Is that a crackhead in your Soup Kitchen or are you just glad to see me?

Before I began working in my own personal Disney World, the library, I worked for many, many years in Social Service. I worked with the homeless, the HIV infected, the impoverished, and the developmentally disabled and believe me it was incredibly rewarding. Every night, for 18 years, when I left work I felt like I had truly made a difference in someone's life. At the library, I still feel like I make a difference just at a "less basic" level. But it was time for me to leave Social Services. After years of witnessing the suffering of HIV infected clients, battered women living in automobiles with their small children, and people with disabilities fighting for the most basic of rights, I was BURNT-OUT! Completely and totally burnt-out and I needed a break. However not all of my time in Social Service was painful and tragic, over the years I had many (many) funny moments. For example...

The first day of work as a social worker at our local "soup kitchen" should have held the general discomfort and excitement of starting a new job, arranging your new desk, meeting new people, etc... And for the most part it did. I set-up my new desk. I met all of my new co-workers, one of which would eventually become my husband (yea!). And I was also introduced to the loyal volunteers who took time out of their days to stop and feed the less fortunate. There were housewives, local business men and women, two nuns, one parolee - who apparently wanted to repay his debt to society, and a retired army guy. I tried my best to make a good impression and despite my nervousness made it through the first few hours without falling, tripping, burning myself (or anybody else, for that matter), or randomly tourette-ing any verbal vomit. When the doors finally opened for the 10:45 morning meal, I had successfully conned everyone into believing that I was indeed an entirely capable, respectable woman who, because of her incredibly blessed past had decided to devote her life to those in need.

As the men, women, and families came through the line, I was touched as I watched the volunteers greeting and serving our guests with such respect. I mean, most of the people in line were filthy, a lot of them seemed to be wrestling with mental illness, some were obviously drug addicted, and few were actually high at that moment but the volunteers just smiled and asked what each one of them wanted. This was it! I was finally in my element. I was in a new environment, doing what I loved, with people who had no idea that I had gotten pregnant at 16. People who had never seen me with toilet paper streaming out of the back of my pants. People who had never heard me accidently fart when I sneezed during a meeting. At this new place I could be anybody. I could recreate my self into a fully functioning, normal human being. (I had never been that before.) And then it happened...

Just as I had stepped into the kitchen and was poised between the nuns, I heard someone call (more like SCREAM) my name... repeatedly! I looked across the steam table and standing in line (just after the guy in the Naru jacket who was arguing with his hand and before the lady with the turban who was wearing Lipton tea bags as earrings) was Donnie, the boy I went steady with for 2 whole weeks in the 7th grade. Back then he played the drums in the middle school talent show and won, which made him soooo cool in my eyes... but it seemed as though 7th grade is when he peaked. He was standing in the line, incredibly high, in what appeared to be the same jeans he had worn in the talent show. What happened next? Well, let me tell you. He very excitedly and loudly declared to everyone that would listen, that I was his ex-girlfriend (never once mentioning that we were 12 and I think I only held his hand once). Now I am in no way a snob, but damn!!! The nuns were staring at me, my new boss began eyeing curiously, and the "guests" smiled at me in this welcoming sort of fashion, like they were going to start making room for me under the viaduct! I had been "Olived and Underpantsed" at my new job. But you know me. Chin up! Chest out! I was determined to make the best of it.

I said, "Donnie, How are you? I haven't seen you since the 8th grade." (Pretty crafty, huh?)

"Girl you look all right but you look different but alright, " he countered. "How's your son?"

I smiled politely, "Robbie?"

"Yeah, the one you had in high school!" he said way to exuberantly! (Well, I guess everyone would know I got knocked up in high school but maybe I could salvage some self respect.)

"He is fantastic, doing VERY well in school." I answered in my most professional, NON-crackhead, NON-homeless voice. (I was still trying to come out of this with even a sliver of dignity.)

"How 'bout the rest of your kids. They doin' good?", he continued. "You ain't with none of their dad's is you?" (Well there went that sliver of dignity.)

Before I could answer he motioned for me to come out to the dining room. (Here it goes I thought. He is going to ask me out. Right here in front of everyone. I panicked, trying to think of a nice way to say "No thank you. My divorce is not final and I do not date crackheads... anymore." I needed to let all of my new co-workers and friends know that although I was NOT a snob I had both social and professional boundaries.) As I made my way around the corner, I took a deep breath. Here it goes, I thought.

He stepped up and gave me a big and awkward hug and said, "Damn, you got big!" (Wow! A crackhead eating at a Soup Kitchen just called me fat!) He circled me and asked "Can I borrow 35 cents?"

In three minutes flat, a crackhead found me so unattractive that he didn't want to ask out, two nuns found out that I had lived an "unpious" life, my new boss was assuming that I date the homeless, and one of my co-workers (now, my husband) was standing at the back of the kitchen laughing his ass off. Just another day in the life of Davis!

