovery. I was ‘divine’ in my ability to save up the money then, just…leave. We all remember the fairy tales of the princesses forced to live as serfs and milkmaids to save their lives…I WAS a gypsy princess...there are rarely palaces and jewels involved in my tales. The 'riches' are found in the people I have met and the experiences treasured; I would not trade them for the world!

“How did you get THERE?” “Was it as beautiful as movies say it is?!” “I want to come with you next time!” “I WILL come with you next time.” Jesse said with utter resolve. I was seated on the dining room table in our spacious four bedroom apartment on Euclid Heights Blvd., in the area of Cleveland Heights known as Coventry Village. My roommates’ protests to me placing my tiny derriere where we broke bread were futile. It was the best place for me to hold ‘service’. Jesse was one of the first devotees of the Cult of M.~; he fell hard and quickly. I have to admit, he did hold sway over me for a time…what woman wouldn’t fall for a guy that made her a shepherd’s pie from scratch? Jesse’s dad was a corporate attorney who used his financial gains wisely. Trips for Jesse and the rest of the family were only deemed necessary if it furthered his father’s career goals for Jesse on some level. “Are you SURE, Jesse?” He stood up from his chair, one of the ten circling the dining room table on which I was perched, “Never more sure in my life!” Jesse was GREAT! He performed as headrest when I would sit three of my friends next to one another on the couch and lie across them like a lap bed to take naps. He would sometimes brush my hair while I was sleeping if he planned to take me out of the house whenever I awakened. So how did I wind up married to TJ? Jesse was an unalterable SNOB!

When he felt himself losing ground with me to TJ (they were vying for my attention along with an older gentleman named Tim who quickly lost me when he tried to buy my affections), he would start in with the Polish jokes to belittle TJ. I do not allow anyone- any group- to be oppressed by stereotypes, so this behavior pushed Jesse out of the goddess’s good graces expeditiously! He spent the rest of that summer moping and apologizing…I believe TJ and I forgave him after the wedding that Fall. TJ also had the added distinction of being the one guy in years who could make me…nervous. I would get flushed after he kissed me good night; have fitful dreams that made me feel guilty when I would see him the next time at work... My older brothers blame sexual tension for me getting married “too soon” as they put it to this day, but I believe my marriage and subsequent deflowering came right on time. I was ripe.

Matrimony is an odd ritual, as is the pomp of the dating ritual leading up to it. ‘Keep her safe! Keep her virtuous!’ the men seem to be mumbling, while the women whisper, ‘Isn’t it romantic?’ at every display of affection. A male relative walks you down the aisle of a sacred hall to the altar, in an extravagant and attention-grabbing gown- in the daytime? Removing a maiden’s claddagh from your ring finger, he slips it into his tuxedo pocket. Your finger is now bare, awaiting another man’s jewellery; he will begift you from now on. The male relative steps symbolically and literally to the side, solemn. He knows what will happen to you later but the women are pressing you to receive; their will is strong and he can not fight for you anymore. This 'prince' of a man- the one who asked for your hand in marriage and has just vowed to love and cherish you in front of your families and your God- gives you a brand new set of expensive rings as an ‘exchange’; you still don’t quite know what is going to happen or you would have asked that the rings be even MORE expensive.

Everyone is keeping you in good spirits, some even make jokes and innuendoes. You, the virgin sacrifice, are clueless. But this is tradition and every woman who claims to feel guilty for not doing it “the right way” has forgotten to warn you that your Prince Charming- the man your male relatives have just turned you over to- is about to scar you FOR LIFE! You are going to remember this; the real test is will you forgive him? Specifically, will you get over the trauma of this moment, being able to embrace yourself as a sophiscated 'animal' that controls your desires, while also being able to acknowledge your primal callings...maybe even one day...separate from his? He takes you out of the country. The location is beautiful (scenery to distract you). He grants you twelve more hours of virtue because he wants to swim, water ski and soak up some sun. The latter activity is cut short due to you both being fair complected and easily burnt. You return to rose petals on your bed and a bottle of champagne on the table nearest the window with two glasses. “Congratulations!” courtesy of the hotel; surely they are congratulating HIM on capturing a virgin...such elusive prey. ‘There are so many rose petals they almost look like a stain on the sheets’, you think as your archetypal mind is attempting to warn you. You lie down, dizzied from the champagne and he, now lying next to you tells you how pretty and ‘sweet’ you look. ‘Sweet’…like innocent.
This was not the scene from “Kama Sutra: A Tale of Love” (1997) where Tara begins to hate/desire her husband in a masochistic manner. I believe that had a lot more to do with his potent pheromones! But there is no ‘birds and the bees’ ‘Mother/Daughter’ conversation that can prepare you for that ‘surprise’. The one that Prince Charming gives you if you are “a good girl” on your wedding night.

TJ has not let go- literally. He is attempting to brush my almost waist-length auburn hair away from my neck in order to better entice me into the room, with tender kisses on my ‘weak spot’. As I watch him in the mirror’s reflection I wonder if it is such a bad thing for me to continue to be ‘bonded’ to him- my 'first'; the man I dreamt would be my only. Surrendering to him again would be a return to a time in my life when I was still content to be ‘perfect’ for whomever was to be pleased. ‘It would be my duty to surrender right now’ I thought , then I knitted my brows and with a good bit of force, shrugged off TJ’s embrace. I turned around to face him, answering his questioning, surprised, open posture with my empowered, no-nonsense, cross-armed gaze. “It’s getting late…I’m sure your GIRLFRIEND will be expecting a call from you…how about I buy you lunch before you start back?” We quietly go back to his car and I tell him I am in the mood for Italian. As he starts the car he glances over at me and says, “I guess…I guess I got a little…nostalgic. I’m sorry…” I am looking out the passenger’s window at a really cute guy walking his dog. I check his left hand for a wedding band, then smile and raise a brow in curiosity as I do not see one and he- noticing me looking at him- smiles. TJ is annoyed, “M.~?! HELL-loo! I said I was sorry!” The cute guy passes from view and I turn back toward TJ, “Don’t worry sweetie…I already forgave you.”

This goddess isn't totally against fairy tales, or I would not be coaxed into 'chick flicks' by my female friends ever so often. Here are three books that helped me appreciate the power behind the rituals and literature that throughout history has propelled them: "Fairy Tales Sexuality and Gender in France" by Lewis Seifert; "Spinning Straw Into Gold…” by Joan Gould; "The Fairy Tales of Oscar Wilde" by Jarlath Killeen (more of a study). If you are feeling REALLY independent, re-read Grimm's and blog your own opin'! Kisses, M.~

Some Musings On Celebrity

2008-11-26T08:57:00.008-05:00

Whether they are climbing heights in La La Land, or Gladiators of sports...I'm still just M.~ to them.

I watched the Cavs game with a recently acquired male friend. He asked me the question men tend to ask when they have discovered my family and LeBron's are close. "Do you think when he becomes a free agent in 2010, he'll stay with the Cavs?" I told the lie I often tell when people are overstepping their boundaries, "He and I only discuss his children...". It has been a topic a few times within our circle- but only a few times. That business is better left to the professionals. It was just weeks into our friendship that he found out "King James" was quite close to my family; I blame LeBron! He called about some children's clothing line I'd once told him about as he was purchasing a present for a friend's daughter, and had forgotten where I'd gotten the 'princess' dress for my niece. "Hey Ms. M.~!" It took me a moment to place his voice as I did not check the caller ID, and I have several surrogate little brothers with the same deep voice and manner of greeting. We chatted about family; I gave him the information; and I ended the conversation to continue the one I was having with my new friend. He was quiet for a time then asked with a little bit of incredulousness, "Were you just talking to THE LeBron?" I could not help but smirk. When I first met him he was young teen, goofy but sweet as teenaged boys go. Watching grown men- sometimes twice his age- genuflect before him literally or figuratively is still hilarious to me. I told my friend the abridged version of how I came to know the young man that has been symbolically 'the holy ghost' in Nike commercials and is so popular he has made commercials with several manifestations of himself.

"This is UNbelievable- he is AMAZING!", then I was subject to hearing why this particular person felt LeBron was the greatest...yadda yada. Don't get me wrong: I adore him, his children and the mother of his children; his friends (the hangers -on and the true friends for life); and basketball is one of my favorite sports because much like soccer, I get to see millionaires sweat for their money. I am actually as proud of LeBron as I am of all my other surrogate little brothers who have grown up to be strong-spirited/business-minded/thoughtful men. I tell him how proud I am of him as often as I tell Willie the Child Advocate, Darrell the Teacher and Chris the Police Officer. Even when we are given celebrity treatment in Cleveland and out-of-town because of LeBron it doesn't get heady- for any of us (except maybe the hangers-on). I will always be 'Ms. M.~' to him and his friends: the lady who talks alot and loves kids. When he spends holidays with us I still get scolded for walking up to him as he goofs off with his friends had giving him 'indian burn' on his close-cut scalp. I can't help but treat him like a kid sometimes, but he knows it's from the heart.

Friends and relatives that call me from awards ceremonies are a different animal! "Princess (my family nickname)?" "Yes Laurie?" "What is that name you gave to ---? You know, the actor from "-----"?" "Why?" I inquire as I hear tons of noise behind her. "Because he is standing RIGHT HERE and I was telling him about how funny my cousin is!..." I fear that I will become a published author; gain national (if not international) literary acknowledgment; accidentally find myself at a party on either coast with a group of entertainers, and one will recognize me as the woman from one of the countless anecdotes a cousin or friend has told about me. My name is too unique for them NOT to! This, strangely enough, is not the first time something like this has happened. My friend Stan embarassed me at an Indie film festival by literally putting an actor I had a superficial crush on on his cellphone and not telling me who it was; my friend Timothy (who seems to have a knack for befriending stars he works on films with) had a LEGENDARY actress send me a birthday E-card (I freaked out for weeks!). Do not envy me, dear reader...they all do this because I am normally cool as a cucumber.

I try to live my life treating people I don't know...like people I do not know! Celebrities should be treated just as one treats the guy who lives five houses down three blocks up. Do you know THAT fellow? Should you know any of HIS personal business? Do you hunger for photos of HIS wife sunbathing? Then...by all means, treat the people you claim to admire in Hollywood the same! No one is perfect (even a goddess!); I have been guilty of Hollywood fever too. We are not speaking of the three actors that I would literary marry within WEEKS of meeting (my passion is pretty much STOKED), but my odd desire to know which actors originated in Ohio, who is a writer/artist in their off-time, who is multi-lingual, who was raised Catholic, or who shares my astrological sign (and I don't really care that much about astrology). One supposes, giving others the same benefit of my doubt, it is a vanity thing with others too. 'How does this star relate to me?' It gets sickening to me when it gets to the level of my ex-friend Kathy.

I have very recently been reminded of what broke up our friendship...quite often recently...like every Tuesday night. My ex-friend Kathy's OBSESSION with a certain actor caused me to so completely sever ties with her that my other friend, whom I also called Kathy, agreed to allow me to nickname her KATE, so I would not have to say 'my friend Kathy' again! In this sad tale of a lost friendship may lie the answer to why I will rarely listen to anything not uttered directly from an actor's mouth in an interview (and even then who really knows); or tend to drown out the idle gossip in magazines and on TV. Or maybe that's just ME~.

We watched the show together most times, unless I was babysitting. Much like Jeopardy! we prided ourselves on watching and enjoying something on TV that most people at our school didn't catch onto until later. When they did, it had more to do with cute guys than dialogue and storylines. And, to be sure, the 'Teacher Seduction' storyline. After fielding a bunch of questions each week about a character that did not exist and how his life MIGHT be similar to the actor portraying him...this storyline became the proverbial STRAW to my tolerance of her obsession! "Do you think he REALLY seduced a teacher when he was in school?" Kathy asked, excitedly. "Probably not! He's just a really good actor..." "But he's sooo HOT he probably could!" Her constant mooning had sucked half his attractiveness right out of him to me, "Maybe." After that, her dreams and fantasies got more 'involved'...we had cute guys at our school, WHY she was so fixated on this poor fellow was beyond me. I snapped at her and she did not speak to me for two episodes (weeks).

She had shown herself to be a bit vengeful in the past but this was pretty sophisticated even for her. She took something that I was still experiencing melancholy about and used it to show me that as much as I cared about this, she cared about this crush she had on him. A bit of 'you poo-poo on my feelings, I'll poo-poo on yours'. "Your grandfather was from Vancouver, right?" I thought this was an odd way to open a conversation after not speaking to someone for two weeks but I can be forgiving so..."Well,...he grew up there but he was born in-" "Did you know --- is from Vancouver?" I rolled my eyes- deeply- then sighed. "Nevermind...", then she began talking about school. I foolishly thought it was over. "Did you know ---'s mom is from Dublin?" "Ohio?" "No silly!" she giggled, "IRELAND". I could feel my face flushing with anger. I still tried to be amicable, "Well if his dad is from there TOO-" "No his dad's American." I calmed down some, "Well...that would mean his surname is from his dad and-" "NO. He has his mom's last name- like you!" I was very sensitive about my paternal family; due to the little time I was able to spend with them as a child, I was left with several holes in the tapestry of my family. Da (what we called my paternal grandfather) was MY only tangible link to my family in Canada and Ireland...and he had passed away. The 'Heritage Tour', as it became known later, taken by Da, my Daddie and my oldest brother, was "for father's and sons" as my father reminded me even as I begged to go. "You'd miss school Princess", he told me as the final excuse while placing the silver claddagh on my finger he'd bought earlier in an attempt to soothe me. Da died not long after they returned, as had my father- in his prime and suddenly- from a brain aneurysm. Her constant clinging to any information about this guy she did not know, then using it in an attempt to draw a link between us, as if to validate her obsession in some way, was too much. "WHERE in Ireland was your family from again?" "Kathy, don't do this-" "Chapelizod, right? Wow! That's close to Dublin! Isn't there-" "KATHY! I don't know what your problem is but you need to stop it NOW! Just because he shares my family's last name doesn't mean anything! It's a VERY common surname!" My ears were burning with anger and I was pretty sure I was the color of a tomato. "Your dad had a ring made with your family crest on it while he was in Ireland right? Why don't you let me make a rubbing of it and send it to his fan site-" I hung up and did not accept calls from her anymore. I dodged her until she got the hint. When approached about the situation by my mother I was told I was being too sensitive and "What if you found our you all WERE distantly related...wouldn't you feel bad for how you treated Kathy?" As my mother walked away I wondered why I was really so angry with Kathy.

It was the not knowing that did it. I was angry because there was no way to really find out short of a genealogy.com search. I don't think about her too often when enjoying my new favorite show. I secretly hope she is somewhere working late so she misses the show every week and doesn't own a VCR, Tivo or a DVR!

I was bored...now you are too- I LOVE to share!

C26H28ClNO

2008-11-19T12:32:00.003-05:00

The vanity of multiples is a bit much...don't you think?

"God bless you mother- you retired from children's counseling too soon!" I teased during a phone conversation that involved us watching one of those entertainment shows. Yet another entertainer was the proud parent of a set of twins; it seems odd that they rarely mention if the twins were identical or fraternal...maybe that doesn't matter when it is not your egg. "Clomid twins, sweetie....biochemistry and anthropology dictate that no population can have a surge in multiple births on the level of Hollywood's without some sort of 'enhancer'". The name of the enhancer most often used is Clomid. With each multiple birth I hear about on the news, one seems to get less enthused. I recall reading that the chance of bearing twins goes up to 4% when you get over thirty but this- THIS is just too much chemistry in biology!

