Oh my damn

I had a post planned for today.  it was deep and insightful and gave you a peek into my soul.  I was goign to talk about how I can’t deal with dishonesty or something.  That was before the wine.  Before the Spanish Spanish wine (yes, “Spanish” was written twice intentionally).  Crianza folks.  Crianza is the truth.  Crianza is what made me forget that I wanted to preach.  It just makes me want to be.  So much wine tonight.  so much good music.  I had such a rough day today, so I was glad to enjoy my own company.  I look forward to reading this post tomorrow and finding an embarrassing typo.


P.S.  Does anyone have any sexual intercourse that they can pass me?  I’m fresh out.  Thanks.


I got…

It’s impossible to convey the importance music holds in my life.  My artistic slumps almost inevitably lead to secular and emotional slumps as well.  In yesterday’s post, I discussed feeling disconnected, and I’m working to fix that.  But yesterday, while discussing music, someone posted a lady I enjoy calling “My Nina,” and it seemed to fit so perfectly in my life right now.

So, I’m chubby, I haven’t finished my book, I don’t own a home, blah blah, blah blah, blah BLAH! I’ve got life. I’ve got a day to become closer to whatever goal I fell short of the day before. I’ve got a SHOT. I’ve got a day to eat my veggies, write a new paragraph, and save a couple of dollars. I’ve got the strength to pray for wisdom and endurance. I’ve got the heart to admit I’m scared and the balls to slay dragons. I’ve got the eyes to seek that which encourages me. I’ve got the nerve to demand that people not waste my time and let them know that I call the shots on what I’m worth. I’ve got the clarity to count my blessings. I’ve got the sugar and water to turn lemons into lemonade. I’ve got bad ass shoes. I’ve got the ability to find the best pairs of $4 earrings. I’ve got good friends. I’ve got good family. I’ve got rhythm, music and daisies in green pastures. I’ve got the feeling that if Nina Simone’s voice can’t take you to a new place, then you’re missing major shit in your soul.


I’ve got my boobies. *giggle*


It dawned on me the other day that I haven’t been very social.  I’ve sort of been, net, phone, work, with rare exception.  I am focusing on writing my book, but I feel so far removed from everybody, it’s unbelievable.  I’m trying to stop speaking my issues with autumn into existence and make it a positive, albeit tough, season for me.

With that being said, I feel disjointed – removed from everything.  It leads to me being discombobulated, and a bunch of other dis-es.  There are things that I’m not happy with.  There are things that aren’t progressing in the way that I would like (i.e. my weight loss).  But I just gotta keep moving forward. That’s my remedy.  I’m hoping to be back with a blog post this week, but the LadyBug is sick.  It doesn’t seem to be influenza de el puerco, but I’m keeping an eye on her.  That beign said, I hope to be re-connected soon.


Rough Mommy Days

One of the biggest obstacles I have that keep me fron the title of “Bomb Ass Mom,” is my lack of organization.  I forget birthdays, I misplace progress reports, I forget to take ground meat out of the freezer so we have to eat out more often then I am comfortable.  Oh, and the shit I lose:  house keys, car keys, umbrellas, shoes, coupons.  It’s just a hot ghetto mess.

When I look at friends who have compartments and shelves and containers for shit, I just sit and marvel, because I have no idea how they get things that way.  I have even less of an idea of how they KEEP them that way.  And let me tell you, training my kids is even harder, because I don’t even know what I’M doing.  The domestic diva is my Achilles heel.  This year’s gift to myself (because lovelies, birthday season is upon us), is organization.  Being able to look for something and put my hands on it in less than a minute would be invaluable.

So, yeah.  Let’s get it.


You ever feel like you’re plumbing the depth of your inner being for the greatness?  I’m feeling SO good about the process of my book.  I read O Magazine (we are now up to three consecutive issues purchased), when she interviewed Jay Z.  In it, he discussed how he would never be able to duplicate “Reasonable Doubt,” because it was 26 years in the making.  Can you imagine pouring 26 years of your soul into 16 tracks?  For some reason, that reached me more than I figured it would.

