I'd like to thank the Academy...

The Academy Awards were on last Sunday and all the beautiful people were on the red carpet in their million dollar dresses and jewels, smiling for the camera and pretending that they had eaten within the last week. Naturally in tuned in… for about ten minutes and then quickly turned the channel to a movie on the Sci-Fi Channel about a 75 foot man-eating snake with three heads (I know it sounds like I may have killed some brain cells but I am currently reading a non-fiction book, and I watched Larry King on Tuesday and read the Op-Ed section of the paper twice this week to cancel out the damage, so I think I’m o.k.) However, was “lucky” enough to catch the highlights of the Awards show on every channel (Who knew there was still such tension between Jennifer and Brangelina? I’m on Team Aniston, by the way). It was all very touching watching the winners walk to the microphone, completely shocked, hands shakingly trying to unfold the twelve page thank you speech they jotted down in the limo on the off chance they might win, and the losers smiling graciously. (It is an honor just to be nominated, especially if you haven’t worked in twenty years and you are walking the red carpet with the corpse of your dead Chihuahua in your breast pocket). And all of this got me to thinkin’. What if I win some big award one day...? A Newberry Medal, the Pulitzer Prize, or Sangamon County Fair Queen. I need to be ready. As you can probably tell, I am a girl of very few words and painfully shy, so I think it would be best if I start working on my acceptance speech now - The key to a good acceptance speech if thanking the right people. It think it should go something like this.

First of all, I have to thank my father; I know he is looking down on me from heaven (thinking where the hell did I go wrong). Mom, thank you for your patience and tolerance, I promise not to put your in a home in your old age (unless you start wearing adult diapers and then seriously who could blame me). To my beautiful little sister I say, You are my hero and I forgive you for beating my ass so many times throughout our childhood and for pretending to read the Braille version of the Gettysburg Address from my forehead during my more profound acne outbreaks. To Annie, You are the best friend a girl could ask for – who else would perform a drunken dance to Ghetto Superstar with me in the middle of empty dance floor? We Rock! Mandy and Mark, you are ACES! Felicia, thank you for being my date to every party after my divorce and especially for always wearing the good wig when we went out. Michelle, I am sorry my water broke while I was sitting on your bed (honestly though, I think you are blowing the whole thing out of proportion, According to the books there is little to no urine in amniotic fluid and once my pro-wrestling career takes off I fully intend to buy you a “like new” bed set from the Goodwill). To my children, I thank you for making me laugh every day (please don’t put me in home in my old age, even if I DO wear adult diapers). To my husband, I LOVE YOU, your kisses get me through every day (Yeah I said it and I meant it, too. The man can handle his business) And last but not least, I must thank God - Without him nothing is possible (Plus - if you don’t thank him, you can’t make it in the Hardcore Rap game!) It is because all of you that I stand here today and accept this award. I love you all!

(Applause! Applause! Applause!)

And then I exit stage left with toilet paper stuck to my shoe!

I am fairly certain it will go something like that. Now, if only I can get Lane Bryant to donate a dress, I’ll be all set!

Big Mama 911

Whenever the subject of television viewing comes up in conversation, I usually add my two cents by saying that I rarely watch the mindless drivel that is Reality Television (I usually say this in a British accent or my best Lovey Howell impression). I then go on to say that I do sometimes watch American Idol and Dancing with the Stars, but solely because they are talent based and provide the tiniest bit of culture, and well, I do watch Dirty Jobs but only because it's educational and on the Discovery Channel, for goodness sakes. Actually If I’m honest about it, I occasionally catch glimpses of America’s Next Top Model, The Real Housewives of Orange County, The Hills, and The Bachelor (but only this season, because he is a single Dad and unbelievably HOT!) OK! OK! I admit it I enjoy Reality T.V., not the tacky stuff like Tila Tequila but classy stuff, you know like The Girls Next Door. However, there is one show I cannot watch without mixing a good strong Xanax-Bacardi Breezer Cocktail………Nanny 911!