I remember the few times I ventured over to the 'girls' side' of the playground, some way the conversation would turn to marriage and children (this is what they obviously heard from the older females). I often heard girls admitting at the ages of six to twelve that having twins or multiple children at one birthing sounded "cool";seemed like the best way to get their two-point-three out of the way; or vainly they assumed there should be multiple 'THEMS'on the planet. None of us knew of the limitations of hymens, female genitalia or swollen feet then...virgins are so lucky! After just one birth later in our years, many of my friends decided ONE was enough of the 'mother experience' for them! Now we have wealthy, beautiful people taking chances on their bodies, surrogates' ambitions, plastic surgeons' acumen and fertility enhancers' side effects. To be sure, some have claimed- off the record- to have used acupunture or herbal concoctions. But has anyone consulted a developmental psychologists?

Yes, I went there! Birthing orders; multiple birth aggression and detachment; nature vs. nurture; good twin/bad twin syndrome...all the horror stories plucked from Psychology journals will come back to haunt us as children of status and privilege converge on Hollywood over the next thirty years IN MULTIPLES. We will wish whimiscally for the teen years of Paris and Nikki Hilton! Orgies that rival Ancient Rome...think Hell's version of the Doublemint Twin commercials; hedonism and spikes in viral outbreaks- because the hot guy with the diseases was into twins. It seems odd, someone like myself that seems to 'adore' Tinseltown, labeling it the next Sodom and Gomorrah, yet the dirty underbelly is poised for a shock. Jerry Springer may only have wanna-be actors and maladjusts whom we've never seen on-screen, but the seediness that slips out of Lala Land is mimicked by the soft-in-brain.

Not all entertainers are bad-parents waiting to happen...I have seen a few recently that seem to know just enough about their profession to keep their profession from ruining their personal lives; I laud them to my friends in the business often. As for those that seem to search out the limelight, just to begin their 'bonfires'...woo be to us who will have to witness the harbringer of parental yearnings and subsequent fertility! If the offspring survive childhood, their book deals will already be inked; let's hope they will be sober enough to fulfill them.

No one cares about my opinion but me. That is why some blog...to give others candy for their brain or bitter herbs for them to chew.

The Purging Flame

2008-11-17T12:19:00.000-05:00

There were no dragons to blame...

It is odd how often you hear about homes going up in flames and never remember the particulars. I dare you: name the reason behind the last fire you heard about in conversation...on the news! You cannot recall, correct? It really doesn't matter...here's another for you to forget.

My friend Harvey and I had been discussing, oddly enough, our new 'watercooler' show, Fringe. We IM'd at my sister's until I was CT'd (carpal tunneled) and I started my journey back to my apartment. At first, there was just the smell of 'something burning' in the air. Then, I noticed what seemed to be a 'fire emergency' in the distance; as I got closer it seemed to be in my complex; my building...MY APARTMENT! I have been told that the gentleman (stretching the limitations of THAT title!) that started the fire with his burning ciggy, blamed the couple on the other side of him (who were burned out too) and me for the disaster.

I had a get-together with a few new acquaintances that ended before eleven pm the night before: as in, the lights and music were off and I was resting in my bed by eleven pm- no later. The couple on the opposite side- according to him- decided to (throat clearing) have-at-it around midnight; and between these two events, he claims that caused him to be sleep deprived and eventually fall asleep on the sofa with a lighted ciggy that afternoon. I was assured by the Fire Marshall we were not to be legally blamed- TO BE SURE!

As I recounted to my friend Harvey the disaster I'd returned to that afternoon, he, in an attempt to lift my spirits, gave me his 'Fringe version' of what happened:

'A female Federal Agent, jealous of my vast high-end handbag and shoe collection sent an alien to burn up all my belongings forcing me to move back to the city I fled after 9/11, so they could better observe me.' Of course, I challenged his logic..."Why MY handbags and shoes?" He was silent for a moment then said, "Your feet are so little and your bags are so big- it's like an abomination!" Touche! I suppose my attitude has been not what other's have expected...upon reaching the parking lot and realizing my apartment was one of the three gutted by flames, a neighbor came over to offer sympathy. "I'm so sorry! Look on the bright side-" I cut her off, "Yes...at least I didn't go to the APL and get that kitty..." I mused. It happened during the day and most people were safely back in their apartments by evening.

Having been 'a gypsy' for a while now, I have moved around shipping and toting an astronomical amount of 'baggage' with me from one state to the next. Some of it was actually part of my wardrobe. There were the frat tees from every boyfriend that was ever IN a fraternity; the paraphrenalia from my sorority years; the 'keepsakes' that amounted to a smaller-scale pack-ratting; and clothing that should have found its way to a thrift store long ago. As it is, I have only the clothing I have accidentally-on-purpose left at relatives homes (thank GOD I left my high school cheerleading and highstepping uniforms at my Uncle's!). I do have one tote-worthy item...my Beaumont basketball camp tee. It's dingy and has ink dots on it from where my friend and I washed them together and tried to distinguish them with marks, but it is my grungy little keepsake from a peaceful time.

For those of you who know me best, my intellectual property is safe. My computer was burned to soot, however, I saved every completed/incompleted short story and novel; character synopses; plot summary; and unpublished/published poem onto my email. Kudos to me for being anal! My mother is traumatized however..."This would NOT have happened if you'd just come home to Mommie!" To be sure! Fortunately for me (or her?) my Hermes bags I inherited from my great-aunt are at her house.

I do not know what to expect. I left New York so long ago...I have been told by friends that there is a different atmosphere to the place, some underlying melancholy brought about by a loss of 'arrogant-innocence' after the attacks. Shopping on weekends and actually living there again are completely different! Let one hope for the best.

Do not fear if I do not blog here as often for a while...I have to get settled in.
Kisses, M.~

Call The Authorities- I've Been Robbed!

2008-10-30T11:51:00.004-04:00

I do hope this is one of those...fits of eccentricity and not reality!

Joaquin Phoenix has mentioned that he will be retiring from acting to pursue his music career. Although I truly believe Mr. Phoenix will succeed in any and every endeavor he puts his mind to (and the thought of him touring in more intimate settings at first conjures up fantasies of deep-sigh-inducing encounters), one cannot help but feel a tinge of sadness at not being able to 'feel' his talent. Yes, I referred to it as 'feeling his talent'. It is almost preternatural how his facial expressions, tone and body language can impart one with a form of forced empathy: you seem to KNOW what that character is thinking, feeling; or the very atmosphere of the scene, just by watching Joaquin.

And let's not forget that 'raw' masculinity that seems to make a woman subconsciously arch her back so her bosom sits more prominently displayed (like when he smiles). I have a superstitious friend from La Isla Boricua that SWEARS that the men of that island are blessed (or cursed) with a primal sexuality that enhances the very effect Mr. Phoenix elicits from the feminine sex. True, Joaquin Raphael was born in Puerto Rico...but I always thought it was his voice that had me subconsciously stroking the nape of my neck after the opening scene of "We Own the Night" (2007). Silly me! (wink)

I hope after he has passionately and relentlessly 'exorcised his demons through his music', as Tim Burgess from The Charlatans referred to it, he will give us another 'wink and nod' with his artistic medium, The Method. Until then, I will be fidgeting anxiously like the owner of some purloined treasure, awaiting its return.

Tomorrow I will have a a netflix.com Joaquin-athon. Presently, I'm just pouting...

My new X!

2008-10-05T22:29:00.004-04:00

If you are looking for dish here...sorry to disappoint!

I have been out of the loop when it came to the Fall lineup. After one of my favorite shows of all time went off years ago (MILLENIUM), then the origin of its spin off (THE X FILES), I'd settled in to anything Dick Wolf produced with the words "law" or "order" in the title. The judicial system and law enforcement were the only subject matter that caught my attention. Then back in September I caught a preview of a pilot.

There is something so yummy about Joshua Jackson! Is it the height (I do crave longshanks!) or that whole teacher-seduction-thingy he did as Pacey on Dawson's Creek? I may simply be smitten by my philosophy that all good actors are also above average in the intelligence department (and he HAS to be smart because he is a southpaw- like me!). At any rate, it is good to see an under-appreciated talent (he's done theatre people!) gain a vehicle.

I have heard from a source in the industry that working a series is 'draining'. It takes it's toll on the Creatives who are used to doing a part and letting it go. But as I sit in the state where Mr. Jackson once filmed Dawson's Creek, I do so hope that he will suffer for his fans through what is surely a series with longevity.

After watching Mission Impossible III for the fortieth time (Tom Cruise is practically a hometown boy after marrying one of my fav Ohio girls Katie!), I finally watched the commentary. I loved it! Just listening to Tom Cruise and J.J. Abrams go through the film scene by scene you feel as if you are at a private screening with the two of them. I hope all the best for J.J. Abrams and his family, he sounds like such an appreciative person; I too am happy Tom Cruise gave him that opportunity! I noticed something that has me thinking Mr. Abrams is not done surprising us yet on the credits for Fringe: he is solely responsible for the theme that coaxes you into the alternate universe of Fringe. Cool beans!

It's official: after just four episodes I have found my new X FILES! No calls between 855pm and 1002pm on Tuesdays, thank you.

Should you feel a need to share strange stories of your obsessive crushes on Mr. Jackson- please don't! You KNOW my heart will always truly belong to VDO...

Obligatory Happiness

2008-09-20T14:26:00.005-04:00

The original context of NOBLESSE OBLIGE was the maintaining of social traditions and duties by the nobility. On recent occasions, we have seen the 'les bourgeoisies' hold truer to their social dictes than...the HEIRESSES of the world. Fighting in clubs; making home porn- where are the handlers people!

A close friend brought to my attention recently that I am very conservative. Since she too seems a bit 'stiff' at times, my curiosity was heightened and I wanted to know in what context she meant. "It just seems that even around your family you are not allowed to DO certain things. Like when your mother came here (to Cleveland) before you moved...you all act like there is some etiquette book you are following."

This surely is not the first time one has heard this. I once had a woman at work who always seemed to feel the need to say insulting or gauche things in my presence tell me flat out she thought I was daffed. I humored her by asking why she made that judgment and she said with a sinister grin, "You don't even REALIZE when people are insulting you!" Her mistake! I corrected her by allowing her a 'peek' into my world of social accomodation: If the rule is 'if you haven't anything nice to say...don't say anything at all' then when someone says something untoward or false it is proper manners to IGNORE the statement or (my favorite action) turn the insult on it's ear.

Like the time a very unhappy fellow over heard me speaking with some other people about the "Charlie's Angels" film. He knew of my presence on this planet maybe a month but had formulated the same assumption as my erring coworker. I mentioned being most fond of Lucy Liu's character; he blurted out that I was more like the ditzy character Cameron Diaz played. I turned to him with a pleasant smile and stated, "I truly wish I was! With legs that long I would be dangerous!" He shook his head in disgust and walked away.

Here's a tip for any of you so downtrodden by your misery that you cannot stand to see those you would describe as perpetually happy and deem ignorant or soft in the brain: we know the secret to true happiness and that is why we do not walk about surly and curdish...it's schadenfreude! Ah yes! Everytime I realize that my perkiness is 'bothering' someone I turn it up a notch; I want to see if their head will explode from negativity. I am often happy simply because others feel I should be weighed down by my years. HELL-looo! There is a reason I still get mistaken for a person much younger than I am (and no it has nothing to do with being naive), it's called smiling and being proactive instead of frowning and trying to gloom others down with you.

Within my family we discuss politics, the environment and social disasters like adult children who seem to have no respect for themselves or the legacy of their parents in their social circle. GIRLS GONE WILD just screams 'I hate myself AND my family!' What guy wants to buy a tape and see his drunken sister on it? I know at least one of my four brothers has to view porn...why would I scar him like that? If you have daddie issues seek therapy; if your mother is a control freak- dodge her; if someone touched you wrong when you were a child don't weigh down some poor fellow in a relationship with all your subsequent issues...get help!

And by no means come by my family's homes hoping to drone on about gossip or other unsavory topics...the conversation my just turn to shoes right in the middle of your sentence.

What my family does is not always right; of course that means it is not always wrong either. I have met family units that THRIVE on negativity...to each his own!

The Problem With THE CLUB

2008-07-21T18:00:00.005-04:00

SOCIO-ECONOMIC DIVERSITY! Yes, most treat it as if it is dirty linen, but I am brave enough to superficially examine it in one little blog. (wink)

Country Clubs are usually the symbolic edifix of exclusion and snobbery. But a funny thing happened to alot of CCs on the way out of the 80s...they decided to embrace most 'haves' (semi-regardless of race)while continuing to shun the 'have-nots'. Don't get one wrong- CCs have membership fees so that they know people are serious about attempting to 'belong'. But having a Community Day each year may also help those who 'have' appreciate more what they have. Of course, some do join the Club in order to ignore the 'have-nots': I have been snickered at on more than one occasion for volunteering outside of the fund-raising season.

So here I was summering in the same city I live in, roped into being a mentor for one of the clueless children of the elite. Etiquette was key and I was afforded much more time than Professor Higgins to make a "silk purse out of the sow's ear". Her mother had not a clue how to seat a table, nor that there was more than one type of setting for a dinner party (I am familiar with French, Hong Kong, English, American Southern and New England). I was working from scratch. For those of you whom don't know, there is a larger-than-one-might-think community of ex-pat Louisianians here in Northeastern Ohio...and the Creole folkways are kicking until their last breath! I was recruited for my knowledge and my pedigree, as I am the granddaughter of Canary DeClarvoy Jackson, nee Rosseaux. I believe I once mentioned in this blog my Irish-Canadian paternal grandfather, born in Northern Ireland; relocated outside of Vancouver, BC as a toddler; left Canada in his twenties for The Land of Riches? I may or may not have mention my paternal grandmother and her family's relocation 'to pass' in Ohio as Whites...it's really quite boring.

I helped the young lady as best one could since she seemed so fascinated by those things low-brow as so many are these days. I'm all for high-low fashion but my culture and arts should remain ninety-percent HIGH. It was a mixed cotillion, as some of her friends have not been 'debuted'. We planned trips for the debutantes to influence a sense of community for the metropolitan region and to let them learn that having fun does not mean forgetting your manners. Some of you readers may be thinking "I hope she doesn't drown when it rains", but I would rather one know and do as one pleases than never to know at all! Life is about choices; how many can you make without all the information, all the options?

The big day arrived and to supervise the setup I wore my Lily (Pulitzer) Jacqueline sateen dress, a pair of Martinez Valero pink satin high heel sandals and a big pink CZ cocktail ring I got from one of my internet sources (I can't give away all!). We really just sipped herbal tea and patted ourselves on the back for going with the dried flowers in nets as decor and keepsakes. I almost wore something dark and gloomy that evening as I was remembering my cotillion and how many of my friends 'mourned' their 'flowers'. But I hoped for the best and settled on my Miss Sixty Jennifer silver dress, a pair of grey pearl cluster earrings, and my Bulova stainless steel and crystal section watch, with my metallic magazine clutch and my Dolce & Gabbana metallic grommet pumps from AGES ago. They were best at running down escaping debs in wayward boys' cars. This left no room for an awful comparison between the "new debs" and the "former debs" as we had been relegated. There was not a "former deb" there under twenty-eight and we felt like they were calling us "Ma'am" all night.