...Ooohhh, Look A Bunny!

My husband and I were sitting in the yard this evening looking at the tomatoes and cucumbers that he had just planted and I innocently commented that I might plant some peppers and pumpkins. He just sighed (you know, the kind of long, heavy sigh that implies that someone is frustrated with something) but after much prodding, whining, and nagging he admitted to me what was on his mind. It seems that my husband (who loves and adores me) thinks that I have difficulty finishing projects. I was stunned! "Whatever do you mean, Mr. Fisher?", I inquired sounding shocked AND dismayed. He looked at me as if I had gone crazy and then proceeded to take me on a verbal tour of our house...

• Starting with the privacy fence where I had begun to paint tiny little butterflies, lady bugs, and fireflies (But in my defense, I started this project late in the summer and as it got cooler outside it just seemed silly to be painting warm weather insects and I lost my motivation. But I knew I would finish as soon as it warmed up again and that is why I left all my paints and brushes on the picnic table over the winter).
• He pointed out my half painted kitchen (but that wasn't really my fault either because I completed all the parts of the walls that I could reach and then my knee started acting up and by the time it felt better I couldn't find my painter's tape).
• And then he suggested that maybe I could reuse the painter's tape that is still up in the hallway (after what he says has been a year and a half, but I think he is exaggerating by a few months). I explained that I was still planning on doing a few touch-ups but I had run out of paint and couldn't remember the exact color I had used.
• He also drew attention to the basement steps I'd begun covering in linoleum, my uncompleted salvage of a garden bench, the five different scrapbooks I had started, and our half-painted garage door.

Now I realize that it sounds as if I am a bit flighty and unfocused but nothing could be further from the truth. I am very focused (most of the time) but occasionally something comes along that distracts me, like something shiny or a squirrel or... ooh, a bunny, and then I get excited and focused on something else. It is not my fault that my life is filled with so many damn shiny things!

But after our conversation I realize that my husband may have a point. I am NOT going to plant the peppers and pumpkins and I am going to finish at least one of my projects this weekend... But you know what would be cool? Making a scrapbook of me completing all of the projects. That sounds fun, maybe I'll work on that. I'll let you know what I decide.

Crinoline and Lotta Ham Sam-iches!

One of my closest friends in high school was a girl named Joy. She and I were opposites in a lot of ways (She was thin, I was not. She was blond, I was not. She was a cheerleader, I was not. She was quiet, I definitely was not!). But what we did have in common is that we were both a little boy crazy... well, actually more than a little (But in our defense, what we have in common now is that we are each married to incredibly wonderful men who we love dearly). However back then... we were silly for boys. It was ridiculous. We flirted. We strutted. We gave "come hither" looks. We laughed at stupid jokes (but we never giggled. We drew the line at giggling! Those girls are just ridiculous!). We were just silly, silly girls but even silly girls need a rest. And when we did, it was Lotta Ham Sam-ich Night!

Lotta Ham Sam-ich Night was a tradition for the two of us. It meant that she would spend the night at my house and from about 7pm until noon the next day we would "veg". No make-up. No parties. No boys. Just us. Sometimes we would give each other facials. Other times we would plan our weddings (because, you know, a girl's gotta dream). Usually, though, we would just watch movies and chill. For us, chilling meant homemade Mint Chocolate Chip Milkshakes and Lotta Ham Sam-iches. This was our ritual. We would use almost a quart of ice cream and only about 1/2 up cup of milk to make the shakes because the thicker they were the better and once they were done, we would place our glasses into the freezer so the shakes could thicken more. Now (in our delusional minds), the "lotta hams" were the true work of art. Really, all they were were ham sandwiches with Colby cheese sliced super-thick, lettuce and mayonnaise. I think the reason we liked them was because we only ate them when we were together, pigging out, and perfectly relaxed. Sitting on my family room floor, devouring "sam-iches & shakes", giggling like girls, belching like boys, and basically just not worrying about being pretty or popular or cool. It was perfect... usually.

On one said occasion, Joy and I were chillaxing after our "shakes & sam-iches" and had decided to give each other facials. To be honest, we were trying to block out the fact that it was Prom Night and, since we were sophomores and had not been invited, we were sitting at home. We had just finished applying the thick green face masks when we heard a knock at the door.

After that everything seemed to move in slow motion
(so that is the way you should picture it).

My dad yelled, I've got it. It is probably just Willie and Jesse." (Willie and Jesse were two of the cutest and most popular boys on the basketball team).

"Why would Willie and Jesse be here?" I screamed (seriously, you have to picture it in slow motion).

My dad grinned (and I'm not sure if it was a sincere grin or a devious one), "I invited them over to take pictures with their dates in the back yard. I figure you two would love seeing the guys all dressed up." (In retrospect, it was a devious grin.)