I was speaking to old ACT the other day, and he schooled me on the difference between me and writers that have attained the physical manifestations of  success: they don’t give a damn about the naysayers and what they thing.  I care too damn much.  And I have spent my entire life caring and not caring.  Trying to walk the line that divides being pleasing to claiming my rights to myself.

I’ve always had a bit of a spark.  When your parents are trying to breed a southern lady, sparks aren’t always understood and embraced, so I always felt silenced, so I retreated into my books.  Eventually, reading wasn’t enough, so I picked up my own pen and I wrote, and I wrote and I wrote.  EVERYTHING.  I wrote contracts with my parents.  I wrote instructions to anything that required instructions.  I wrote my name.  I wrote the names of my crushes.  I wrote the word “write” on bathroom walls.  Discovering writing made me totally forget that I should be interested in boys.  When I was 16, after years of “playing around” (because only reserving my skill for essays and such is totally someone else’s game), I started taking classes.  “There’s a story there.”  That was Ms. West’s mantra.  (At the time I thought, “Bitch, I just GAVE your punk ass a story.)  She taught me that even the most well-told story – ESPECIALLY the most well-told story – contained a deeper story.  “Yes, but WHY does she sit on the stoop every day?  Did she used to wait for someone there?  A child?  A spouse?  I’d like to see you examine that in your next assignment.”

Creating is one of the most empowering activities in which one can ever engage.  You are the boss of your shit, and no one can take your thought.  But I was still not sharing, so to an extent, I was still voiceless.  Outwardly, I was loud, I was calloused, but it was all a front because I felt like the people that I needed to understand me were looking through me.  I can’t explain what that does to an adolescent who desperately needs acknowledgment.  It’s not that I wasn’t loved, I just felt as though people didn’t know who they were loving.  A large part of it was due to the fact that they had limited interest in my writing.  To date, I think my dad believes the only thing I know how to write are emails requesting money.

So remembering all that, I picked up my pen and pad, and I just started writing.  I started writing like a person without a family.  It doesn’t matter who won’t like it, or even who will feel uncomfortable with my thoughts, because they are MY thoughts, and anyone on the outside knows nothing of my struggle.  I’m living by the motto “fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”  Breaking that seal caused the ideas to flow.  I can’t stop writing.

And I’m here now.  Working on my “Reasonable Doubt,” which will be 30+ years in the making.  And yes, I plan to show you how to do this, son.


You know what I like?

Easy conversation.  Especially with one of “them.”  After 11.  When you’re not quite “there” yet, but you know you’re on your way.  When you save his call for last, because you like him to hear the day’s anticipation in your voice.  And your voice is low, and his voice is low, and you’re talking about…your favorite cartoon.  But you’re saying it in a way that indicates a future plan to watch that cartoon…in your room…after you’ve woken up…naked…if he plays is cards right.

My favorite part of the male form is that groove in the arm, where the deltoid ends, and the biceps and brachialis begin.  Like that space was made specifically for my fingers to grip as we, um, watch cartoons.

I love gratuitous and unnecessary whispering.  Something that could have been announced from the podium, but we choose to share only with one another.  Just enough for cologne or perfume to graze the olfactory senses, and not one moment longer.

I want the act of hand-holding to be both erotic and deliberate; fingers that start by brushing against the back of my wrists, slowly enveloping the entirety of my hand, with fingers gently butterfly-kissing the center of my hand.

I enjoy occasionally denying my id.  There’s something about occasionally being left wanting, that makes the realization of your desire that much sweeter.  There are things in this life that are worth waiting for.  Letting your mouth water for one more moment, so that the meal is that much tastier.  Cutting a kiss short just by just one second, because you want the next one to be that much more “umph.”  Whew.

Yeah y’all.  It’s like “that” today.

I just wanted to say

That Michael Jackson was found not guity TWICE, and went to court





And he was the joke of the industry. And the few friends that spoke on his behalf were treated like loons.

Roman Polanski’s nasty ass is documented as drugging and raping a 13 year old girl at his friend’s house while the friend’s girlfriend was THERE, and they give him Oscars and accolades.  You know what?  Fuck your post-racial times.