I decided to study people as a useful distraction from my obvious feminine mortality. As I stood by the windows leading out to the greens, I noticed one of the wait staff making his way through the crowd. He was a fair/tan Latino with this full beautiful mouth and those "darker than ebony" eyes that make me melt. He was focused on feeding the laughing, scrutinizing masses (I remember that cotillion better than you might think!). I imagined myself a different woman with different morals, wisking him onto the greens without a care or inhibition- for seven seconds. Then I returned to my regular fantasy, the one bred into every deb...dinner, conversation about the upcoming election (how did HE think the Latino vote would go?), and staring into his deeply dark eyes. I stared into eyes that dark before for six months and awakened with a heartache he swore was normal. Apparently I was not the only one he locked eyes with.

I began to wonder how I might let him know I was 'open' to getting to know him: everyone was smiling; many politely acknowledged him; 'did I dare ask his name?' Then I stopped- how would I let him know I was interested at work? We were both, in fact, working: I as a mentor he as food service. And just as I said 'food service' to myself, that other part of my breeding came back...noblesse oblige. "You can't date THE HELP!" I heard a catty cousin say from my subconscious. "You are BETTER than that." I stood up to the spectre from my youth, 'I AM better than that- that is why I CAN date THE HELP.' Then something a little different than latent snobbery reared its head...it was realism. 'How many Paul Stuart suits, Brooks Brothers' vintage polos, Orvis chinos, Ralph Lauren shirts and Durham leather deck shoes would make him at ease around my friends and ex-sorority sister's husbands?' 'Or' I reasoned, 'Would he live in Seven 4 All Mankind Jeans and the latest tees?' 'And why am I buying his clothes? Don't I think he has something to wear other than his steward tux?!' With all that yelling at myself about a hypothetical, I completely missed his tray passing and never got another chance to grab a coin-sized quiche that evening. Serves me right!

I 'date poor' (as my friends call it) quite often. Everything is so much easier when the world shrinks to just you two...it's the socializing that so often kills a relationship. Our families, friends, are dear to us. They are our social credentials. I guess whether a mixed socio-economic relationship works has more to do with personal dedication and tenacity than how far apart you are on the financial ladder...

The New Golddiggers- 2008!

2008-06-22T13:33:00.003-04:00

As the traditional roles of men and women merge and redirect, there is a trend of male 'golddiggers' popping up. Call me old-fashioned, but I would much rather there be NO golddiggers than have to wonder whether the guy across from me is after me or my credit rating!

"It's shameful, really!" my friend Dana is repulsed by the guy she thought was so wonderful for three weeks- until he asked her to help him with his car payment. "Is this situation REALLY different from what we did in college?" I ask playing devil's advocate.

The truth is, unless he is traveling around a certain social circle that condones that behavior, it is QUITE different. While pursuing our academic careers, my friends and I were often courted by much older males as trophies. They knew from the monologues that began "I'm just a poor, struggling college student..." that we expected to be pampered and supported. This is why I refer to them as 'sponsors'. I truly am old-fashioned in many areas, but I recognize that there are some women- some older, some younger, most accomplished- who are willing (heck they are soliciting!) attractive, inert males to shower with gifts, etc. Unfortunately, for the Lothario previously mentioned, my social circle is not one of them.

My lunch group departs from Don's Pomeroy House and we return to our respective occupations. Although, my friends refer to me as 'playing poor', I cannot imagine a man attempting to date me as 'a sponsor'. On the first date he would realize the disposable income is not disposable as I am saving up to buy a home. My alms for the poor go directly into the baskets at church, and at present I am known for giving more time than gifts to my nieces and nephews. My life is such a 180 from where I was ten years ago that one of my wealthiest friends told me to re-read "Rich Christians In An Age of Hunger"(1997). As she put it, "There is nothing in there about becoming a social pariah and financially-challenged". She feels that I date beneath myself and do not take advantage of the accomodations offered to me by friends and family.

One of the men I am spending time with presently has several financial obligations that leave him shaking his head at the end of the month. He has admitted to working since he was ten years old and is now twenty-eight (apparently they start young in Puerto Rico, maybe that is why the port is so 'rich'). He is virile and energetic...he will be fine. But knowing how I feel about him (and the other one) presently, if either were to come to me and ask for...a loan, could I swallow my old-fashioned apprehensions in order to lend them the money? I would not, at this point, ask either of them for money. Just recently we began going French-Dutch on dates (Dutch: is when both pay for their meals; French-Dutch: is 'you pay this time, I'll pay next'). Their male pride causes them to schedule matinees when it is my turn to pay. But back to the question: could I GIVE a man money? Married: yes. Dating:?

When I loan money to my friends, I don't expect to get it back. Not that my friends are deadbeats, I simply don't loan money without knowing that there is a possibility I will never get it back. I am often pleasantly surprised. But to openly provide for a man...men still make more than women almost across the board- could I 'keep' a man? I don't believe so, not unless we had an agreement- a legally binding agreement. Palimony still exists and I wouldn't want to have to pay for the privilege long after it is no longer a pleasure!

In case you were wondering...I still don't reach for doors if I am walking with someone else (male or female); I expect people to open my car doors; I manipulate males in my vicinity into hailing my cabs; and I allow my date to order my meal (AFTER I have coyly mentioned what I am 'in the mood for' on the way to the restaurant). But maybe that is the Princess in me (wink).

That Voodoo You Do!

2008-05-18T14:21:00.009-04:00

Imagine if you had the perfect lighting director (the sun) and the perfect director/producer (divinely-inspired genetics) on a big-budget film about you (your life). What would you do with the spotlight?

Sitting around on the sofa like a slouchy glump at my older brother's house, I heard the door bell and did not budge. "M.~?! Get that!" B.J. called out to me. I moaned like a belligerent child and padded toward the door. It was the FedEx guy with a Saturday delivery. The sun had just broken through for the first time in about an hour and was shining right on the stained glass door. I opened the door and startled the FedEx guy. "Uhm...I have...I have a delivery for..." I smiled sweetly, "It always helps ME when I read the box." He kept staring at me and my brother, curious as to who was at the door, came around the corner from the kitchen. "Kewl!" my brother shouted as he read the box upside down, waking the delivery guy from his gazing slumber, "'NeeeDA! It's your dress from Brooks Brothers!" My sister-in-law was upstairs and my brother was too excited to wait for her to come down. "Let me sign that for you my good man!", my brother said, smiling as he grabbed the electronic clipboard and signed. He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me back from the door as he said, "Have a good day" to the FedEx guy and began closing the door.

"Excuse me, sir?" the delivery guy managed before my brother fully closed the door. "Yeah?" my brother answered. "Is that your daughter? I just- I mean- shes'...very...pretty..." My brother gave me a look I have gotten from him and other male relatives. "Yeah? Well thanks." my brother said as he completely closed the door. Later that day as we were eating ice cream, my sister-in-law and brother were whispering in the hallway. When they entered the room, my sister-in-law, Bella-Netta [her name is a Creole version of La bella netta ignuda< "the beauty(ful)naked net(snare)"], plopped down next to me on the sofa. "Well! Heard you collected a new crush!" I was 'Netta's favorite in-law to tease. While growing up, my brothers were super over-protective. She was my buffer between B.J. 'killing' pubescent boys around our neighborhood. "Haha!" I managed between spoons of ice cream. "How do you DO it?" "Wha-?" "That thing you do?"

I don't really DO anything! I have seen my mother walk into rooms where she was the most modestly dressed of all the women, and capture every man's attention in the room; I've seen my older sister smile and giggle, dragging men from hallways into conference rooms; both my sisters have caused minor fender-benders just by walking down streets or through parking lots. To call this phenom je ne sais pas (I don't know) is un mensonge (a lie) because I know it has to do with the very essence of what makes me ME. I have never been a great beauty: on my mother's cattiest days, she describes my years from nine until fifteen as "that six year ugly phase". She would often say during that time, "At least you're cute to mommy". based on the 'ugly phase' comment, this is a lie. I am very unusual looking; with the surge in visibly multi-racial/multi-cultural people in the world, weird-looking is in. If it takes someone more than three minutes to figure out 'what' you are, they assume you are EVERYTHING.

In prior posts I have gone through the erroneous cultures I have been associated with, one needn't rehash this. However, I do believe that this same misunderstanding leads to men and women behaving as if entranced by my face; studying my posture and gait; focusing on my voice and speech; enthralled in the most mundane aspects of my life. I am an 'autumn baby' but when the sun shines upon me I glow like I was meant to worship it- although I am a redhead and burn with too much exposure. This has been noticeably occuring since my childhood. Even content by myself, other children would 'flock' to me, wanting to know what I was doing, what I was reading...sometimes what I was thinking. They wanted me to share so much of myself that sometimes I cannot help but hide from others...the attention gets unbearable!

Somewhere, there is a person reading this post that fades into the beige wallpaper of the doctor's office and they are cursing me RIGHT NOW. I know our society is full of 'the grass is always greener' personalities, but I do not wish to be them. I am hoping that I make them more aware that being the center of attention quite often is not a perfect blessing, but a bit of a bother. I bore easily because all anyone wants me to do is talk about ME. I like learning from others, usually those who are not that much like myself. This is difficult when people just want to hear about what you are doing/have done/will do.

And so I sit alone at parties sometimes praying someone else does something spectacular so that I can sink into the sofa. But there is always some guy that begins serenading me with Stevie Wonder's "Isn't She Lovely", replacing my name for Mr. Wonder's daughter Aeisha's; or some woman/couple that met me previously that wants me to share some anecdote I shared with them, with others. I am not that interesting- REALLY. I am artistic and my flourish in speech is a side effect of my mastery of the language arts. I am a terminal Libra: I could not escape being a social buttefly, attracting people or being genteel if my life depended on it.

As I leave you with this self-promoting post, I hope those of you whom rely on me to be your shining star, your bluebird of happiness realize...I am not always happy, nor am I constantly in need of your attention. YOU decide to come to me when I am perfectly content being in my bedroom flat with The Cranberries playing as I read Maupassant in his native tongue. It's not that I am unappreciative when we go out and some club owner/manager becomes smitten with me and gives us VIP treatment all night...it's just that I am starting to feel a bit...used and over-extended. Could someone else be the goddess tonight?

For those who are still pushing pins and needles in a voodoo doll of me...open your eyes and realize what this post is really about.

Give Them Candy!

2008-03-22T14:47:00.003-04:00

"Candy Everybody Wants"...that 10,000 Maniacs tune rings in my head everytime I pass the periodicals.

We are at war. Our economy has hit a dire point. We are in an election year. We are at war. Our economy has hit a dire point. We are in an election year. WE ARE AT WAR! OUR ECONOMY HAS HIT A DIRE POINT! WE ARE IN AN ELECTION YEAR!

Did you hear me? Good. Because sometimes the really important subjects are drowned out by who is handling Britney Spear's finances/body; pregnancy stomachs of the wealthy and thin; sports faqs; and relationship information of the stars- true and fabricated. I always refer to the Roman poet Juvenal in Satire X when this occurs: "... Already long ago, from when we sold our vote to no man, the People have abdicated our duties; for the People who once upon a time handed out military command, high civil office, legions - everything, now restrains itself and anxiously hopes for just two things:
bread and circuses".

This time it is not the government distracting us, but our minds tht beg to be numbed from the pain of reality. In reality we are at war, our economy has hit a dire point and it is an election year. Sometimes it is hard to focus on the actual candidates because they themselves revert to frivolity. Remember Hillary's ten minute babble on renouncing and declining? She just had to say SOMETHING negative toward Obama; why not something easy on the senses and useless to the mind? I feel like my ears are full of screechings and murmurings when I read the headlines of many weekly periodicals and listen to the catch points on evening shows. I am happy that a young woman who was alienating her family due to what seems to be a mental disease is now being cared for by her family, but this doesn't really matter. I enjoy hearing news of families expanding and ushering in new members, but this doesn't matter either. If someone is trying to lose weight, I champion their health...but this also doesn't matter to me.

If these were random distractions instead of bombardments, I would not mind. But we are replacing our grown up conversations with news of the weird and star-life tidbits. I am afraid we really will become like the characters in "Idiocracy" (2006)! I don't ever want to have to go to St. God's Hospital for treatment, or Buttfu--ers Restaurant for dinner!!! And who really wants to be a descendant of Clevon?! Watch it- it may creep up on you!

You KNOW it's gotten bad if someone with a Screen Goddess Complex is saying "no mas!" If you need to detox from the 'bread and circuses' coverage on the nightly news, turn your cable channel to BBC News and watch it for about two hours. You will see stories that American media does not bother to cover because they are too busy telling us who peeked in Britney's hospital file.

Linking Circles

2008-03-22T12:54:00.005-04:00

Fashion is a bit more defining these days: the style you wear is like a code that spells out who you are more often than you might think. But don't be pigeonholed!

My friend Cherese is wearing an Against My Killer tee that dismally states "Nobody Lives Forever" and a pair of jeans by the same designer that are Polyurethane-coated and black stretch boots from VictoriasSecret.com. She is not a treehugger; she shrugged after we saw Al Gore's documentary on global warming and never recycles.

My friend Tam is wearing Blue Blood brand darkwash skinny jeans. These are by far the skinnest skinny jeans I have ever seen. Not that they are super tight- they just give the illusion of anorexic proportions on those of an average weight. She is also wearing a Desiwear tee that reads "Bollywood Dance Academy" that she stole from me two years ago and Steve Madden navy colored high-heeled suede ankle boots. She said that recently people have been making comments like 'Asian girls don't normally have butts that big/hips that wide'...I think the outfit is a backlash.

Tam's brother Kin-Ken is wearing a "Crowned" Sean John hoodie that he had his sister Tam sew an old blue batik print shirt into the hood and lower back of as a lining because he thought the buttondown was too 'ethnic'. With his creativity I told him he should go into fashion design; whenever we are out and people see that the hoodie is Sean John but see the lining, they ask him where he got it because they want one too. He also is wearing the Gear Jeans by Sean John and suede Puma Rudolf Dassler Expressionismus tennies. Ken-Ken credits hiphop for teaching him English faster. He says he relates to the struggle to remain within ones culture while striving to succeed in another culture's financial system.

My Mike is wearing a cream-colored shetland wool sweater, wide wale corduroys from Land's End and a blue and green plaid L.L. Bean buttondown and blue wool socks with the L.L. Bean snowchaser boots. In my mind he looks so suburban I expect Hillary Clinton to burst through the door begging him for his vote. He is a Shaker kid and can't help wearing the 'uniform' of the suburbs.

And what am I wearing? A Kensie Girl tube dress in mint (Spring is here!) over my True Religion Candace wide-leg jeans, with a cream colored VS body-hugging cardigan and wrapped in a mint green pashmina. My knit cream-colored platform boots I got from Payless in October round off my outfit. Everything I have on is either discounted or went on sale before I thought about buying it! I have been watching my budget since that last bout with unemployment.

To see us scattered about the room, the casual observer might think 'wonder who trapped them in the same room?' But what ties me to Tam is our struggle during college as older students; to Ken-Ken, a love of hiphop in its purer form; to Cherese, our sorority; and Mike is my date. Although quite different, our values are very similar and they are all bound by their relationships to me. This weekend I went bowling with some coworkers and their friends: there was a self-described Goth girl who was channeling Betty Page and her boyfriend with as many piercings as Christina Aguilera; two fifty year olds that enjoy not acting their age; a self-described thug (he's a family man!); two A & F model types; and a twenty-one year old ex jock with his high school sweetheart that is only twenty. I was the link, once again.

