Happy Birthday!

How many times do people who have stepped away from their blogs used the title “Don’t Call it a Comeback?”  I almost did.  I also often use the term “shameless neglect” when I’ve been away, but that wouldn’t be right.  I wasn’t neglecting my blog so much as I have been taking care of Mel.  No, I still haven’t found a therapist, but I have been soothing and searching my soul.

Once I decided that I would not participate in either NaBloPoMo or NaNoWriMo this year, I started asking myself why.  The answer was “You’re burned out and have other business to attend to.”  I think it would have been better if I would have announced my hiatus then come back, but where’s the excitement in that?  I decided that my birthday gift to myself would be regular blogging.  So Happy Birthday to me.

I’m actually at an age where people say, “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”  That means there are possibly women in my age group that would in fact, mind your asking.  Holy tree rings, Batman!!! I’M THIRTY-SENSITIVE!

Nah. I’m 34.  I really don’t care.  I’ve decided that not only do I not look it, but I look better than a whole bunch of people younger than me.  Feel free to disagree.  I’ll disagree with your disagreement and we can all move on.

So here’s what we’re gonna do.  I won’t promise you “OMG I’m back and I have great things in store and I hope we can share,” because I’ve done that…only to leave you again.  So let’s just say, here’s to me finally delivering on the goods.  I love you guys for sticking with me.

And by the way, if you come often and never commented, do so.  You don’t even have to big up my stuff.  Just let me know you’re here.  Tell me I suck.  Tell me you think cucumbers taste better pickled.  Who’s your favorite Aunt Viv?  HOLLA AT ME! I don’t bite.



The Weather…and getting from under it

About a month ago, I admitted that I was in over my head.  Not only to myself or a family member. Someone I’d never met, who simply wanted to help.  And she got me on the path to finding a counselor/therapist.  So I started calling offices to get an appointment.  And I left messages.  Then I called.  And left more messages.

I was surprised at how difficult it is just to get help for mental health issues.  I’ve been told that I basically have to brow-beat someone into seeing me, which makes me a little sad.  There’s no shortage of people willing to give me a pill that will cause nausea, blood clots, heart palpitations and death.  But, to actually get help?  No dice cousin.

The ebb and flow of my moods have always been a source of anxiety for me and I’ve always classified myself as “moody.”  It wasn’t debilitating, so I just waited until I felt better.  Then about two months ago, I could barely get out of bed.  I would go home, lay down, and get up when it was time to go back to work the next morning.  One day, I gave thought to the last time I’d actually been up all day and enjoyed myself.  I also thought about the last time I hadn’t spent every spare moment shoving food in my face.  When I couldn’t remember, I decided that it was time to get help.

So now, I’m in the process of begging.  If you hear about a woman kicking in the door of a therapist’s office, just know that it’s me.  My intentions, however, are pure.

Plugging Along

Sometimes, life’s curve balls have nothing to do with you, but make you think.  For the past few months, I’ve been feeling like I wasn’t doing my life’s work.  I know what you’re thinking, “You’re a writer by night and a secretary by day.”  Despite what some may believe, I enjoyed being a secretary.  I like having good working relationships with people and meeting interesting people along the way.  I was even okay with it paying the bills while I wrote at night.

Now, that isn’t enough.

A few months ago, I began to hate getting up for work in the morning.  I hated doing the same repetitive assignments and answering phone calls.  I hate office politics and passive aggression.  Most of all, I hate being stifled when I have a great idea.  I won’t bore you with the same song I’ve been singing for years about being a writer and things of that nature.  I feel mentally constipated, and I know it’s because I’m not even close to where I want to be.

So a couple of weeks ago, my boss told me that after seven years, she was leaving the firm.  She had a promotion on the horizon which, in the long run, might have been more lucrative, yet, she said eff it.  It was time to embark on new adventures, that could well have been equally lucrative.  Sometimes, we have to take leaps of faith in one way or another.

Being a mom, yes, I have to look before I leap, however, I can do this.  Not just writing, but anything.  I’m in the process of growing and evolving.  Friday, while at lunch with an old friend, we made a pledge that we would have a great accomplishment under our belt by 2012.  Here’s to that.


