“So much on my mind, I just can’t recline” (c) BlackStar

It’s 2:00 and I’m awake.  Probably shouldn’t have had that 9:00 cup of coffee.  But what did you expect?  Mr. McMahon came back to Monday Night Raw.  What the hell was I supposed to do.  PLUS, I have to watch tonight’s episode of 24.  I’m having entertainment overload.

The biggest thing in my life, however (besides the Chocolate Wonders), is my book.  I’m working hard guys.  I promise.  Since I began blogging (almost five years ago…WOW), I’ve been promising a book.  I’ve been so critical of what I write because my book is sort of my love letter to you.  It’s thanking you for putting up with my ups and downs, neuroses, idiosyncrasices and wild woman ramblings.  You don’t know how much it means to this regular chick that her words touch you.

The other day I did a meditation called “Heart Song.”  There comes a point that addresses sending healing energy to wherever you need it.  When I began to send it to my heart, I could feel my eyes well up.  It made me think of “Him.”  It made me realized that my heart was broken even before I met him, so what happened from that point on, really wasn’t his fault.  When you haven’t afforded yourself the amount of love you expect from others, you’re kind of fighting an uphill battle.  Scratch the “kind of,” you ARE.

The beauty in this is that I’m getting there.  I don’t “think” I’m getting there.  I’m getting there.  I feel happy.  Not sometimes.  Not just when I’m out the friends.  When i can’t shop, buy my kids the things they want, get my mani-pedi action on with the regularity I would like, I’m STILL happy.  When I’m home with my kids singing showtunes, I’m happy.  I know that I have a ways to go in my life, but this is the very first time I’ve felt this.  It’s this deep in my gut sensation that feels like it’s glowing.  Amethyst Rockstarism in full effect, if you will.

I keep realizing that I am still a young woman.  I’m actually too young to be as jaded as I seem to be.  In my prayers and meditation, I’ve let those jaded feelings go, and rather than focus on the bitterness that comes with the experience, I celebrate the wisdom.  I guess this seems like a lot of blather, but hell, this is my spot, so I can only think that you came here to read what I had to say.  Love, luck and lollipops.




“Apparently the police have been beating up negroes like hotcakes” (c) Dave Chappelle

Oscar Grant

Adolph Grimes, III

Robert Tolan

When being the “lucky” one means you got shot in the chest and lived, an overhaul is in order.  (For driving a stolen car…which was his…so…it wasn’t stolen…um, what?)  So, how many have to take a bullet before we get angry?  I mean REALLY angry?  Having videotaped evidence of an officer executing a black man as he is on the ground with “the man’s foot in his neck” (literally), is evidently not enough.  Knowledge that if there is a back to aim at, NOPD is shooting it, is evidently not enough.  (There were instances in the aftermath of Katrina where officers were so threatened that they shot people in the back.  It was said that if anyone was shot, it was done, “at a time of extreme stress, when the city was under martial law.”  What the hell are you trained and paid for?  Unless you are family, when I call the cops, I’m not calling them to come to a barbecue.  I’m calling because the caca has hit the proverbial fan.  “Stress,” is not a defense.)

People, this kumbaya, racial equality thing that we desperately want to believe in just ISN’T factual.  I don’t want to hear about the strides that have been made when a black man can get shot in the back, have it filmed,  and it takes almost two weeks for an arrest to be made.

We are at a pivotal point in history, and I understand the excitement.  However, black people, the inauguration is not the Bayou Classic, Essence and Howard’s homecoming all rolled into one.  There are a LOT of things that need to be addressed before we pop the champagne and celebrate.

Do you really think this devaluing of black life stops with the police?  You don’t think there are non-black people who look at this and say, “Well, it took this long, he HAD to have done SOMETHING!”  And before you get it twisted, don’t believe this line of thinking stops at non-black people.  Do you think that there are not other black people with sick hearts and minds that won’t look at actions like this, and see it as carte blanche to do what they will with another black life?  Like say, kill their own son (read: BABY) and blame it on mystery black men?  (This is a WHOLE other topic!)  Do you realize how heavy that is?

And for those who read this and say, “Why does it have to be a black thing?”  Maybe YOU can tell ME, why does it have to be a black thing?  Why is it when you talk about an unarmed person taking multiple bullets by the police, the face is almost invariably black?  Why is that when Don Imus said “nappy headed hos,” black people (yeah, US) could talk about nothing else until Imus’ head was on a platter, and right now, we can’t talk about nothing but a party?  (And let me tell you, a whole lot of black folks were far more offended by “nappy” than “ho.”  Nappy is the new “n” word?  Hmmm.)  Where’s Al now?  Jesse?  Can they move on some REAL issues?  If they’re at a loss, I’ve got a laundry list.  We can start from public education and work our way down.

Some people really need to stop being afraid of revolution.

“Because revolution is nothing but change.” (c) The Last Poets.

Kool Aid Grin

Hey guys! This year, I’ve hit the ground running.  I can’t say that all my “problems” are “solved,” but all of my solutions are in play, and I’m definitely a broad with a plan.  I came to the point that 2008, though a rough year was so necessary.  At one point in time I thought that I needed things to be good for me, because I had gone through so much in my life, I didn’t know how much more I had left.

Well, through meditation, prayer, and visualizing who I am, I see that there are probably a lot more storms that will come my way, and I’ve got the stuff to make it through ALL of them.  I recently read a book about breaking down, and it said that when you allow yourself to break down, it becomes a habit.  That was so powerful to me, because I spend so much time being strong and trying to be the backbone, I trick myself into believing that I am allowed a “little breakdown” every now and then.