For those of you who have never seen this monstrosity, the premise is this: Families with out of control children of various ages ask the show for help and “voila!” a British Nanny appears and fixes the children by using time-out stools, charts, and to my personal horror removing televisions from the children’s rooms. More often than not the Nanny also primly and properly draws attention to the many problems in the parent’s marriage. Sounds outstanding, right? WRONG! These families are nuts, completely and totally certifiably crazy. In one episode (I kid you not) a 3 year old didn’t like using the bathroom in the house so when he had “to make” the mother took him outside to pee on bushes. The Nanny’s answer: Filling the bathroom with potted plants to ease his “tension”. Are you kidding me? Here is my answer – Cancel Nanny 911 and premier “Big Mama 911”. You find a family with out of control children of various ages and you send in a Strong Black Woman. Now I warn you, there will be no charts or time out stools but I guarantee you that the problems will be handled and it will make for good quality viewing. A kid has a habit of biting people? Don’t reason with him- Bite him back. Parents are repeatedly called to the school for bad behavior – Send Big Mama up to the school in her lemon-yellow house dress, dirty slippers and pink hair rollers and let her beat the daughters ass right outside the Principal’s Office.

Now let me clarify some things for you. Not all black women are “Big Mamas” and not all “Big Mamas” are big (but it does help). I also assume that not all “Big Mamas” are black but I have never seen a White one (however, I have also never seen a Big Foot but after approximately 23 Sci-Fi channel specials I am certain they exist). A “Big Mama” rules the roost, so to speak. They take no flack from anybody, they are set in their ways, and generally have a strong moral compass. They feed you when you are hungry, hold you when you are hurt, and will not hesitate to slap all of the taste out of your mouth. In my family, the Big Mama was my father (we didn’t actually call him that, it was just an honorary title). I remember once my cousin “lost his damn mind” with my Grandmother and my father, after collecting him from thirty miles away, slapped him so hard that he was physically unable to cry. His glasses went crooked on his face but before he could fix them, my dad just slapped the other side and they just popped right back into place. My sister and I just sat there mesmerized. I know there are those of you who are appalled and ready to call protective services but A. He was only borderline abusive and B. My cousin had it coming and C. It was 25 years ago, so calm down. My sister and I, as well as our cousins, may have made our mistakes but my dad made sure that the basic values – Do Unto Others, Respect Your Elders, Live Up To Your Responsibilities, Don’t Pee In The Pool, etc… were beat into us. (No Harm, No Foul)

Now I am sure that Big Mama would be able to save every family (Some children are just born evil) but I assure you that little boy would have pissed in a fern-free toilet.

My Jinxed Vagina

Sometimes I wonder if I was born with the problem that I have. If my mother’s OB/GYN announced at my joyous arrival into the world, “Congratulations ma’am, it’s a girl! 6 lbs. 3 oz., 21 inches long and…it… looks…like a ….jinxed vagina!” Or perhaps I just pissed somebody off bad enough and they put some sort of crazy voodoo on my junk (Back in the day, when I was dating Jose Cuervo, I had a horrible habit of kissing other girls boyfriends and I may have made a few enemies). Regardless of how it happened, it happened – I am walking around town with a jinxed vagina. “A JINXED VAGINA? THAT’S CRAZY!” you say. I know it sounds that way but let me prove my point.

Throughout my dating life I have met perfectly wonderful men: College Students, Dee Jays, Prison Guards, Captains of Industry (actually one was a bar tender and the other worked at a video store but they both planned to own their own businesses one day). They were all cute and said the nicest things to me, a couple of them even took me to dinner, and then amazingly after I slept with them (enter the jinxed vagina, no pun intended) they went crazy. They started smoking crack and stealing money from my purse. I am fairly certain that two are now bisexuals. Most of them became potheads, some of them had warrants, and one, maybe two, ended up on house arrest. How could I take these great guys and ruin them with my cursed vagina. I mean I feel so bad. I had just met them and I had to go and sleep with them that first night and ruin their lives. If only I had put 2 and 2 together more quickly, I could have saved so many lives.

So I was sitting on my couch thinking about all of the damage my Britney had done, when I remembered the most random incident - My then boyfriend, now my stupid ex-husband (Oddly I tried to have his name legally changed to that but apparently there is some sort of law that forbids you from changing someone else’s name without their knowledge. I assured the judge that I would assume the cost of changing his license but it was still a legal no-go.) Anyway, my then boyfriend asks me if he can take my debit card and run to the store. My first thought was HELLLL NO! I didn’t let him know I didn’t trust him I just said I’d go too because I had to pick up a few things. Smart, huh? My momma didn’t raise any dummies! I'm not exactly sure why that story occurred to me at just that moment but it was as though the sky opened up and a heavenly choir chorused a song of knowledge upon my ears……….