2010 has been hellacious.  I feel as though I should have been chomping at the bit for November all year, given that I’ve had so much to happen in a short period of time.  That being said, this is going to be another night where I really just can’t come up off an idea.  I’ll try again tomorrow.  Sometimes, we just aren’t feeling it, and tonight is one of those nights for me.

Or at least it hasn’t been that sort of week.


What are hops?  I always hear about them, and I apparently want them in beer.  However, I have no clue what they are.  I’m sure one of you lovelies will tell me, because you’re sweet like that.

Ovaltine is just great.  I could qualify that, but if I must, you don’t deserve the pleasure of Ovaltiney goodness.

I’m sure you’ve seen hose little Facebook pictures where there are cartoon characters which describe people as “The Hot One,” and “Most Likely to Stink Up Your Bathroom.”  Yeah, my kid was tagged in one.  As “The Ladies Man.”  Get out of my face.

The years have been very kind to Tom Selleck.

It’s beyond time to go back to the gym, however, I know I won’t be going back to spin class.  What that seat did to my vadge should be criminal.

Everyone is up in arms about Tyler Perry’s production of “For Colored Girls.”  As a woman who does have a small background in the theater, I know how important “For Colored Girls…” is for everyone, but especially women of color.  Most women in my age group feel protective,and rightfully so. However, Tyler Perry sucks, and I’m just banking on this sucking. He doesn’t ruin it for me, because it’s NOT Shange.  It’s Perry shenanigans.

I think there’s no better time for clam chowder than a fall evening.

I was re-reminded of the fact that not only am I born in the year of the dragon, but I am a Fire Dragon.  And a Sagittarius.  Yeah.  You will get burned messing with me chump.

Every autumn, I consider bringing seventies slang back into the spotlight.  Jive turkey is terribly underused, in my humble opinion.

There seem to be a lot of good movies coming out this season.  Of course, I am most excited about Harry Potter.  Even though I know how it’s going to end, I am chomping at the bit for this movie.  I rolls with H Pizzle folks.  Unapologetically.

I want to buy the Gucci fragrance Guilty.  Aside from the fact that it smells lovely, when someone asks me what I’m wearing, I envision myself tossing my hair, glancing over my shoulder, and faintly whispering, “Guilty.”  Yes folks.  Someone entrusted me with children.

I unapologetically enjoy the music of Nu Shooz, Seduction, Expose, and The Cover Girls.  Deal with that.

If Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine were at my disposal, life would go much more smoothly for me.

They were talking about putting sugar in your vagina on the Real Housewives of Atlanta.  I haven’t watched it in weeks.  I think I made a good call.  There’s another picture of the pregnant one and her recently released husband with their mouths on opposing ends of a pickle.  Yeah.  That’s a good place to end the post.

I promise guys.  I’ll have more topics.  This week has just been rough, and I’m trying to ease into it.



Each season, I start off with the best of intentions. I promise that I’ll dress like more of a grown up.  Tim Gunn would positively die if he looked at my weekend wardrobe.  This past weekend, I took the girl child trick or treating.  I was wearing a hoodie, a t shirt, some ripped up jeans and a pair of Vans.  I don’t even dress like a soccer mom; I’m more 13 year old boy.  It doesn’t bother me.

Until I want to go somewhere with one of my girlfriends, and I look like an adolescent.

I always joke about having the right equipment, but dangling all the wrong bait.  I swear I clean up nice, and definitely know how to “put on the dog.”  I just don’t most times.  Frankly, I think I’m bare bones cute.  I think my casual mystique is appealing.  I like my face.

That being said, sometimes I feel as though I need to look like a grown up.  So at the beginning of every season, I show a little cleave, perhaps buy a girdle, buy a sexy pair of shoes that won’t hurt my big toe (I need to get better about taking care of myself).  I’ll wear them twice. So this winter, I’m trying my hardest not to buy a pair of jeans or a t-shirt (despite the fact that Madonna Junk Food T-shirt is so completely awesome, and I need new David Bowie AND Jimi Hendrixx tees).  I’m getting grown up clothing, dresses and *gasp* tights.  I don’t know how it will turn out this season, but hell, at least I get an A for effort right?