Just as my father reached the door, Joy and I looked at each other. We were wearing cut-off sweats and tee-shirts splattered with the remnants of our shakes. I am fairly certain one or both of us may have had lettuce in our hair and our faces were rapidly hardening beneath the bright green face masks. Panic set in as we raced past the front door and up the steps to my bedroom.

We could hear the guys and their dates chatting with my dad. (I am sure they were perfectly nice girls but we were jealous). We dug through my drawers trying to find something decent to throw on. We ran to the bathroom to scrub our faces clean, pile on some eyeliner and do something with our hair. It was miraculous! We were girls on a mission and down the stairs looking semi-decent (and I do mean semi) within 6 minutes.

Joy and I tried our hardest to look casual as we made our way to the backyard. (Willie and Jesse... no big deal) But there they were, looking gorgeous in their tuxes. But I could tell that they wished we were the one standing next to them in layers of crinoline, neon satin, and carnation wrist corsages. They just looked at us and smiled. It wasn't until later that we realized that they weren't staring at us with longing, they were just trying to figure out what the streaks of green crap were on our necks and ears. Apparently we hadn't scrubbed our faces quite as good as we thought. We didn't stress though, we just made two more Lotta Ham Sam-iches and chilled.

Shanequa Stewart Live on STTV!

One of the worst things about growing up with parents who provide you with every available nicety and spoil you beyond belief is that when you become poor (which is inevitable when you have two kids at age 19) it is a real slap in the face. You move into your own place expecting the basic comforts of home but... You quickly determine that no matter how many times you open and close the freezer door Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia Ice Cream does NOT appear. SLAP! You find out that WATER is not free. SLAP! And amazingly you realize that when you run out of money, it is not magically replenished (the way I had always assumed it had). SLAP! SLAP! Once I moved out of the house I had grown up in everything was much harder. Not only was I responsible for all of the cooking and the cleaning but I was trying to financially support my "Steak and Potato" lifestyle on a "Ramen and Spam" budget. Which is not an easy task, I'll tell ya'. But here is what happened.

After moving into my first apartment, I had to furnish it with second hand furniture. I was forced to shop at discount stores. And I, on occasion even (and it pains me to admit this), swapped tuna recipes with my friends. However, I just wasn't satisfied with my newly impoverished lifestyle. I wanted more. So, I scoured every Home & Lifestyle magazine and I watched all of the Home and Garden shows on television (which there weren't a lot of in the late 80s). But what I found was you can't be "fashionably poor" unless, well, you're rich. One of the articles told me I should find a second hand couch at a thrift store ($65), replace the legs ($60), buy several yards of durable and funky fabrics to make my own slipcovers ($100), then pick up some inexpensive throw pillows (another $50), and VIOLA! a shabby chic couch "for less"! Less than what? $175 for a used couch? At the time I was living on maybe $500 a month, I didn't have $175 for a used couch. I mean I love Martha Stewart as much as the next girl but I was a single mom with a Public Aid issued medical card. I couldn't just "raise a few chickens in my backyard for inexpensive and fresher eggs", the neighbor's Pit Bull, Capone, probably would've killed 'em the first night. So, I decided that if I couldn't be Martha Stewart, I would become Shanequa Stewart, her poor, black (more money conscious) cousin.

It was fantastic! Once I made up my mind to give up my "Martha dreams" and embraced my inner Shanequa, everything fell into place.

• I saw a special where she suggested giving "goodie bags" to guests at children's birthday parties... I saved money by buying brown paper lunch bags and letting the children decorate their own bags with crayons and markers and then they filled them with the pinata candy. BING! BANG! BOOM! A gift, a project, and a game for supercheap!
• I also learned to decorate my own cakes with store bought icing (Who the heck needs buttercream. What the hell is marzipan and can you buy it with food stamps?) And I'll bet you didn't know that you can find some pretty decent "character-shaped" cake pans at Salvation Army! I did! I found a Snowman pan, A Big Bird pan, and a Playboy Bunny Pan. $1 each! (You just wash them SUPER good, that's all)
• Need material for slipcovers or Halloween Costumes? Hit every garage sale you can find and buy solid color sheets of every size. Believe me once you cut around any suspect stains you've got yourself some decent remnant fabric. (I once made my son Christopher a Mr. Potato head costume, with interchangeable facial features, out of materials found entirely at garage sales. He won most original costume!

Now I am not suggesting that the "bargain bin" is for everyone. It is not! But I just want everyone to know that just being on food stamps doesn't necessarily mean you can't make a delicious 3-cheese macaroni for your employee pot luck... you just use government cheese as one of the cheeses. Honestly, you just have to learn the art of compromise and working with what you've got. Right? Even though I am in a far better place financially now, I still use all the tricks I acquired over the years and I even try to pass them on whenever possible. I'm seriously thinking about starting my own television network, instead of HGTV (Home & Garden Television), maybe I'll make mine STTV (Slum & Trailer Television) and you'll only be able to pick it up on bootlegged cable! Think about it, "Next week on Shanequa Stewart Live!, making mosaics with broken beer bottles." Has a nice ring, doesn't it?