What if, just what if, I had shown the same exclusivity with my vagina that I do with my ATM pin number? What if I only gave the nookie to people I trusted? Could I have been wrong all of this time and my vagina is perfectly normal not unlucky at all? Maybe it’s a good vagina, a nice vagina!

So I decided, right then, and right there, to try something new. I was going to get to know the next guy I dated, I would kiss and hug, snuggle and spoon but the panties would stay in place until I atually knew him, trusted him – And it worked! I have been married now for 7 years to a fantastic man who doesn’t smoke crack, hasn’t stolen my T.V., and I’m fairly certain he has no warrants or gay lovers. I am overjoyed!

I guess the moral of my story is Never give your business to someone you wouldn’t trust with your pin number – You can always make more money but God only gives you one who-ha, TREAT IT RIGHT!

Lies I've Told My Children

Given the fact that my history with the opposite sex is less than stellar, it must have been some sort of cosmic joke that I out of my four children, three of them had penises (or is it peni – the plural of octopus is octopi, so it would stand to reason). In addition to my complete and utter lack of understanding of the male species, I also lack a strong maternal instinct. Understand that I do love my children limitlessly but adult-child communication never came naturally to me. My only sibling was only 2 years younger than me and I didn’t have any regular babysitting gigs as a teenager (actually my first real job was as a Peer Educator with Planned Parenthood, counseling teens on safe sex. I got fired for getting pregnant, I was 16. How is that for hysterical?) So, I just saw babies and verbally challenged little leaky things. Toddlers freak me out a bit more because of my very real and profound fear of things that scurry (i.e.; rats, squirrels, aliens, two year-olds, etc.) Therefore when I found myself pregnant, I promised myself that I wouldn’t be one of those mothers that goo-gaa’d at their children and made up funny words for unfunny body parts (My Grandma called a penis a dingy for years. That’s right, when referring to the male sex organ she substituted the word for a little boat. Makes you wonder about my Grandpa doesn’t it?). I wanted to teach my kids the right words for things and make them intelligent creatures instead of adorable tiny morons. And that is exactly what I did, for a little bit. Never has a mother been so proud than when I put my 3 year old in the grocery cart and he screamed through the store, “This cart is squishing my testicles”. I was brimming with delight when my middle son announced to his second grade class that Lincoln was a sell-out, He owned slaves- it was a political decision. These are the moments that make a mom like me swell with pride.

But then it happened, the children started asking hard questions, embarrassing questions and once there were four of them I just didn’t have time to explain some things. When asked why Jesus never came to church, I debated explaining it to them logically and then anticipated a forty minute conversation about the resurrection, and ER was starting soon… So I told them that because everybody was in church on Sunday morning it was the best time for Jesus to do his weekly shopping. They bought it and I was able to slip into bed ON TIME for my weekly date with George Clooney! After my daughter was born and the boys asked why some people have penises (peni, I’m still not sure) and others have vaginas. I told them that it was like in basketball when one team wore the dark uniforms and others wore the light – It was how God keep them teams straight. My oldest then quizzed, “Well, who’s winning?” I didn’t hesitate to tell him “Right now, the boys”. He smiled and walked away. After I married my current husband, my youngest son, still dealing with the changes of a new household set up, innocently asked “How come you guys sleep with the door closed? You and my dad never did!” How could I tell this cherub cheeked little boy “It’s because your father and I little-to-no physical chemistry and it would take more time and energy to close the door than to….. Well, you get the idea?” So, I just told him that his new stepfather’s mother still made him wear Spider-Man underwear and he was scared that they might find out. He said he understood and wouldn’t tell the other kids because they might laugh.