I once had a lengthy discussion in one of my post RE: the many style fazes I have gone through. The attitudes that went along with these styles weren't abandoned...just the clothes. I still enjoy being around people who do not bow to peer pressure and can be themselves no matter where they are. Your self expression is piercing? Have at it! You are a natural redhead and dye your hair jet black and draw in your eyebrows with dark eyeliner? Do your stuff! You're fifty and act twenty-five (in a fun way)? Just do it! You think a eight month stint in county gives you street cred? Be the best baby thug you can be! You and your best friend look like models but love 'slumming' for dates? Feel free! You and your girlfiend are so young you still relive high school memories? Whatever makes you happy! How do I fit into this? I hired at least three of these people and had opportunities to save the jobs of the others. My open-minded but firm attitude earned their respect at one time or another. Their supervisors love them because they are hard workers even though they appear to be 'outliers'.

Speaking as one who has been an outlier for years, try not to judge the book by it's cover. It's a shame but all that individuality we fostered in the nineties has been backlashed by the younger generations labelling one another like they are in a John Hughes film. Hot Topic, Yoox.com, Neiman's, Bebe...it doesn't matter where you shop, remember to express your true self!

My look now is so soft I'm sure my friends are wondering what I am 'feeling' underneath all the comfort materials and clothing...they will know shortly, to be sure.

The Seven-Month Itch

2008-03-15T16:18:00.003-04:00

It is truly an exercise in self-control that I have not gone on vaca...or moved in seven months!

I take out my passport and glance at the photo every morning...it calms me somewhat. It is current and valid through 2010. It holds one of my better passport photos since the nineties. I had been thinking alot about my ex and his country of origin for some reason and stumbled across a blogger that lives there now. She refers to herself as Ex-pat Jane and has quite an interesting blog.(One would suggest dear reader that you take advantage and read it.)

My sister and I have been toying with the idea of a family trip to some undetermined point in Southeastern Asia, but I am voting South Korea because of my love of Korean men!All that stands between me and the perfect vaca is sixteen hours (and two procrastinating relatives!)- I am pouting as I type.

One of my friends asked if my ex had had that great an impact on me. I reminded him of my fascination concerning Korea, Japan and China from years previous. "I do vaguely remember that...but what's up with that side of the globe now?" "PLENTY!" I exclaimed. "Haven't you heard ANYTHING about India and China's struggle to become the Best in the East?" "Sure-" "Well don't count out Korea!"

My subscriptions to BC Magazine (online), Jade Magazine (I have the tee), HK Magazine (my penpal mails them weekly) weren't Korea-centric so I subscribed to Saengmyeong-eui Salm (Living Life), Mal, An An and Vogue Korea too(don't worry, I got a package rate). When my ex came by to pick me up for dinner, he chuckled at my magazine basket then asked, "So what are you doing, lookin at the pictures?" I told him my God-send was a free translation site, but humbly relented "It still takes me about a month to read them". He feigned sympathy by severely pouting at me and offered to come by to read them to me. Although sweet, I'm sure it was just a part of his plan to get into my pants.

Who knows, maybe we (or I) will make it to Seoul this year...I penny-pinch like the Miser of Wall Street most of the time so it is can-do in that department. And maybe I'll find a guy so hot that I have to drag him home!

The Goddess does not recommend dragging home random young men from vacation destinations...there are legalities (international legalities) involved.

In Memory

2008-03-07T11:27:00.003-05:00

This post is dedicated to Lauren Burk a future Delta Gamma rose cut down while she bloomed. God bless her and her family. We will continue to wonder ‘why?’ even when we find your killer.

Dream Girl

I have found my dream girl
She's as sweet as she can be
I have found the one I love
She's all the world to me
She wears the golden anchor
And the bronze, the pink, the blue
Delta Gam, I love you
And to you I will be true.
College memories linger
Never fade nor disappear
Anchored till eternity
With lasting love so dear
Wherever I may wander
All my thoughts will turn to thee
Delta Gam, my dream girl,
You're the only one for me.

Our Love, Delta Gamma

Our love, Delta Gamma, goes with you forever
The anchor, the cream rose, the bronze pink and blue
The faith of Pi Alpha will guide us if ever
The paths of life should take us far away from you.

The deep love of sisters we'll share now and always
In spite of the trials that life often brings
So now my dear Dee Gee, when you see the anchor
There's sisterhood and love for you forever more.

To all the Hannas at Auburn University our hearts go out to your loss, and our prayers are with you.

Presidential by Osmosis?

2008-02-27T13:20:00.002-05:00

I was once told that fame is NOT a venereal disease..you cannot get it from having sex with someone famous. The same holds true for the presidency.

I am a republican. In this atmosphere of 'I hate the president, therefore I will hate all republicans' I am shunned. When one is not shunned, I get 'the smirk'. You democrats know what smirk I mean; especially this election year. "What political party do you belong to?" "I'm a republican." (smirk) "Nevermind then." They are usually fishing for a discussion (if not an argument) on whether I am voting for Obama or Clinton. Once they assume I am 'cheering for the losing team', they leave me to my assumed patheticness.

The funny part about their assumption is that I have chosen to vote for a democrat. But then, my political life has always drawn assumptions.

I reached the legal voting age during Daddy Bush's term in office. I proudly registered as a republican in South Florida. On my registration application where it said "race" I was not asked to choose. The gentleman filling out my registration card simply checked "White-Hispanic descent". With MY ethnic background, were I to find out I was Hispanic, or any parts there of, I believe I would be afro-Hispanic. In his pride and assumption, this man who was darker than John Legend and clearly Hispanic by his accent, labelled me thus, in order to 'reward' me for choosing 'republican' in a red state. In South Florida with its dominant Latino cultures, it is a coup to be labelled "White-Hispanic descent" if you ARE Hispanic. Sort of like being labelled "colored" during South Africa's years under Apartheid. My sister still laughs about this to this day (she was there) and suggests that maybe it had to do with my complexion and my hair.

After that incident, upon attending a Young Americans for Freedom (read: Young Right-wing Republicans) meeting, I was accosted by my then roommate on why I would even think about 'hanging out with a bunch of racists'. She had been at the school when the group protested Jesse Jackson. My dialogue with one of the members began on this very topic. I explained to her that I was invited because I was able to successfully point out that some people mature and change their radical stance as they have more experiences with people of other cultures. (Truth be told, I went to shake things up, in case they were bigots) "They're republicans you know?!" "Yes I know...I'm a republican too." I'm not sure if she ever got over this revelation but we never talked politics again. She didn't treat our bi-sexual roomie as coldly when she came out of the closet by announcing her physical attraction to us both.

I have to consider myself a liberal republican: I see where the government should not interfere in some instances, yet it is imperative that they do intercede in others. My first vote was cast for Bill Clinton. After living the complacency of Daddy Bush, I felt we needed to shake things up. And so I cast my vote for the person with the freshest ideas, whom I trusted to at least follow through with two of them. I was not disappointed- with the shaking up and follow through on two parts, anyway. I remember the first time I saw Hillary, I knew she was a powerful woman. It cemented my belief that Bill was an alpha-male of my liking. After all, he had to be strong and secure if he married his intellectual equal. But the love affair died when Hillary began running for president. I decided to vote for Obama. Why the 180? I don't like being lied to like an elderly grandparent with a memory problem!

I am old enough to recall, and young enough to recall exactly, the protest that Hillary was co-president. I also remember Bill assuring us that there was no Bill-Hill co-presidency, HE was president in all his manliness and he did listen to her suggestions but she was not an active part of his administration. Then she assured us that she was simply first lady-with-a-brain. We embraced this idea, even if it was only to quelch the de ja vu-like fear of Reagan, Nancy and the astrologer. And so I sit here, each day, listening to Hill lie to me like Bill did when he assured us he "did not sleep with that woman- Monica Lewinsky!" My younger brother and I were the ones laughing while rolling on the couch after the Star Report claiming "He didn't lie to us about it, he was pointing and looking at some other woman behind the camera and stating that he did not sleep with HER! Then he quickly, without pause, sent a shout out to Monica Lewinsky!" My mother was still disgusted and did not buy our explanation. We laughed to keep from crying; we were disgusted too. And I would not hold Hill to any of Bill's past transgressions. But lying to me like HE lied to me is unacceptable. I want to see this past schedule of her co-presidency! If it does not read:

900 AM tea with Sharon
300 PM late lunch with Chirac
500 PM emergency meeting with Think Tank RE: NAFTA

I'm ignoring her like she is ignoring my intelligence!

For years people called me "Little Tiffany". If you have to play second-banana to someone, my sister is better than most. But I achieved so much on my own as I matured, that when she began her inspirational speaking/community improvement organization, she felt honored that I accepted a place on her board. No matter how many great ideas I offered that were accepted; no matter how often I was congratulated for my savvy by my sister- guess what? It was still my sister's company. Evey achievement was shared by those of us who worked for her, sat on the board, or acted as consultants (I did all three at one time or another). But it was still her brain child; we would not have come together and accomplished what we accomplished without her initial incorporation and idea.

And so, as I sit here, a republican for Obama, I ask those who have been brazen enough to ask who I would choose between Obama and Clinton and when I answered have chided me for choosing "balls over the broad" (yes, a Hillary supporter said that to me as in "You are like all breeders, choosing balls over the broad!"): how independent and powerful are women who lose their identities in their husbands accomplishments? As a four year old I was told to call a housewife "Mrs. Rev. Dr. Smith". No, she herself had no degree in Theology, but her husband did. She felt this made her important. I thought she was great because she was head of every committee at their church and still made knockout cookies. But I digress. We as individuals all have something to be proud of. If you are that type of person who needs to accomplish things that gain you notability, fame or wealth- go out and get it on your own! Don't try to imbibe it, rub it, toke it or 'ride it' (yes those last two were vulgar) out of someone else.

Let them have their legacy, their presidency and their press. She could have shown me what she's done in just the last six years and that would have sufficed. Now she'd have to bake a hell of a cookie to get my support. Or Obama would have to be caught with a 'Monica Lewinsky'.

BTW, Dear John (McCain),
I'm sorry to desert you in this way, but it simply did not work out for us. You lost me during your worship at the Bush well. Kisses,
M.~
FYIBarack Obama's middle name, Hussein means "(the) handsome one". I'm sure this is what his parents were thinking about instead of a twenty-something hoodlum in Iraq that would one day be a dictator. Spread the knowledge, M.~

Where Were You When...

2008-02-14T15:21:00.009-05:00

the Thriller video mini-movie came on the tele?

"What are we doing? Where are we going? Why do I have to wear THIS?"

All very valid questions from an eleven year old. It was December, 1983. We were putting on after-five casual for a dinner party over one of my uncle's now forgotten girlfriend's homes. I remember I did NOT like this woman's daughter- she was jealous of me and always tried to pull my hair!- and did not understand why we could not watch the premier at home. I understood later that this was a history making event to be shared with as many as possible. Sort of like when I was in my freshman year and big army trucks pulled up and took my friends away who thought the chance of a war during a time when they were active reservists was slim-to-none. I cried when I emerged from the shock of them waving themselves out of class and asking us to hold on to their books. "How long will you guys be gone?" I naively questioned. Just long enough for there to be a syndrome, is how history answered.

This time I would cry for a different reason. We were reminded to behave as young ladies and gentlemen and not to block the television if we should feel an uncontrollable urge to dance. I felt this comment was more so directed at moi, since I was the only one of the children that tended to break out in free form dance sequences. Who KNEW it would be the adults that yelled the loudest and broke a crystal wine glass by the end of the evening? The men began a low chant of "Ola Ray, Ola Ray!-" My uncle's girlfriend mumbled, "NASTY girl!" I didn't find out until I was nineteen, that Ola Ray had been a Playmate. I found a new respect for John Landis then; it was like I knew one of his secrets. I just remembered not caring for her capri pants. The choreography was entrancing! "My niece can watch this video ONE MORE TIME and get this down pat!", my uncle bragged. His girlfriend's daughter began moving closer to get a grip on my hair. by the end of the group sequence the men had graduated from their lascivious whispers to cheers and shouts of Michael's (and his choreographers and dancers and director's) triumphs and the women were cheering in their softer voices and doing cute-from-Cleveland dances in their respective areas.

Unfortunately, wine was served with dinner and dessert; in my uncle's buzzed exurberance, he slammed a wineglass down on the coffee table and when it shattered, my mother's leg was cut through her stockings, albeit superficially. "Owwh!" was her response, my uncle babbled apologies to his older sister until she waved him away. His girlfriend's daughter took advantage of everyone's distraction and gave the back of my hair a good yank! It brought tears to my eyes from the pain and the anger at being the object of her jealousy constantly. I waited until all the fanfare died down and the younger childen were asked to retire to the playroom...then I beat her like the tomboy I was! I was told I would be on punishment for a week for taking violence as the only answer. That's when I cried, because I would not be able to see Thriller again for a week!

I still remember having to wait almost two hours (what seemed an eternity at that age!) to ask my mother why there was a message about the occult on the screen before the video. My mother explained that it had to do with the Jehovah's Witnesses's dogma. In later years I would smirk to myself thinking, 'Michael Jackson the Phenonmenon is mystical enough for any religion'. I was mesmerized too! The way he moved...I think I first sprung my ankle being caught by surprise, attempting to moonwalk by the boys in our neighborhood in my backyard, on the broken concrete of our driveway. And the way I cried when my mother couldn't get me an 'authentic' Michael Jackson jacket. At least I never thought I was going to marry HIM like my older sister Tiffy; she almost got my uncle (yes the same uncle with the forgotten girlfriend) LYNCHED at a Michael Jackson concert during the seventies. When she misunderstood my uncle's exasperation over accompanying several post-toddlers to an evening concert to see a teenager, and said "You don't like Michael Jackson, Uncle Larry?" my uncle swears he has never been that nervous in his life again.

Now it is 2008, and we celebrate his accomplishments...not the man. His eccentricity has not taken away from his talent and contributions to musical history as well as our own. This attitude is the same reason Amy Winehouse still got her visa. We still cheer on entertainers that have sordid personal lives...I still jump up and do my best 'Brit Brit' bump-and-grind to any number of Mrs. Spears's songs. I remember all these things like it happened within the last few days. When will this stop? When will I have to call my siblings to remember like my mom does? For now, I will be happy just to recall when I feel like it.

This is my 'Remember when...?' conjured up by an episode of Celebrity Expose and the twenty-fifth anniversary of Thriller. Let's hope Will.I.Am, Akon and Fergie don't screw with it too much!

A Rose by any other name....

2008-02-13T15:43:00.006-05:00

might be of another culture! My friend Tam asked me to compose a post about her. Here's to you Baby TaAb. Love, Super TaAb

"Hey Brecksville Lady!" "Hey Super TAB." "Sssh!" "Wha-?" "Someone might hear you!" Tam glanced around at the small collection of workers in the break room. "Yeah, yeah! gitu loh! Mereka bodoh!" "TAM!" "Sorry." She said it so sweetly, I forgave her for being so blaise and calling my coworkers idiots.