Life has never been cake for me.  I doubt quite seriously that’s going to change.  I know that my “happy” is waiting for me, but when you get down to brass tacks, I’m a happy woman now.  Sure I’m surly, aggressive, and maybe just a little brash; but I’m HAPPY.  I have good days and bad days, ups and downs.  But when things come out in the wash, I’m tremendously blessed.

That being said, my book.  For those of you who have been supportive of me, I really appreciate you.  For those of you who have inspired me, I appreciate you.  I know that if certain things, good and bad, had not transpired, I would not have been motivated toward my goal, so I’m just thankful for my life.  I’m just having one of those days where I feel like every positive step has me at the threshold of something great.  It’s a good feeling.  It’s a really good feeling.

Leap tall buildings in a single bound, faster than a locomotive

…but I’m only average when it comes to frying chicken.

Yes ladies and gentlemen.  A black woman who is only so-so in the fried chicken department.  Now, those who have had the pleasure of sharing a meal with me, know that I’m a pretty good cook.  You name it, I can pretty much throw down.  Delicious home made soups, the juiciest most tender meatballs on earth, jambalaya that can make you slap your mama, pork chops that will make you renounce your dietary restrictions, and I won’t even go there on my fried fish (I do lots of catfish here, but I’m more of a trout girl).

I can do anything else with chicken.  I can barbecue, stir fry, bake (OMG, my tequila lime chicken…SA-LIE-VAH!), and stew chicken til the cows come home.  But, when I’m standing over the grease to fry up a mess of chicken, and something comes over me.  Let me reiterate, my fried chicken is cool.  It’s tasty enough.  However, considering that everything else I make is the bomb, my fried chicken being less than steallar disturbs me. It just doesn’t quite strike that balance of crisp on the outside, juicy within.

And yet, my children are begging me to fry some chicken tonight.  And I am engaged in a conflict within, because I am forced to prepare mediocrity.  And that just ain’t my style.

The horror.

That’s SOOOOO fucking gay!

Yeah.  That’s right.  I said it.  I don’t give a hot buttered fuck if you don’t like it, Wanda Sykes.

Language is not a static entity.  It’s always changing.  Always evolving.  Words are always created and/or taking on new meanings.  Remember when gay used to simply mean being happy?  So what…now you’ve got it, and we can’t have it back?  FUCK THAT!  That’s gay.  Gay gay gay gay gay gay gay!  You decided you don’t like homosexual anymore?  Fine.  Whatever.  But you don’t have the monopoly on changing words.

I understand the principle behind the PSAs that are going around, but I promise you, I won’t be gay (happy) when I beat your gay (homosexual) ass down for saying something is “So Melanie (stupid).”  I will probably be arrested for fucking that person up.  (I’m fairly certain someone did say something similar to that in a blog commenting section because I called a manly looking chick a pre-op tranny.  However, I didn’t address it because I don’t do cyber beef.  Keyboard titans really don’t concern me for so many reasons.)  Please note however, that this will not be gay (homosexual) bashing.  This is me being a person that fucked somebody up for coming up with this gay (irksome) shit and then trying to play with my emotions.

Okay, I’m being somewhat tongue in cheek.  Every individual has something that offends them, that may not offend the next person.  Every culture is different.  We get caught up in this “we’re all the same” mentality, and it’s really just not true.  Now, do I believe that we should be sensitive to our environments?  Certainly!  I’m not going to chow on hamburgers in India.  I’m not going to bust up in a kosher restaurant and order a pork chop.  I’m not going to wear a halter top when visiting my Muslim friends.  And no, I’m probably not going to necessarily say “That’s so gay” in the company of some of my gay friends.  (Though there are some in which I will say that, another story entirely.)  But, at the end of the day, you can’t legislate that everything I do makes one set of people happy, comfortable, etc.  at all times.  It’s unreasonable.  And to be honest, just a little silly.

Just my thoughts.

In a New Orleans State of Mind

I like to think of myself as an elevated type of chick.  But, for those of you who have been with me for a while, you may remember that I have always maintained that a person must keep their pocket of ignorance.  One thing you may or may not know about me is that I embrace my inner hoodrat.  That hoodrat LOVES to shake her ass to some New Orleans bounce music.  Tonight, I was sitting here, and my cousin sent me the video “Pump tha Party” by PNC.  Now, this means nothing to a person who has never been to New Orleans, or listened to our bounce music.  But my people with love for the 504, and especially if they were kicking it in the Crescent City in the 90s, they see that song and I promise you that their first reaction was, “AWWWWWWWWWWW SHIT!”  Their second was to run to their old burned CD (and dare I say cassette tape) collection, and dust off the compilation that holds a simple, one-word title:  “Bounce.”

For those of you that think big girls aren’t active, you’ve never been to Whispers, Whispers 2000, 30something, 7140, Ambrosia, The Loft…I could continue.  There is NO clubbing like New Orleans clubbing.  So now, I present to you “Hood Rat’s Delight.”

Should I have been ashamed to dance to this? Eh, maybe. But one can’t be serious all the time. And for the Friday night workout:

There’s also the endless songs of DJ Jubilee. I don’t care where I am, if this song comes on, I’m shaking my ass:


This is making me terribly homesick, and I’m thinking that rather than going to Niagara Falls in the Spring, I may be going home, just in time for crawfish season, so I can feed my hoodrat need.