Am I proud that I occasionally took the easy way out and fudged the truth here and there? Not really but for the most part my kids got a solid start. They all preferred Al Green to Barney tunes, they always realized that just because we didn’t have a lot there were always people who have much less, and my daughter always knew it was called a Vagina (we call it Mr. Miyagi now but that’s a different story). But just in case my children ever see this I feel like I should clear up a few things:

1. Superman is NOT lactose intolerant.
2. I was NOT a virgin when I met any of your fathers.
3. Jesus doesn’t ONLY love honor role students.
4. Our dog Mo did not run away (let’s just leave it at that)
5. I cannot tell just by looking at you if you have been masturbating.
6. And the courts didn’t actually find your Grandmother legally insane – I was just mad at her when I told you that.

Ricky Galloway gave me Gonorrhea

As you can probably tell by now, my history with boys is filled with so many ridiculously humiliating moments that it is hard to believe that I ended up with a completely normal, wonderful, loving husband. I think back to the beginning, the first boy that I found “ever-so-dreamy”, his name was Floyd Smith, and I loved him. I met him in kindergarten; he had brown hair and hazel eyes and could run very fast. He was perfect! You can imagine my glee when I found out that he was in my first grade class, as well. I was completely over-the-moon when he sat next to me in Reading Circle. Finally I gathered my courage, leaned over, and whispered “My sister thinks you’re cute” (do not ask me why I said this; my sister was only four years old. Oddly though this is not the last time I use this particular pick-up technique and it backfires every time) Anywho… I whispered, “My sister thinks you’re cute” and he said “too bad she’s black”. I honestly do not remember my initial reaction but he went on to say, “My Mom says your Mom is going to Hell for marrying your Dad” (my mom is white) and so naturally I said “My Mom says your Mom is a drunk.”

Now let’s fast forward to the fifth grade. By this time my romantic attentions had turned to Rolf Quam, yet another beautiful brown haired – hazel eyed boy. However, Rolf Quam had a biracial baby sister and therefore I was sure that he would love me. I just knew that he would look past the sinful acts of my parents, my early-onset acne, the muffin-top fat spilling from children’s plus-sized Jordache jeans, and one rainy day during an indoor-recess game of Heads-up/ Seven-up and notice my black-girl roller set version of the Farrah Fawcett haircut and love me. I think I was almost there…. really getting to him, when Ricky Galloway entered the picture. Dark and brooding (but still a white boy) Ricky Galloway seemed dangerous to me, a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, so to speak. I mean his dad drove an old pick up and he wore baseball-sleeved tee shirts like Jackie Earl Haley from Bad News Bears who was quite obviously a product of a bad home life. (In reality Ricky lived ½ a block from me in nice subdivision and could very possibly have had a golden retriever named Butch). But I saw him as a bad boy and melted when he marched up to me on the bus home from school one day and said, “I know you like art. So I drew this for you.” I just sat there. Ricky had barely ever talked to me and here he was drawing this picture for me. As I opened the poorly folded piece of spiral notebook paper with the raggedy edges, I was touched, overwhelmed with the care and detail he had put into the “ship” yeah I pretty sure it was a boat of some kind. It was kind of hard to tell because art apparently was not Ricky’s forte. But it looked like ship, long and lumpy and covered in something, barnacles maybe, candle wax perhaps, and he drew it just for me. Not Lanie Honeyman, the prettiest girl in the fifth grade, or Stevie Reno, his adorable next door neighbor who was in my class but was only ½ my weight, he drew it for me. He even signed his name which assured me that he wasn’t trying to be my “secret boyfriend” he didn’t care if people knew. I showed some people my bus the picture and they just giggled (obviously jealous). I smiled all of the way home and went straight to my room and thumb tacked the picture to the wall bedside my bed.

Later my Dad came in and saw the picture. He suspiciously asked, “Did you draw that?” I sheepishly told him that a boy from class had drawn it for me (careful not to mention his name – I didn’t want my Dad teasing me about my new boyfriend). “Did he write that on the drawing?” he continued. “Yeah”, I smiled, “I think it is the name of the boat”. “So,” he asked “A boy… drew and titled that…. And gave it to you?” “Yep”, I was beaming now. My father was obviously impressed that his chubby little caterpillar had finally become a butterfly! “Take that shit down and give it to me,” he ordered and ripped it up. “And don’t take to that boy anymore”! I was sad but not surprised; it is always hard for a Dad when his baby grows up. But I will always remember when Ricky Galloway drew me a vessel and named it Gonorrhea.

I used to be a Superhero!