For those wondering A) Why Tam is referring to me as a T.A.B. (or more precisely T.a.A.b.), or B) what a T.A.B./T.a.A.B. is, I will explain as P.C. as I can. Tam is Indonesian. She is so engrossed in Asian and Southeastern Asian cultures that- much like some of my Hispanic friends that refer to their comrades as S.A. (Spanish-American) whether they are or not- she refers to me with absolute admiration as a T.a.A.B. (Trendy ass Asian B--ch). Some do not use this acronym as a compliment. Tam is sincere in her elevation of the phrase. I have never considered myself anything but African-American, but when we met, I exemplified the essence of TAB-ism for Tam.

My last two years of college were great! One finished as an older student and engaged in a lot of self-study, too. I had a few problems with the bursars office when I first went back, which is where I came across Tam and her brother Kin (who we call Kin-Ken). "Could you please explain that again?" Tam's reasoning was not that she didn't know enough English, it was because all that Financial Aid crap is confusing! Tam had to deal with INS, Aid to Foreign Students and Akronites. Trust me that sounded biased and it IS a bias- I'm working on it. The woman treated her with the same disrespect I have seen many Americans treat so-called foreigners with. After the third time seeing her there and hearing her interact with these midwesterners, I offered my assistance "Maybe I can help?"

I began hanging out with her and her brother after that, as though we were all old friends. It seems they serviced a need in my life too; I felt like my family was so far away at that time. I began dating my ex-boyfriend Kim Yung-Hoon at that time and he was what Tam referred to as "Fobolous". Multi-lingual, highly intellectual, and gorgeously straddling two cultures gracefully in a Brooks Brothers' suit! Yeah, sometimes I miss him...I was dressing for our fourth date in her dorm room and we were both trying to keep her brother out; he had an 'attachment' to me for several months after we first met. "You look sooo HOT!" "Thanks Babe!" "I want to be like you when I get settled in...you are such a Super TAB!" "What's that?" "You mean there is something IIiii know that you don't know?" "Trust me...there's probably more!" After a very detailed description of what a TAB was, I was still a bit confused. While on our date, I asked Kim Yung-Hoon to explain. "That's not a good word! What the hell is she trying to say?!" was his reply. I called her on his cell for her to clarify. She speaks Chinese and he speaks Chinese (although neither IS Chinese) and they used this neutral language to get across their views. He explained after they got off the phone. "Remember that movie BAPS (1997)?" "Yes" "Remember how you felt they took a status phrase and applied it to the wrong type of female?" "Yes" "Well, Tam is doing the same thing for the opposite reason." He described it perfectly, and after that I began calling Tam "Baby TAB" since she was a TAB in training (according to her).

Although I am sure I resemble none of the stereotypes of a TAB, truly just having someone who thinks it is cool to be a TAB calling ME a TAB is sweet. Tonight is our sleepover; we haven't done one of these since she moved into her apartment in Brecksville! I have my overnight bag and my ex's cell number...in case I get nostalgic.

Much love to my "second sister" Tam!

My Snotty ---ed Friend!

2008-02-06T16:04:00.002-05:00

Hanging out with Robin has so spoiled me toward people with a positive perspective.

"Teenaged girls look like sausages!" "Cherese!" "It's true! They're all SQUEEZED into those clothes like little piggies. Eew! They are so bulky...look at the rolls on THAT ONE!"

Besides being rude, this is scary- afterall, they are all bigger than us. I have noticed that teenagers are overweight and out of shape, but I feel pity for them like most adults who know it is the convenience of their lifestyles, the lack of fitness of their parents and the horrible foods we feed them that have made them so shapeless. Cherese does not take any responsibility at all for any of this. In her mind, they are disgusting...and in the way.

"How old are you?" "Fourteen" "FOURTEEN?! And what do you weigh?!" "I don't know" "What size clothes do you wear?-" "CHERESE!" I came back from the smoothie shop to her quizzing a child that was oozing out of her clothing. "We have nothing to worry about as we get older..." "What do you mean?" "Men usually leave us for younger women as we age because they are firmer, prettier, more sexually attractive....these little dumb cows-" "Cherese, I'm sorry but this is just too much! You are being so cruel!" "Okay, tell me you have never looked at one of them and thought 'Ohmigawd! I was so little compared to them when I was a teen'!" "But I don't really count, Cherese..." "Why? Because you were an Ana? Well, I wasn't an Ana and I weighted 120 at 5'6." "We didn't-" "I know what you are going to say, but I was spoiled as hell! It's called putting down the grub bag when you are full."

Okay, I'll admit it. The Ana in me comes out especially when I look at these teenaged girls who appear to be very unfit. They look bulky and wear clothes that are sizes bigger than mine. They labor to walk and some even breath like asthmatics. Their bodies look...painful. I remember how tight and fit my friends and I tried to be. We didn't want anything to jiggle or have anything sticking off of us because that was something that happened to older women, naturally...was I so unhealthy mentally then? I know I was quite unhealthy when it came to eating and my attitudes then, but... (big but here)my friends who ate heartily STILL were slim.

I refuse to believe that these children are simply greedy! The food is killing them!

"If it's the food M.~, why am I not fat?" "You are more active-" "HOW when I don't belong to a gym; I eat fast food more than anyone else I know; I sit at a desk for eight and a half hours a day, then go home and plop on the sofa and watch TV until I am sleepy?" "Well running errands on weekends-" "M.~ I do most of my shopping on the internet and have my groceries delivered!" "Man, you're lazy!" "Exactly!" "It could be emotional..." one wanted to swallow these words as soon as they left my mouth. Cherese had the most absentee parents I have ever heard of. "There is no excuse and obviously we need to teach them shame because all of this 'you're okay just the way you are' is not thinning out the herd!"

I sat there, sipping my smoothie...counting calories mentally and hoping something changed before they all died of heart disease before we retired.

If you know an overweight teen start teaching them the obvious. If you hear alot of 'I know, I know's encourage them to ACT on what they know.

Super Bowl Blowout

2008-02-06T10:15:00.000-05:00

There are certain 'friends' that one can never mix...

My ex-husband is so helpful*. Ever since I broke up with my most recent ex (he told me I would!), he has been attempting to keep me out and about instead sealed up like a hermit. "You guys breaking up is a good thing; don't act like you're mourning." When he invited me to his Super Bowl Party, I initially declined. "Who will be there?" I finally asked this past Friday. "Jimmy from Kentucky and his new 'The One!'...my brother and his wife...Chris and whoever he brings and my new girlfriend." "Hmm..." " 'Hmm' what?" "Does she know you invited me?" "We are friends now, what does that matter?" "TJ-" "Don't worry about it; it will be cool."

Against my women's intuition I did not decline the offer a second time and he left the party to pick me up...I didn't know what to wear! He dropped me off at the front door and went through the garage. When Jimmy opened the door for me, his jaw dropped. "Now here's a little firecracker!" he announced. Jimmy will always have this image of me as the-life-of-the-party. It's that boot-scooting incident in 2001. He lifted me up and stated, "Damn your soft, must be that fur- that's real ain't it?". As he asked and before I could answer, TJ walked in. "You know she's not wearing faux; she's old school." "I totally HAVE faux in my closet." "Really?" "YES! It's a faux sable and it is soooo luxe!" "Well hell, I'm impressed!" Jimmy resigned. "Don't be love, I won't be joining PETA anytime soon." I teased. As I entered the livingroom with Jimmy removing my coat to hang up, one of the other women in the room was giving me, well...the stink eye. "Hello" I offered giving her eye contact. She answered, "Some poor animal died so you could look cute!" TJ retorted, "NO some DUMB animal died so she could look cute!" I laughed as I always did when he gave some one a proper burn in my honor. She stormed out of the room. "Whose THAT unpleasant young woman?" I asked, not really caring. "She's TJ's girlfriend!" Jimmy's new 'The One' answered. I giggled then said, "Too too bad for her!" "Cute sweater!" TJ's brother's wife commented. "Thank you love...it's Michael Kors." "Nice..."

I resigned myself to neither of them liking me and focused on TJ's brother's wife, the guy Chris brought and Jimmy (in-between action on the TV). By half-time, I was getting the stink eye everytime I opened my mouth; it was very juvenile. People disagree on fur all the time, but unless you are going to not wear Rabbit fur Mukluk's too (which this contrary idiot had on), don't hate me because I'm wearing a fur coat; I inherited the bloody thing! I hadn't listened to any of the half-time hype pre-game, nor leading up to the Super Bowl, so I was pleasantly surprised that it was Tom Petty. By the time "American Girl" was playing, TJ and I were hand dancing and I was in my element. Jimmy, Chris and Chris's friend were all singing along and after it went off I missed the song so much TJ put it on again (he had the CD); picked me up and let me dance on the couch. Of course this meant everyone sitting on the couch had to move. TJ's Brother's wife slipped into her husband's lap (he was in a chair); the two women who had been giving me the stink eye had to stand; and the guys were still cheering me on.

"Isn't she great!" TJ gushed. "My little firecracker!", Jimmy added. Chris forgot himself and asked, "Why'd you ever let her get away?" No normal woman can ever handle that question, posed to her beau, about an ex...it is hurtful. She stormed out of the room again, and this time left the house and got in her car. "TJ?" "Yeah?" "TJ shouldn't you go after her?" "If it's meant to be she'll come back." "You did that on purpose didn't you?" TJ's brother asked him. TJ took a sip of Corona and smiled. "You know how you and M.~ get when you're together and you invited her over so you could break up with your girlfriend!" TJ just kept smiling. "Well, I don't mind saying that is bloody base. You made ME an accomplice!" "How many times does that make it now, TJ?" Jimmy asked. "Four...if you count the long distance phone call where we were reminiscing about Mardi Gras." "Where was your girlfriend?!"; this one was news to me! "Laying right next to me" "I'm assuming post coital?", Chris asked. "Yep." "That's just sleazy!" I shouted. Granted, little Ms. PETA was annoying but I was not going to be a party pooper and hurt purposefully. I am not a cruel person.

We sat quietly for three minutes, then lost ourselves in the game again. According to TJ she hasn't called, nor did she ever come back.

If ever you were wondering WHY my ex and I are not compatiable...think about this little social drama and never wonder anymore.

A Backlash Against Chauvinism and The Native Tongue

2008-01-31T16:22:00.000-05:00

As many yell at Hispanic Americans "Learn English!" with the venom of bigotry and self-importance, we have all but forgotten about the urban enclaves chockful of immigrants from other countries that have not learned English either...

This is the first official week of our hanging out and the last week of my spiritual exercise in humility. There are still two weeks left to go before Robin’s maid comes back full-time. But the impending holiday has caused us both to begin daydreaming too much to polish anything but our imaginations. Robin set about hiring professionals to tidy up the place while we cozied up in comfort in one of the back parlors. She started with the woman from [the cleaning company with the fairytale name] on Monday morning; it proved quite difficult. The woman barely understood English. Robin has mentioned previously that it was all she could do to get through French 2 in college. “What languages do you know again?” she asked as she picked me up from work. “French, German, ---that much Japanese and Spanish…why?” “Is German anything like…Russian?” I laughed out loud then stopped when I saw the troubled look on her face. “Who speaks Russian?” “The new temporary housekeeper” “Wow!” I answered, then troubled my own brow with the memory of an Ask E. Jean column where a woman asked her advice about learning Spanish and she answered, “Who are you trying to talk to, the gardener?!” Yes, we needed to tread lightly, least we seem as insensitive as E. Jean.

As we talked about her frustration with the new housekeeper, something seemed so familiar about the whole scene. “Let one sort this through…she understood when you explained about the sorting of the clothing and not touching your office and crafts room?" "Yes" "But she went into full 'does not compute' mode when you began explaining how you wanted her to clean the beams and open the curtains as she cleaned each room?" "Yes! And I even tried to show her" "Hmm..." "What is it?" "I heard similar stories when I lived in South Florida: domestics that SUDDENLY didn't understand English when something difficult or time consuming was asked of them." "You think she was faking?" "Well, I am off Wednesday, I'll come by and we'll see." I recounted for her amusement and caution, a tale from South Florida of a Caribbean domestic that acted like she was mentally challenged in order not to do windows; yet she understood when her employer was commenting in this fashion about how she was going to fire her: 'You know the domestic is oppositional when it comes to the glass portals. I assume research into alternate services is in order...' You cannot imagine how quickly she began cleaning the windows! Just before she left this persons employ, the employer found out that the domestic had been a staff assistant to a Senator in her home country- an English speaking country.

Wednesday I was picked up from my appointment and kept out of sight as often as possible- which is often easy in a home that size. The company had sent another woman who supposedly spoke English 'very well'. I found her in the upstairs laundry room mumbling to herself, "Leave (something in another language)! Hurry and leave!" over and over again. After listening to this mantra several times I realized she must be referring to Robin. I wrote the phrase phonetically on a piece of paper and advised Robin to ask the driver (who is also one of the owners) what the phrase meant. "There is a reason she did not say it in English" "Do you think she was calling me a name?" "While I'm thinking about it, ask her why she wants you to leave..." Robin nicely and frankly asked the woman why she wanted her to leave. First, she denied that she'd said it, when I appeared behind Robin, she began wailing and acting dramatic, yelling about people spying on her. Robin called the company and asked them to pick her up.

When the driver arrived I pronounced the phrase phonetically and asked him what it meant; he refused to answer me. When Robin asked, he claimed it did not matter. Robin did something I had never seen her do- she got angry. "You are refusing to tell me because it is rude, isn't that true?!" The driver relented and translated the phrase...apparently, Robin was a 'skinny rich B--ch' in the housekeeper's mind. They were both asked to leave. The scheduler kept calling but Robin and I were too busy searching through the entries for Housekeeping in the Yellow Pages.

I know people whose great grandparents are immigrants, as well as those whom are immigrants themselves. Ellis Island has entangled in its history a dirty little secret...many names were changed from native languages to more 'American sounding' names. The attitude of 'assimilate or perish!' has persisted in this country. Those who speak English with accents are segregated subconsciously from those who speak it with 'native accents' (think Brooklynites). Those who find our bastardized, convoluted form of English hard to learn are chastized as not 'trying' to learn. This is NOT an easy language. If it were, an English major would be a one year degree at community colleges. It contains words from other languages- spelled the same- with different meanings; and some meanings have changed from their origins within our country.

I am not saying that everyone should forget their native tongue the moment they touch down in America, nor am I saying everyone should just go about speaking their native tongue and hoping we understand eventually; I'm saying WE as Americans should be a little more understanding of the difficulty behind studying OUR language. And as for those who feel the Hispanics presently in America are getting away with something by not fully embracing English; citing immigrants who HAD to learn English from Europe...recognize that the Little Italys and Slavic Villages of our major cities are still housing some of the most die-hard non-English speakers in the country. Are you going to go there and yell at those little old ladies too?

I remember a vocabulary lesson my gu-mere gave me once with a parable attached. She said, "a fren is nothing like a friend, but more like a stranger until 'I'enter a common 'ND'ing". Are these people friends or strangers? Or are they frens who could be friends? If you are basing it on whether they know your language or not, you may be missing out. Not all people speaking a foreign tongue within ten feet of you are talking about you; try to assume the best in people before the worst.

Selling Society

2008-01-25T16:06:00.000-05:00

It's the M.~ and Robin show!