A lot of people do not realize this but I used to be a Superhero. Long before I slipped into my mom jeans (They have elastic in the back. You can’t tell because I wear my shirts on the outside – I still haven’t lost all of my pregnancy weight, which is weird because my baby is almost 194 months old now) but I digress… Long before I slipped on my mom jeans and my bleach stained KISS-FM t-shirt, I donned knee-high leather boots and a kick-ass black leather jacket that had fringe that hung from the sleeves (Give me a break – It was the 80’s) and I was BEGGIE GIRL! Who is BEGGIE GIRL?, you ask. And just what is her superpower? BEGGIE GIRL is me! STRONG! BEAUTIFUL! SEXY! And my Superpower was Puttin’ my man in his place! Kickin’ him to the curb when he didn’t act right! And last but not least, loudly, and dramatically blocking the doorway when he actually tried to leave.

Had you been lucky enough to witness even one of my acts of Super-Prowess you would have been initially amazed at how smoothly I could work my neck as I told my man, “I don’t need your ass! You ain’t shit! Won’t ever be shit!” You would probably marvel at my ability to “accidently” call him by the wrong name just to plant the seed that he wasn’t the only man in my life. Ooohhh, I was good but that was the normal me, the human me, and then I changed (Don’t make me angry…. You won’t like me when me when I’m angry!) into BEGGIE GIRL. As he would stomp indignantly to door, with his pride and a box full of his shit in his hand, I would panic and start to cry. Not pretty soap opera tears but nasty red-eyed, swollen lips, snot dripping from my nose, tears. Gone was the strong! The beautiful! The sexy! In its place was a blubbering hyperventilating crazy person begging the loser not to leave me, apologizing for things I didn’t do, refusing to move from in front of the door because he might leave. Ooohh yeah, BEGGIE GIRL was pathetic! A Superhero made not from the bite of a Radioactive Spider but from the fear of being alone and the horrible idea that I might dispose of someone just before he decided to shape up. What if I left him and then he was a good boyfriend to someone else? Would that mean it was not him it was me? Oh hell no! BEGGIE GIRL would never let that happen! BEGGIE GIRL gripped me so tight that once I was so desperate to keep a guy from leaving me that I faked passing out…yes, it’s true! I faked a panic attacked, rolled my eyes back in my head, tipped backwards, and hit the floor (hard)! I just laid there and he very calmly dug his keys out of my front pocket, stepped right over me, and left the house. I just lay for a long time hoping he would come back to see if I had really passed out. He didn’t! So I got up and left…. It was his house!

Now twenty years later, I am no longer BEGGIE GIRL. I try hard to be SUPERMOM and WONDERWIFE but mostly I just work at being me. I don’t make threats I don’t mean, I don’t worry that what I don’t want might be perfect for someone else, but mostly I don’t wear my leather jacket with fringe when I fake passing out.

The Calculation of Sexual Experiences

When my friends and I were in our twenties and the men that we met and subsequent dates were a staple of nearly every conversation, one nagging question become a thorn in our respective sides... "How many men have you slept with?" During the course of any relationship it is a question that will most certainly be asked and how that question is answered will help slip you into one of his two mental columns - WHORE or HOUSEWIFE. As women we ask men the same question but the answer seems somewhat less important because we can "pretty up" any answer. If he says, "I have slept with 67 women", we immediately realize that he could have any girl he wants and Golly Gee, how LUCKY am I. If his answer is "2", well then, he is sweet and loyal and sensitive and even if he has no idea how many women he has conquered, we as women tell ourselves that no one before us has even mattered to him.

But boys... boys are different. Things with boys are black or white, hot or cold, whore or housewife. Therefore we have to be careful how much information we give our potential mate. Not outright lying but creative calculation. "When asked the incredibly loaded question, "How many men have you been with?", you must be very careful - Answer with too high a number and you will be quickly standing on his mental street corner in crotchless panties and thigh-high fishnets but answer too low and you might not be believable and there is always a chance that your past will come back to haunt you. With this in mind, my friends and I developed a few rules that will help exclude sexual encounters that need not be included in your tabulated answer. I have listed them below, I hope they help.

• If you can only identify the guy by the car he was driving or his job (i.e; the cable guy or you know the dude in the El Camino) - it didn't count.
• If you never took your underwear off you just pulled the crotch to the side - it didn't count.
• Revenge sex when down only one time - does not count.
• Vacation sex with a local - doesn't count.
• All college indiscretions are cancelled out if followed by no less than one year of chastity when entering "the real world".
• Drunken one night stands do not count if one or both of you fall off the bed or vomit during said encounter.
• Sleeping with two members of the same family cancel each other out (Like a double negative) - therefore neither counts.
• If you only have sex with a guy once and he kept his shoes on - it doesn't count.
• Sex in a barn never counts (for a variety of reasons)
• Sex acts directly following weddings or funerals (unless they are yours) - do not count.
• If you have lusted after someone, flirted and anticipated what it would be like and when it actually happens it is not only disappointing but monumentally tragic for all other women who may have to endure it in the future - it not only doesn't count but you may also erase two other experiences to compensate for your pain and suffering.

nOprah

The other day I was having a conversation with a co-worker and I innocently mentioned that I do not like Oprah. Yeah, I said it. I don’t like her. I guess that it is not her, per say, I have honestly never met her. But I don’t like the fact the she named her magazine Oprah and then puts herself on every cover. I also don’t like the fact that she raves about 300 dollar 7000 thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets that are “must haves” on her Favorite Things List and I once stuffed three old (but clean) socks in a hole in my mattress to keep a spring from punching through my Family Dollar sheets and puncturing one of my kidneys. I don’t like the way millions and millions of women blindly follow her, chanting her name softly and rhythmically, Oprah, Oprah, Oprah, wiling away the hours between episodes. I resent it, it’s true, but at least I am honest about it. Sometimes I wonder just how many husbands have heard their wives call out “Oooooohh-praaaahhhhh” during orgasm. Disturbing? Yes…. but still a valid question!

Anyway, I mention to my friend that I don’t like Oprah and a stranger overhears and gasps (yes, she literally gasped – gapping mouth, hand to her chest and the dramatic step backward). “Are you serious?” she asked. “How can you NOT like Oprah?” she demanded! “I mean she’s so wise! She helps so many people! You know, she gave away all of those cars!” This woman was on a tirade, I honestly thought she was going to stroke out. I carefully tried to state my case, honestly much more tactfully than I would have had I not be at work, but my words just fueled her hysteria. After about half an hour of this drama (honestly it was about a minute, minute and half tops, but Oprah time is longer for me) I gave in. I assured her that I would give Oprah a second chance and agreed that I may have been too harsh in my belief that hordes of Oprah-ites are being led to the slaughter of free thought. Immediately she quieted and smiled victoriously, like a baby being given a bottle. It was the oddest thing, I was clearly lying. But just hearing my assurance her that Oprah was indeed all powerful, calmed her. I realized that by not accepting Oprah as my leader, I had inadvertently upset the balance of her Universe and called into question her entire belief system.
So future reference, I offer this advice for all social situations – Never discuss Abortion, Religion, Politics, or Oprah… Things can go bad, very, very quickly.

Why Blog?

My life has been a series of embarrassing events, one directly following another. Please don’t misunderstand, I have a good life – a fantastic life, actually, – I have a handsome husband that I never want to stop kissing, four beautiful children, four extraordinary grandchildren, three dogs, and a job I adore. Who could ask for more than that?

Sounds boring, right? What in the world could I have to blog about? Well… my husband is handsome and a great kisser but he is my second husband, the first was handsome too but I didn’t enjoy kissing him nearly as much as his many other girlfriends did during our marriage. My four children all have very different personalities (as well as different fathers). My grandchildren are intelligent, gorgeous, and so very precious to me but, DAMN, I am only forty years old. I still watch Sixteen Candles every year on my birthday and eat raw cookie dough when no one is home. I do not feel like I thought a grandmother would feel!

Again – I LOVE MY LIFE! My mistakes have made me stronger and smarter! I am happy! My house actually has a white picket fence. My husband is my best friend, my two older children have their own places, my daughter is in college, and my sixteen year old cuts his grandma’s grass without having to be asked. On the outside we look very “Leave it to Beaver” however if you stay very, very quiet and listen very, very closely at our perfectly painted dark green door you can hear banjos playing. I know that one day Jerry Springer will come knockin’ and I guess this blog is just a way of preparing my story.