I met Mrs. F. through Robin. Robin felt deeply for me when I told her my relatives in Ohio seemed to shun me the more rooted in my spirituality I became. This attitude, in essence, 'cut me off' from some very important personal and professional contacts in the community. With not one human credential from a family member, people tend to view you as a bit of a pariah. "It's the 'honesty is the best policy' thing isn't it?" Robin asked one evening. "Perhaps it is a bit of past transgressions and the 'honesty is the best policy' thingy" I rationalized. When people are keeping secrets in order to hold on to denial, the most dangerous person to have about is a truth addict.

In an effort to help, Robin has been holding salons and taking me to teas and brunches on weekends with her friends; most importantly, her African-American friends. "You are such a positive, intelligent person...if having contacts in your community is important to you- it's important to me!" Sometimes, one wants to adopt her! One afternoon, Robin called Mrs. F. and asked if she would be busy that day. Mrs. F. mentioned an early hair appointment and said she would be free for the rest of the day. "Good!" Robin exclaimed, "I am bringing over a very special friend of mine." When Mrs. F. inquired as to whom, Robin played coy and answered, "A friend from my church organization", and got off the call. We arrived around 1100AM, and Robin let me out at the door so she could park a little farther down the lane. She encouraged me to knock and enter since it was chilly outside (it wasn't chilly- this is Cleveland- it was cold!), and I did.

"Oh! Who are you?" Mrs. F. answered the door, startled. "I am M.~, Robin's friend". Mrs. F. eyed me suspiciously, then asked, "Aren't you their MAID?!" I giggled and responded, "No, I was simply helping Robin out while her maid was on maternity leave." I took a step forward and Mrs. F. literally held out her hand, pursed her lips and shook her head, barring my entrance. Robin bounced up the walk, smiling "N--, this is M.~- you remember seeing her at my house, right?" Mrs. F.'s demeanor completely changed when Robin reached the door; she gave Robin a half hug with one arm...the same arm she'd just used to bar me from entering. "How have you been, girl? Come in, come in, it's cold!" she stated as she beckoned for Robin to enter. I just stood there- mainly because I was so shocked at her behavior before Robin came to the door. "Are you coming Sweetie?" Robin asked, jarring me from my state of disbelief. I slowly entered, uncertain of what I was entering into.

We all sat down and Robin and Mrs. F. caught up on their recent fetes. "Did you go to the Romanov's Chunakah celebration?-" "No but I heard that was some Menorah!" "Now THAT'S a lawn ornament!" I sat quietly, smiling at the appropriate moments, uncomfortable beyond repair. Robin began what had become a familiar monologue about me- almost a verbal Curriculum Vitae. This time she added, "I thought you and your husband might want to give M.~ your extra tickets, since your sons won't be back in town." Mrs. F. seemed aghast. "Oh-oww..." she managed after thirty seconds. "Well, that is something to think about..." She looked at me with a mixture of fascination and disgust. After being in her home for an hour, I just really began looking at her. I studied her face and realized she reminded me of some of the women on my father's side of the family from Louisiana- physically and in snobbery.

Robin's cell rang and she excused herself to the guest room off from the foyer. We were both silent, I was staring out the window. "So-" Mrs. F. finally broke the silence, "Why do YOU think Robin would introduce me to THE HELP as her new best friend?!" "Excuse me?" "You won't get your hands on any tickets that were given to my family; I won't have people associating you with me!" Robin re-entered the room and as if by divine intervention, I remembered a close family friend that had dealings with Mrs. F.'s husband when I was a child growing up here. I casually mentioned their family's name and a funny situation we'd all be in. While I was re-counting the story, Robin gave me eye contact and I noticed with my peripheral vision Mrs. F. was whipping her head back and forth between my face and Robin's; as though she were at Wimbledon. I told a few more anecdotes concerning my childhood and events I remembered from being in Cleveland previously; Mrs. F. was sitting on the edge of her chair as though she would jump up any moment to shake my hand and welcome me...the opposite of her prior bearing.

"Well! I think I know your family- surely I know your social circle!" Mrs. F. exclaimed. She tapped my knee and smiled, "I bet you would enjoy going to that affair Robin mentioned I have tickets for, with my nephew!" She seemed so gleeful; anyone that changeable cannot be trusted. "I would truly appreciate that Mrs. F., unfortunately I am involved with someone and he may want to be my escort." "Always the Deb, always that ladylike politeness!" she exclaimed, "Who are his people?" After describing their history and present whereabouts, she was estatic. "Oh! I am going to LOVE showing you two off! I have to make some phone calls; Robin, M.~ help yourselves to snacks, or whatever." I knew the TYPE of people she would call; although my family had not been eager to help me, they would not deny me or hinder me. "Robin-" Robin turned toward me and grabbed my hand, "Let's go eat!" "But, Robin-", as Robin drug me toward the kitchen, I felt compelled to tell her about the incident at the door and 'THE HELP' comment. She went pale. "M.~ if I ever thought she was that type of person...it's like a disease isn't it?" "Snobbery?" "Yes" "Yes it is. But don't mention it, I would really like to go-" "But how can you be around her- I wouldn't be comfortable letting you go and be around someone that acts that way!" As my new numinary, Robin was maternally protective. "I'll be fine" I assured her, "We can sit at another table and let her pretend we are the best things since sliced bread." Robin laughed, but I could tell she was still uncomfortable. We didn't eat; instead we got the tickets and made an excuse to say our farewells.

As we reached the door, Mrs. F. tapped my shoulder, forcefully. When I turned toward her she whispered, "That little thing earlier...you never know who someone is so you can't let everyone in...I know where you are from now, so I'll take care of you." I smiled gently and exited the door. I felt like Faust. Did I really want to enter this circle again?

The Midwest is defined by it's cliques and The Four-Hundreds of each major city- in every culture. But once you are IN you feel like the pawns in "Dangerous Liaisons" (1988). One has heard the only thing worse than being 'ousted' by these people is to be ignored.

Viaggiare è Vivere- NOT!

2008-01-16T18:44:00.000-05:00

The translation of the Italian above is "to travel is to live"...I am finding fault in that concept, even as my friends tease me with their journeys.

"As I sit under rose-colored lights in 50...I dream I see you bellydancing in front of me..." read the postcard with Buckingham Palace on the front. This bit of poetry was from my ex-boyfriend and birthday pal Diggi. I was fit when we were together; he used to encourage me to eat nude. He practiced celibacy with me, then became bored after our unexpected break up, and threw himself back into fornication like some fevered dervish. Diggi has finally finished Law School and is 'doing the tour'. LIBRAS! Why do our families allow us to wander as we do? His next stop will not be Paris but Brest, then Toulouse (I had a good chuckle at his itinerary and even emailed him my naughty observations of his subconscious Libertinage! For those not familiar with the tongue, these cities are pronounced (breast) and (too loose)M.~). He asked me when was the last time I travelled outside the States when he emailed me back then prematurely cut me off with "Nevermind! It was Vancouver with moi". Wanker! I DID have more fun traveling when I was unemployed, much to the displeasure of my now ex-BF...ha!

While he enjoys his tour of foreign STDs (that was mean!), my new BFF T. is enjoying the hospitality of her native land. I keep promising her I will go one day...then I read about internal strife and massacres and I think 'is that on HER island (Sumatra)?!' and scare myself out of renewing my passport. As things are going presently, one could apply now and not receive it until you received your 2009 income tax return. She emails me pictures and flickr posts and I wonder if my current beau and I will ever travel outside of the Union together ever again. Work, work, work! But in a way....this is bliss.

I missed all the workaday, planted-foot living that my settled friends and their loved ones experienced. I enjoyed my travels, but there IS something more to life...steadiness. That turtle slowly rears his head and smiles as I find joy in banality. Cozying up with my sweetie on the couch watching Netflicks films on our one day off, or taking in only water for twenty-four hours before Junkanoo in order to rock out in the streets in nothing more than a bikini and a sarong? EWindow-shopping PaulStuart.com and finding THE perfect pair of leather and knit gloves to buy for my vintage grey wool London Fog or buying one KA! halter a week from Bal Harbour and SoBe boutiques on a Blockbuster paycheck budget, in order to show off my tan? Ahh! I'm afraid the old M.~ is waving good morrow...Look at her!: extensions down to her tattoo over the perfect layered cut....brushed platinum hoops and candy-colored lips...lashes out to there (they're hers) and french tips...crotch-riders and body jewelry attached to a waist chain! Pretty poison isn't she?

My sweetie never knew her...he only knows the proper lady that sits next to him in church. I don't think she would have bothered him so much...but unless he was willing to travel, she would NOT have dated him!

As I sit in my boyfriends computer room in his oversized slippers, waiting for him to finish the spaghetti meal so we can dine...one feels sorry for all my gypsy friends who are missing out on calm.

The Dumbing Down of America

2008-01-09T10:23:00.000-05:00

Don't blame George...his inadequacies are a just a side effect of the real ailment.

I recently watched two films- quite by accident- that displayed an eerie symbiosis. One was the documentary "Stupidity" (2004), the other was the comedy "Idiocracy" (2006). The documentary is slow in the beginning, giving the very definitions and histories behind the words we use to describe those deemed less than stellar intellectuals. My mother made me look this up as a child when I got caught calling my sister "stupid" as a punishment. Gradually, various 'experts' are utilized to help us understand the 'dumbing down' of American culture. Let's just say we should not be surprised that we seem a little...behind.

While on the subject of behinds...in the film "Idiocracy" (2006), Luke Wilson plays a man content to make his mark- on a chair- by participating in the professional pass time of "sittin' on ass!" as one of his superiors points out. When he asks if he should stay and train his replacement, this same superior assures him that he feels fully confident that he will figure out the demands of "sittin' on HIS ass". There is a point in history where the number one film in America is called "Ass" and that is what it is...ninety minutes of somebody's arse! This movie is HILarious from start to finish! Mike Judge is a bit pawky in his vision of America: oversexed, dumb as a bag of hammers, violence and logo-obsessed...with a Latin flavor. But the funniest and scariest bit happens in the beginning; Clevons around the world will win out if the intelligentsia don't start getting more primal. Trust me! My boyfriend works with these types; they are breeding us out as you read this.

If you are unable to borrow these from a local video club or 'the people's university' as I did, try to watch them within days of one another. The effect is an uncomfortable hilarity that will cause you to say "Hmmm..." I felt strangely like singing R.E.M.'s "It's the End of the World as We know It". We need to get back to the time when "we wanted to know whose (arse) it (was) and why it was farting" as President Not Sure points out. That way, we can keep it off the screen.

Sorry! But I saw this sort of thing coming when I moved to Florida in the nineties and the 'Booty Bass' music had regressed to oversexed nursery rhymes!

The Secret Vault

2008-01-05T11:22:00.000-05:00

I am happy that my ex-husband and I can now be friends...but can I tell my boyfriend?

Our attempt at friendship after divorce began during the separation. But we needed time; yet, neither of us really wanted to let go. We'd been one another's club buddies and confidantes...I watched him evolving while his family thought he was going bonkers. When we'd reached a point where neither of us brought up the negative past, we found contentment. Unfortunately, I was with a very possessive man and he, with a very insecure woman...our compromise was to share an email address when we wanted to 'talk'. Our secret vault has survived even though, neither of us is with those two people any longer, we have less use for it.

T.J. brought over a Christmas gift on the twentieth of December. The card read: "This would have been our ten year anniversary...in a way it still is. Love, Tony". Our marrying seemed rushed to so many, but we knew each other so well we still can offer the best advice in times of need. One of the last times I called T.J., the moment he said hello I began whining, "T.J....I'm so confused!" to which he laughed, "Holy sh-t! This is so weird! Listen to what song was playing when you called!" He cranked up the familiar song by Bush "Ex-girlfriend" from their Sixteen Stone CD. The lyrics are: 'you only call me when you're down...you only call me when you're down'. Tres funny!

The email to the vault read: "Take Saturday off." Nothing else. I was worried for two days because I thought something might be wrong with one of my ex-stepchildren- my heartstrings are still tied to them. I helped buy my ex-stepdaughter a piano together with T.J., her mom and stepdad and T.J.'s parents a few years ago. He pulled up in his silver Saab 93 Convertible and I knew there was nothing 'wrong'...he simply wanted to hang out. I beckoned for him to come in so I could put on a cuter outfit. He hung out in the kitchen while I changed and talked to him throught the shoji screen. "You don't have to feign modesty Ha-day" (he is the only one who calls me that!) "I have seen it ALL before." "Eww! don't remind me." I hate when he reminds me that once upon a time we used to have sex. Now that we are friends, it just feels weird- unless I've been drinking, then it is funny. I changed into a more fitted ensemble; he eyed me like he knew what color panties I had on. "Stop!" I whined. "Wha'?" "You know!" He just smiled and laughed. As he walked toward the door I took him in as he had just taken me in...a fresh haircut- to be sure this morning; a camel colored cashmere/wool coat with woven leather wrapped buttons; dark washed jeans; a cashmere turtleneck- definitely Jos. A. Bank; Kenneth Cole loafers; and that Concord Carlton with the blue face I'd convinced him to buy when he got his last promotion. It's funny how when he got promoted, I was the person he wanted to celebrate with even though I was two relationships previous. He didn't take my breath away anymore but he was definitely the handsomest blond I knew. Was it the goatie? He stopped short of grabbing the doorknob and caught me. "Now what are YEWWW doing?" I smirked, "Being naughty.." "Let's go" he ordered. I skipped to the car.

As I eased into the seat I asked, "Where to?" He eyed my boots and legs, only stopping at the hem of my mini and smiled. "Where do YEWWW want to go?" "It's not what you think-" "What do I think?" "This is not for you" "Reeeally?" "No! It's for my boyfriend." He laughed loudly then said, "So you want to make him jealous by looking really hot when he accidently sees us today?" "Ha ha! Just drive." I said as I rolled my eyes. "Nice bag...", He commented. "Did you look at my neck?" I was wearing the David Yurman necklace he bought me for Christmas. "Yep. Man, is your boyfriend going to sh-t bricks!" "He is not the jealous type-" "Ha-day...every guy is the jealous type; it's just a matter of finding his trigger. Remember you told me that?" "Yes...and that night you punched the guy that was dancing with me. Why didn't people think we were to together?" "Some did...the close-minded didn't." "How many women get married to their club buddy?" "In our generation? Probably alot!" "Maybe women in our age group should start calling the first husband the 'club hubby'." "That would be so kewl! We should start people doing that!" "Oh yeah, because we're so cool everyone does what we do!" "They do!" "Oh T.J. don't start!" My ex-husband has this misconception that we helped interracial dating along in Cleveland...single-handedly.

We arrived at the Art Museum and he complained- as he always does- about the parking. "The Museum is free why isn't the parking?!" I egged him on, "Aren't you a member? You should complain." "I'm a member because of YEWW!" I giggled as I thought about all the boyfriends and the like that I'd convinced to become members of the Cleveland Museum of Art. They should be giving me a stipend! We walked in and I greeted the guard by name. "You still hang out here and sketch?" "For Life!" "I married a weirdo!" I remember the first time he convinced me that him coming along while I sketched was a good idea; he kept telling me things I SHOULD sketch and ruined the day for me. He apologized later with a flower from the Polish Cultural Gardens. I knew it was wrong, but his dad had been on the committee for the garden and he told me it was 'totally kosher'. Right. We went straight for our favorite room...The Ancient Egyptian room. "There's your namesake" he said as he pointed to Ma'at. "You do kinda look like her-" "That is not why I was named-" "I know! Ssh!"

As we walked through the Museum I wondered for a moment how my boyfriend would feel if he came upon us holding hands; my guilt made me drop T.J.'s hand. "What's up?" "I-" I couldn't get the words out but when he looked at me he knew. "Don't worry, if we see him I'll pretend I'm gay." My boyfriend has never seen a picture of T.J. so that might have worked! We finished the tour and he asked if I was hungry. "I could lunch" I answered. We went to Peppermint, my favorite Thai restaurant. As we sat and caught up, in mid-laugh, T.J. whispered "Do you still love me?". I stopped laughing and dropped my eyes to my lap. I nervously refolded my napkin then looked up and said, "Yes but differently..." He smiled and said, "You just made my day."

We went back down memory lane- literally- taking back roads in Hunting Valley that we'd rode on before. "Remember when we convinced my dad to rent that Ninja?-" "Yeah because your driving record was too scary-" "and I was trying to impress you because you used to practically blow up when 'Machinehead' played-" "And you dared me to sing it in that field-" "Yeah...no one can do the white girl like you!-" "T.J. that is sooo un-P.C.!-" "It's true!-" "Shut up!". Later when he dropped me off at home he asked if I told my boyfriend who bought me the necklace I was wearing. "I told him the truth-" "What- that a friend bought it?" "No that YEWW did." He seemed surprised. "How'd he take it?" "The same way I took it when I found out you asked to leave Gilmour Academy because you were homesick and you hadn't been kicked out like you told me." "He had sex with you?" "Shut up!" "You mean he instantly forgave you?" "Yes." "He has no choice...he's never around and he doesn't make as much money as I do-" "Stop it!" "You'll get bored with playing the good, understanding girlfriend and find someone who worships you like all the rest of us did-" "Don't be so sure-" "Why?-" "Because I'm different-" "Princesses never change." I fell silent because he had truly touched a nerve; it bothered me alot that my boyfriend didn't spend that much time with me, even if he had a very valid reason. I kissed his cheek, knowing he knew me better than most, and got out the car.

NO! I am not cheating on my boyfriend with my ex-husband. When you are that close- married for goodness sakes!- you share a special bond. I am happy he is my friend now, that is how it should be if you ever truly loved the person.

That Moment In The Longest Minute

2007-12-22T15:49:00.000-05:00

For years our race has 'ssh!-ed what we considered 'airing our dirty laundry' into silence. With the Imus Episode, we had to face our own hypocrisy...here's another dose of logic.

For the past month or so, I have been quite neglectful in my duty of service to others. With my new position, I cannot get to the food banks or outreach ministry programs like I used to. Service is just one of the tenets of the church organization of which one is a member. So when presented with a more than helpful remedy, I jumped at the opportunity. One of our members lost her housekeeper to pregnancy; she holds out hope that the young woman will return to her employ, but I believe the moment she laid eyes on her first bundle of joy, it was over! She is a 'can-do' type of girl and only needed 'assistance' with her house cleaning even though she employed the young woman full-time. We work side-by-side: talking, joking and occasionally taking 'tea breaks' and talking over spirituality. My family has used my cleanliness compulsion to their advantage for years (especially when I'm angry), it feels good to help out a family that actually seems to appreciate it.

One Saturday before Christmas, "R" was out running pre-Christmas errands; I stayed home with her youngest and helped him with research on the ancient civilization of Mesopotamia. The dogs began barking (they are great doorbells) and I went to answer the door. Their family has this great trick for keeping the dogs out of visitors' hair: they simply open the garden door and say, "Good boys go, go!" and the dogs fall for it each time. I opened the door to the garden, then the other to the UPS man; "I have a delivery.." "I'll sign" I automatically answered, while reaching for the electronic pad- as I have signed for many Christmas packages since I began helping out. "Who are you THE MAID?!" The young man guffawed, as he moved the electronic pad out of reach. I imagine I was wearing that face I perfected so many years ago when I am shocked and a bit wounded but do not want the person to know. It is a bit of a poker face: rather blank eyed and my voice while wearing it usually has a flat affect.

Things seemed to move more slowly, so one cannot tell you how long I stood there, with his question- rhetorical or not- unanswered. I am no stranger to that area: Hunting Valley is a well-known attraction for those who admire the affluence of its residence; the wealth of its history; and equestrian sports also. My ex-husband began taking me to the Corvin's farm before we married just to watch me ride- hair flowing and face flushed- as a type of pre-marriage foreplay. So Freudian! While going about our day on Saturdays, "R" and I have covered so much of the surrounding area that I feel ever more comfortable with the layout of the valley. Her neighbors (whether they are forthright or not) have been very friendly and casual with me when they see us together; none of the nervous faux pas's of prejudice that one had a notion might occur. Now I was standing face-to-face with an African-American man who was giving me the 'you obviously don't belong' snub- or worse, he was alluding to the idea that he believed the "S--'s" would not have an African-American in their home, lest it was in a domestic capacity.

During the longest minute, I also briefly thought about my great-grandmothers- both of whom were domestics by occupation. Both were graceful, poised and a bit 'bourgsie'( a folksy form of bourgeoisie). I assume they gauged their status by the type of family they were employed by, as most women seemed to during those decades. Both were employed by haute bourgeoisie (or genteel) families. My great grandmothers were both the epitome of the definition of 'Matriarch': hats, white gloves, high-end fashionistas, regal in bearing and wise...would I be ashamed to be in there class of employment? I would not, I decided in milliseconds. Here was someone in customer service, attempting to look down his nose at someone he thought of as a mere domestic. He could not essentially 'run' a household that was not his own like maids of yesterday and today have to! That took an inherent managerial streak, coupled with tolerance and poise and he simply did not look to have the minerals!

I wanted to let him know this, but I decided in that longest minute to say, "Yes I am the maid" with a big smile and direct him to come back later if he needed someone from the family to sign. At that moment I remembered little "L" upstairs- he was not upstairs! While I was thinking through this longest minute, I heard him descend the stairs. "Servants can't sign for packages" the young man in the UPS uniform- that my mind still will not allow to think of as an actual employee of UPS because he is so bad at customer service and they have a reputation to uphold- sneered at me. Just then little "L" came up next to me, and using a tone I felt sure his mother would not want him to use toward an adult, said "She's not A SERVANT she's my Mom's friend!" All the gall seeped out of the man holding the package. He lowered his eyes, rounded his shoulders and without looking, handed me the electronic pad to sign. I wordlessly signed and took the package from him...what was there left to say? His arrogant bubble had been burst by a twelve year old who had an eye for social interaction beyond his years. When I began, "R" and her husband introduced me as their maid's 'substitute'...he knew from the way I was treated and talked to that I must have been more.

After he left, in between chatting with "L" and later his mother who'd been absent during this event, I wondered whether it was my ensemble that led him to think I was a domestic. I'd gone to breakfast with "R" and her daughters earlier and no one we were around thought my outfit inappropriate or 'service-oriented'. I was wearing an Alvin Valley cashmere wrap sweater, Marc Jacobs velvet jeans and Ugg boots...do maids wear that to work now? Maybe teen maids- while shopping with "R" and the girls one of the sales associates told "R" her daughters were so cute, then asked if the one in the Bill Blass coat was the oldest. Fishing, fishing...with so many mixed families, one cannot tell. When Zahara Jolie-Pitt is a teen and opens the door to one of their homes, will the UPS man think she is the maid? "R" explained to the sales associate that I was her friend and too old to be her daughter. The sales associate marvelled at the fact that I am thirty-five; "R" is quite coddling and maternal toward me, but so are my other friends.

I didn't accidently bring a rag or a cleansing product to the door with me, so the only thing left to make him assume I was the maid...was the color of my skin. Odd...I have heard several African-Americans yell down people who claimed that Blacks were racists too. "They can't be by the very definition!" Touche!

Ignorance like this happens everyday. Be it a 'crabs in a barrel' mentality or the side effect of a race so downtrodden it hates itself, it still feels the same for the victim of it. To my friends: BTW, I did not call and lodge a complaint, like my great-grandmothers, I'm so much better than that!

The Rise of the Fake-tinas

2007-11-12T12:41:00.001-05:00

You bloody well know who you are! Stop embarassing yourselves!

I remember a friend telling me that she used to pretend to be Puerto Rican when she was growing up in the projects because no one knew what a Seneca was, "And if they had" she assumed "they would have probably nicknamed me Tonto's daughter or Pocahontas." My friend's denial of her culture is not what I am examining here today. I am more interested in the phenomena I (and several of my friends) have dubbed Fake-tinas. Think of all the positives (or seemingly un-negative, since every stereotype is truly a negative) qualities people have associated with Latina/Hispanic women for decades. What some refer to as a "universal exoticness", "sauciness", I suppose is a way of describing their beauty and strength.

I can honestly say, there is no one 'look' to any of my Latina friends.

Pick a country, and I will show you unique beauties abounding. But the bane of cinema and entertainment is that they throw a number of qualities in a hat, if you will, then commercialize them. The general public sees fair/tan complexions; ornate hairdos; aggressively feminine mannerisms; exaggerated hand gestures; and overtly sexy ensembles as Latinas. It is like learning the Cliff's Notes of a culture...you never really get the gist, just some other persons assumed, abbreviated character notes; it's never the whole story.

I began to ask my Latina friends how they felt about Fake-tinas when I lived in South Florida. "I think it's cute!" said one friend from Puerto Rico, "It's like they love us so much they got to mimic us." "I like it, but for a different reason" said my friend from Nicaragua, "it's like a stupid way of embracing the Latin culture and Latinas." "I blame J-Lo!" said another friend who is Jamaican and Cuban, "But she has not played a commercialized stereotypical Latina in any of her films- has she?" I asked. "NOOOO! I mean they all want to be us because of HER!" my friend clarified. We all laughed. I remember my first year of college a friend mentioned to me that if I wanted to date 'Latin Lovers', I should try to learn Spanish "or at least Spanglish" she offered. I once met a guy in a cigar bar in Miami who approached me speaking Spanish (as has often happened due to my stereotypical Latina complexion). when he realized I did not know Spanish because I am not Latina, he said, "Man! I could teach you Spanish and fool everybody!" He was mistaken, he would only be fooling himself and those ignorant of the culture. I have dated plenty of Latino men and still only understand the language, I am horrible at speaking it.

My mother offered that this rise in speakers of Spanglish and adoptors of stereotypical mannerisms and attire may have to do with the burgeoning Latino population. "Maybe they are just trying to relate." My mother, an Espanophile of sorts, fell in love with all things from Spain. She learned fluent Spanish as spoken in Spain; and even learned Flamenco dancing. I once watched her do it on top of a car on New Year's. She had some assuming she was Hispanic (not on purpose!) until she met a Puerto Rican who told her she spoke Spanish funny. Spanish as a language is like Arabic, it is different everywhere, even though are universals.

I have mimicked hairstyles and styles of dress while living in Florida quite by accident- the cultures are infectious in a positive way. The worse case of a Fake-tina I can think of was a girl who lived in Fort Lauderdale who convinced her boyfriend from NY she was Latina. Her name was Christine, but she had people call her Christina. Her family was from INDIA, by what of Barbados. They went to live there with distant family when she was just two years old and she had- since coming to America- dropped her Island accent in favor of a pronounciation she felt sounded like English spoken with a Spanish accent. She spoke Spanglish and hung out with the Latina women at our job. She used to tell me I needed to try to 'belong' by adapting their mannerisms, etc. I am an Ohioan; I cannot be anything else. Her promiscuity was her favorite subject. She cheated on her boyfriend often and thought this added- in some manner- to her being "too too sexy!" like it is assumed all Latinas are. The truth hurts: when she found another job, the Latinas she'd hung out with explained that Christina had labelled me "aburra me" (it bores me), and told them not to talk to me. "But you are so nice and funny!" one woman said, "You do not sound like a "mujerzuela" (slut), like Christina." In her effort to be a sexy, saucy Fake-tina, she had given herself a label that no woman wants in any culture!

I guess if mimickry is the sincerest form of flattery, this is great. It smells too much like prejudging to me.

The Evolutionists

2007-10-28T13:07:00.001-04:00

Some enjoy a good 'Cinderella tale'...I prefer the biographies of what I have deemed the Evolutionaries.

While watching "The Libertine" (2004) this weekend, I thought about all the 'Cinderella-stories' I have been coaxed into repeating recently. "Rocky" (1976) and "Ever After" (1998) (literally a Cinderella tale!), to name a few. I thought about the countless people who desire (read: need) a happy-ending to their films. These same types also require that their favorite entertainers have hard-knocked childhoods and 'rise above them' (how cliche!). This drivel gives them hope. That is why Rappers that grew up with middle-classed values feign 'gangsta' for their fans.

I am more complexed than that. I have never known anyone with such a flat existence; everyone around me is more complexed than that. I am admiring of entertainers that appear to 'evolve' into their higher Selves before our very eyes. Like one of my favorite 'hyphens', Oshay Jackson AKA Ice Cube or more recently 'Cube'. A former Architectual Drafting student at the Phoenix Institute of Technology, he also belonged to a rap ensemble known as C.I.A. (Cru In Action). Although one doesn't deny that Mr. Jackson may have experienced hard times in South Central L.A., I find it hard to believe he was able to claim he was 'harder' than Dr. Dre. Yes, Dr. Dre had a whole 'Commodores white jumpsuit with sparkles' thing going on before they hooked up; but the senior Mr. Jackson worked at UCLA and Cube's mother was a clerk at a hospital. They are pretty even.

Cube's time with N.W.A. (N--gaz With Attitude) is prompting but not instrumental in his appeal (to me). We all have times in our lives where we were juvenile and unworldly in our assessment of our environments. I began to pay attention when he launched his sophomore album "Death Certificate". It was nothing like what I was thinking but I found myself drawn to the anger in the lyrics. I had many friends at that time who were borderline bigots. It was a time of Afrocentricity and if you are not truly Afrocentric but treading a trend, you don't realize self-love does not mean you hate everyone else. I always tried to be the ambassador of culture and it was this album that I heard quoted the most by my borderline bigot African-American friends. "The beats are GREAT but do you realize what he's doing?" I once asked a girlfriend while we were getting ready for a party. "Yeah he's putting all honkies in they place!" she responded. Since she'd started dating guys who grew up in the inner city, her grammar had gotten more...relaxed; while her world view became more closed. "Tosha he is using every stereotype that segregates Blacks from every social and cultural group in America. NO ONE can hate EVERY person that is not like them!" I reminded her of how hate-filled Malcolm X was before his hajj. She didn't get the analogy.

But not much later, Cube would have totally felt me. He began branching into film and meeting people who were nothing like the descriptions he gave on his album. He even converted to Sunni Muslim. He admitted to his error drawing an analogy between Whites and other races that 'lump' all African-Americans together regardless of their cultural ties or value systems. He is a celebrated philanthropists, accomplished writer/director/producer, and family man...but he still hasn't shaken enough of his hate-filled past for Oprah's taste. Her audience is probably still scared of Cube therefore he hasn't been on her show. For the record, I don't believe Oprah has anything against hip-hop historically, just gangsta' rap and misogynistic tunes. Anytime you invite character actors from a film and not the principle actor, you are making a statement. Kind of like Vincent D'Onofrio not being on the Actors' Studio when they had the Law & Order episode...

Then there's Angelina Jolie! She went from scaring me ("I just think of blood-born pathogens when I see that girl! Why the vial?!"), to being on the list of my S-heroes. I cannot say enough about her taking The Method to the next level (she moved in with a woman before playing the role of "Gia" [1998]) or her passionate intensity with seemingly...EVERYONE. Motherhood was her cocoon...she has evolved so outstandingly, that if there were an award for it (like 'most beautiful family' in People magazine), she'd win it! There are many entertainers doing phenomenal things for humanity, but she has done the best and brightest 180, in my opinion.

Now you know why I won't be bound by the fairy tale. Much like the Second Earl of Rochester, I prefer a little vice before the moment of redemption. It makes for a more rounded individual.

Search out the heroes story like "Les Miserables" and see it isn't more enjoyable.

When You Have To Apologize For Thinking

2007-10-27T15:58:00.001-04:00

I wrote this poem for a guy I thought was a good friend for many years. I foolishly joked that he and I seemed so compatible that I thought about dating him a few years prior to him getting engaged. He stopped speaking to me: I still don't know if it was to avert confusion or if the thought caused confusion. Whatever the case, one is truly sorry for this bit of poetic rage.

B Real B

he smells so sweet:
like an education and social conscience,
but he is a meaty puppet
regurgitating the ideas of our bygone heroes
there is nothing PROPHETic about him
it's all been done and said
don't be misled
and when he transfers his head
to his ass
his ass
to where his head
wants to be
all he'll hear is:
"try harder to be YOU son...
like those that came before,
write your own philosophy"
he writes of new tools for schools
and interviews
bigots standing on soap boxes of the oppressed
all rehashed, de ja vu
again for you
it doesn't feed your head
and sometimes he lucks up
and doesn't fuck up
and that's his only charm
there's his nouveau soul girl
forced to prove who she is on the outside
because there's little on the inside
she's materialistic and attention-starved
but hides it under neo-AFReakin' scarves
and that's cool
'cause he's all image too
punk to rock
gained you hip hop
and turned into GRUNGE rock?
now fast-forward (or tread the trend)
and jazzy blues are neo-soulful friends
I remember his first loves
seditive, empty-eyed suburbanites
tres tres fair...
all with hair-
down to there
chic- no mystic
different swatch watches each week-
or day-
however their gifts were displayed
Bennetton, Louis Vuitton, J Crew, Guess...
you know the rest of the best
and the funny thing about these trophies
was familiarity made them real glory
now his trophies
pretend Afrikan
and if he sought true Motherland
in lighter-skin
silky haired, Chanel-ed and Jimmy Choo-ed
in a comfy chair
I would be home to him
but he isn't real enough for me
he hasn't evolved socially
he dissolved expeditiously
into the new god of the talking heads
a poetaster-
an empty head
watch out girl!
when he seems to be vibing
with an enlightened sister
he's just musing on her big posterior
gently he asks,
"What's a little blasphemy?
give up the ass TO ME-
because I'm sooo sensitive
to the Cause...
pull down them draws!"
then he bores with tangible,
still chasing elusive
don't hate him
he's just a man
a humorous man
a hu-man
trying to be everyone's friend
he'll see in the end
it's not what you see
it's how you feel
now be real B
B real!

Sorry...M.~

"Names Are Un-Important!"

2007-10-24T16:58:00.001-04:00

The next time you act like less money means less work...think again!

I ignore the majority of people I pass on the streets. It is not self-importance...it simply takes someone with 'a flair' to get my notice. I saw a waifish plantinum blonde with a intricately twisted chignon at the nape of her neck that reminded me of raffia weave. She had on a New York-centric ensemble (slate grey besequined gathered tunic with those James Perse wide-legged flannel trousers I think are so cute and a short peacoat from BR), and was obviously in a hurry. One glance at her face dead-on and I knew it was my flat-mate from Coventry. "Jules!" I called out much too unlady-like. She scanned then focused on me and ran toward the intersection I was crossing. "Hey you!" "Hey yewww!" we both giggled, latched arms and began strolling in the direction she'd previously been trotting.

We caught up quickly enough on me, as is always customary in my circle of friends (why do they all think my life is so much more bloody interesting than theirs?), then began on hers. "And now..." she gasped, "I'm a PA." "Public Account?" "Oh M.~! I thought for sure YOU would know what that acronym stands for-" "Personal Assistant?" I said hesitantly. "YES! Cool beans huh?" "Only if they are cool beings..." I countered with an eyebrow raised. "She's cool: her husband has too much money; her kids have nannies and she needs companionship." Jules assured me. "Still acting as an ambassador of love?" I inquired (a reference to her batting and pitching). "Not with my boss!" Jules blushed.

I once acted as a PA for one of my ex-boyfriend's companies. It was a plus idea: have PAs in one of the most exciting cities in the country to supplement for a regular one, substitute for a regular one or act as a hostess to all the glamour and excitement the city has to offer. Pros and Cons...it was fun. but I would have been happier never meeting two of my clients- ever! Before you go off thinking I was an escort or something understand that men were paired with men and women with women just to keep that sort of thing from besmirching the reputation of the company (all though there is no accounting for taste).

Everytime I watch "The Devil Wears Prada" (2006) I am reminded of THE WORST client out of the two. The one time I tried to correct her she snapped, "Names are UN-important!". She was a D list actress that was called into town as a last resort for a national charity. Because they were desperate, they treated her like a queen. Unfortunately for me, she did not garner a PA in her lethargic life in LA, so to make up for it, she tried to be as B & B as possible (bitchy and bossy). Which meant more B & B than I could handle (belittling and berating). She refused to call me by any of my nicknames that I found suitable in my lifetime; opting to call me 'Mai Mai'. She used the term "hoochie" to describe every woman she saw with more gold jewelry on than she- from preteens to grandmothers. After half an hour with her I realized why she hadn't done anything since the early nineties. Part of 'selling your talent' in Hollywood has less to do with sex and more to do with people skills than one would imagine. At the end of her stay she called my boss (then boyfriend) and threatened to come back for a longer visit. Jokingly he said, loud enough for me to hear in the chair across from him "Mai Mai will be waiting!"

Her next visit came six months after that. She tried to get me to 'comp' her clothing at a SoBe boutique, latta at Starbucks and (after asking me what my favorite restaurant was) tried to get me to pay for our meals at El Porque. "Gurl it's like a buffet- you got to pay one price! It ain't like it's a real restaurant!" "Hmm..." I moaned as I thought 'but you are still too cheap to pay!', then said, "I really need to check what expenses you arranged with the company so that I will know what we are working with..." "YOU working on gettin' fired! Do you know who I am?!" "Yes ma'am but-" "I said 'do you know who I am?'! I am your boss while we are out here, so pay for my shit!" I was so embarassed; my family were regulars at El Porque. 'Maybe they won't recognize me without my relatives' I tried to comfort myself with the thought. I of course, paid and before getting in the limo called my boss. I told him everything; he laughed but explained that none of us would ever have to be bothered with her again after that day. "Have the driver bring her to the office."

I notified the driver of the new destination and there was my boyfriend sitting outside on his car in the parking lot. Much to my surprise he informed her that she would be charged for all the items she made me pay for and that, due to a scheduling conflict, he would not be able to supply her with a PA for the rest of her stay and she would be refunded. "This shit is bootleg!" she yelled, "I want my money now!" "We do all refunds within ten business days. Enjoy the rest of your stay in Miami!" he said as he gracefully ushered me into his car. "So this how you act? OH! That's yo' bitch, huh?! Well you a cheap mother---r and she is too!" She walked back toward the limo and the driver let her in. As we drove on the expressway, my boyfriend began dialing the limo driver. "Chris? Listen, she is no longer our client so we won't be picking her up ANYMORE, understand?" as he hung up I reminded him, "She could badmouth your business! She claims she knows-" he stopped me with a wave of his finger, "Everyone she knows I know better- names are only names if they're working baby!".

I don't know what planet most people are on, but being any type of assistant is difficult. Always tip your hats to those who chaffeur, cook, clean, counsel and cater to mega-egos and multi-taskers.

S-Heroes

2007-10-21T15:53:00.002-04:00

The Divine sometimes gives us a second chance to do the right thing.

What if you were given a situation that was too much for you to handle? What if you yourself were a meek person; a person weak of spirit? Or what if you were a little child in a world that was filled with big people who didn't listen?

We will call her "LeAudrey"...she and I would walk to school each morning one year. I was in public school then, learning the difference between 'haves' and 'have-nots'. LeAudrey was my favorite friend (maybe only friend) at that time; it was the manner in which she fabricated the sources of her injuries. If I'd been less swift, one would have believed LeAudrey to be just as clumsy as I was; I used to injure myself in the strangest manners. But her injuries were the result of her abusive mother.

"How'd you get that bruise?" "I flipped off the couch while I was watching Superhost with my brother."
"How did you black your eye?" "I was trying to peek in the bathroom keyhole to check on my brother like my mother told me, because the door was locked and he opened the door real fast, and hit me in the eye with the doorknob."

This went on for months, until the day her mother came to the door and told me LeAudrey would not be walking to school with me. It was the same the next day. As this began on Thursday, I went four days without seeing LeAudrey. When we met on the sidewalk again that Monday, LeAudrey had a bad limp. She always wore the prettiest dresses: her mother dressed her like a doll: frilly dresses, satin and velvet hair ribbons (depending on the season), delicate sweaters and tidy tights and knee socks. All that prettiness to hide the ugly bruises. I met girls in college that had THE most perfect 'little girl' style dorm quarters. Accent pillows and stuffed animals almost to the middle of the bed; the perfect flowered and frilly linens, comforters and duvets; the fluffiest pillows; bedskirts that rivaled doilies. Stuffed animals that embodied the Japanese word "kawaii"; and some even added posters and prints of rainbows, unicorns, fairies and other fairy tale fonder. As I got to know more about their childhoods, I realized they all had been victims of child abuse/molestation. This behavior is almost textbook but not definitive.

Her struggle with her injury was impeding our journey to school; I asked her to sit down and let me look at the ankle she claimed to have twisted. Through the knee sock I could see swelling along her calf; when I rolled it down she yelped in pain. Without taking it off (which probably would have been impossible due to her pain), I saw the deepest purple bruising surrounding a deep gash that she had inefficiently wrapped in toilet paper and gauze. It was too loose, probably due to her pain. "LeAudrey! We have to get you to a doctor!" "NOOO! Oh, no! My mother will kill me!-" this was the first time she mentioned her mother in any way involving an injury. I tried to re-wrap the wound making us late for school. Each child that was late had to fund the principal with an excuse; if it was found to be fictitious or invalid, that child's parents were called.

"LeAudrey ---" the office assistant called. "Please ma'am may I go first?" The office assistant thought it odd that I would want to participant in such a difficult inquisition sooner than most, but she allowed one to all the same. "Principal Brown, would you please call my mother?" "Let me hear your reason first." "You don't understand. I must speak to her about the reason I am tardy. If you would please?" The principal was in love with what he took for an accent in my and my mother's speech patterns. He commented once that we almost sounded British; I heard that quite a few times growing up. My gu-mere called our manner of enunciation and pronunciation 'The Queen's English'; but it was merely the contrast of 'broken English' and inner-city venacular versus Academic English that was the case. Any opportunity to hear my mother's voice got him on the horn. When he'd explained why he was calling he handed the phone to me. "Mommie?" "M.~ why are you late?! You left on time-" "Mommie, please listen, it's LeAudrey...I think her mother broke her ankle..." Principal Brown's mouth went agape and my mother heaved a deep soulful sigh. "Tell your principal to call the hotline and I'll be there by the time the police arrive." "Thank you Mommie."

My mother was a social worker, the type of person who would be called in this type of situation anyway. With all the confusion that followed and LeAudrey and her mother's denials, not alot was done in the way of protecting LeAudrey. She never spoke to me again. That is until we were in high school. I was with my friends in our preppiest attire going to a party; she was coming home very late from a school sporting event- or so she claimed. I first noticed a boy manhandling a girl, then I realized it was LeAudrey. When we approached her to ask if she was okay, she recognized me and assured me that she was just playing with her boyfriend. "I ain't yo' boyfriend, ho!" the young man protested. She was still LeAudrey: same beautiful hazel eyes; same flawless skin; same lies to cover maltreatment. Much to my friends' dismay I attempted to get her to come to the party with us. She seemed interested until my snotty boyfriend piped in "She may not like it; it's all Shaker kids." At that time in Cleveland, where LeAudrey was socially and where 'Shaker kids' were socially was worlds apart. I didn't see LeAudrey again for about many years...

She was explaining to one of the social workers at The Basket how her fiance had just left her- or died- the story seemed to change mid-sentence, but she and her children HAD been homeless and living in a car until her mother allowed them to come stay with her just a few months prior. Her down-on-her-luck story sprung the social worker into action and he signed her up for every program that she was eligible for within a few hours time. When I finally approached her, she gave me a look- oh! you know THAT look! The one that is all at once pleading and tough-as-nails. I would not betray our lives then, but I was determined to make a positive difference in her life now. I took her to the side and said, "Whatever has happened to you up to now LeAudrey, I guarantee with my help and the help of the people here, things are going to get better."

Before I left The Basket, through various agencies I managed to help get her an apartment, assistance with the downpayment, assistance with the utility deposits, furniture and (with help from my cousin) training and a job as a security guard. I felt like God had given me a second chance to be her S-hero...and I wasn't going to pass it up.

Know that The Divine works through us; use this knowledge daily to be a S-hero or a Hero. God Bless! M.~

Escaping The Basket

2007-10-06T13:49:00.000-04:00

Have you ever heard the saying 'more trouble than a basket of kittens'?

So you're a cat lover, huh? Well, I have some sorry news for you! Kittens in a basket are not safe and need constant care, least they escape and get into MORE trouble. And that, dear reader is how one felt at my last job. Trust me, I am safer out here than I was there...I am, you see, no longer a kitten. I'm a full grown kitty and quite capable of rescuing myself- thank you very much!

The drama that I walked into was a result of my desire to pay my bills on time. I would have never- if given a choice- walked into that basket with all those kittens otherwise. Especially that dominate kitten whom did not know professional boundaries. You'd think at sixty-one years of age she would have 'tempered' some; developed perhaps a professional personae? She turned out to be simply a louder, balder and saggier version of her promiscuous daughter. I know NO ONE is perfect, but usually they try to hide their misjudgements and stupidity at work- especially as the boss. She bloody brought hers to work and gave them jobs! Isn't the saying "live and learn"? I PRAY I have learned and earned enough knowledge that I do not behave in that manner at this age, let alone that one. I am doubly disappointed because I have known (and for several years prior, looked up to) this woman; as did my poor disillusioned boyfriend. He is toughing it out: he genuinely cares about the families and children he works with (as did I but he's been there longer).

Maybe I can encourage her to channel all that drama into a stage production of "Mommy Dearest". She certainly has the campiness down pat. I was floored by her accusations, threats and subsequent LACK of apologies. There is a flaw in everyone, mine is a lack of forgiveness if it is not solicited. I have heard from many mouths that she and her minions suffer daily due to my absence; while I have been truly enjoying my freedom. It's not schadenfreude, it's relief!

One promised the Father above that I would try harder to be understanding of all neuroses at my new job, if I was given a new job and a higher rate of pay. Kudos to me!