Ugly boys don't get prom dates!

Anybody who knows me is aware that I like the cold weather much better than heat and I prefer rain to sunshine. (I am sure that right now you are thinking, “She’s weird” but seriously after all that I have confessed in this blog you should have known that before now). However, despite the warming temperature and the dreaded sunshine, I do tend to enjoy spring. I like to plant things (actually I like to buy plants and then have my husband plant them). I like to play fetch with my dogs. And I like to sit around the fire pit with my family. But the part of this season I don’t like is Spring Cleaning! Every year my husband marches me to the garage and makes me tackle at least two or three boxes of what he calls “my crap”. I am a packrat of epic proportion and for years I would just throw everything in random unmarked boxes and then just toss them into the basement or the garage. The day after my wedding that all stopped (seriously ,the day after, when I tried to save a piece of wrapping paper off of the first gift we unwrapped as a married couple). So now each spring he trots me out to the driveway where he has pulled out a few rapidly disintegrating cardboard boxes and I am supposed to “thin out” their contents and repack them into nice new plastic tubs which are then labeled, organized and stored neatly. Why not do all the boxes at one time, some of you might ask? Because it takes me at least two hours to go through every box. I pull out each thing I’ve saved and tell him its story (this is the napkin from my senior prom, this is my kindergarten paint shirt, etc…) But as long as I keep working, he keeps listening. About two years ago, he dug out the boxes from 1984 and 1985 and it took me twice as long.

My oldest son, Robbie, was born in 1985 and the box was filled with memories from my pregnancy, his arrival, and the weirdest junior and senior high school year ever. Let me just tell you no girl should have one box containing a junior year yearbook, gym shorts, her son’s first onesie, homecoming pictures, a baby book, a cassette tape that only had Prince’s When Doves Cry repeated over and over on BOTH sides, a Seventeen Magazine featuring a story on Judd Nelson, and a box of unfinished thank you notes for her baby shower gifts (some of the i’s were dotted with little hearts). The combination of stuff in the box was just peculiar! And looking in that box I was reminded how pathetic teen pregnancy was. I know that now it is common to see a pregnant 16 year old but back then I was pretty much alone (if there were other “pregos” they had either been shipped off or were lying REAL low).

I remember the day my water broke; it was actually my due date. I was sound asleep and a couple of friends had spent the night (because, again, nothing shows that you a mature enough to raise a baby like a slumber party), when I woke up to run to the bath room. It took me about two seconds to realize that my water had broken and I had NOT pee’d my pants. So I did what any normal “baby having a baby” would do, I stuffed my wet underwear deep into the dirty clothes, got dressed, and joined everyone in the kitchen for breakfast and morning gossip. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t discuss anything about the baby. I just chilled and ate a blueberry muffin and some bacon. (My general way of dealing with things that made me nervous was to ignore them. You know, the whole “If I don’t say it out loud it can’t be true” way of thinking. Which is probably why I didn’t tell my parents I was pregnant until my 6th month… they just thought I was finally porkin’ it up again.)

Nearly another hour had passed when I finally told them that my water broke, and as you can guess craziness ensued, but we finally made it to the hospital. All of us, my mom, dad, and sister, my friends, and I think two members of the basketball team that my boyfriend (who was in East St. Louis at the time) had sent up to “be helpful”, and, of course, my Aunt who was my Lamaze coach. Everything was good at first. I was getting a lot of attention and everybody seemed so concerned with me being comfortable. And as far as labor pains… they were non-existent. I couldn’t understand why I had needed to take classes , this was just fine. I thought to myself, “I will just lay here and let everyone fuss over me and at the end I will have a perfect, beautiful, little baby”. Easy as pie! But apparently I hadn’t had real labor pains. How did I know this? A very mean nurse came in and told me (I don’t think she liked me very much because she kept squinting her eyes at me and referring to my age). She told me that they were going to induce labor at which point my mother started hovering… and I hate it when my mother hovers.

They induced labor and explained that I should start feeling some pain in an hour or so. Within 3 minutes a pain so profound and severe hit it me, that I could only pray for the relief that sweet death could bring and I began to scream for my mommy. I explained to my mom that obviously the doctors had heard how old I was and were giving me something to teach me a lesson. I wanted, scratch that, NEEDED her to tell them that I had learned my lesson and I wanted them to stop it RIGHT AWAY! She explained to me that they had NOT dosed me with anything that is just what childbirth felt like. I just cried (I still wasn’t old enough to cuss in front of my parents).

The good news is I only had an hour and five minutes of labor. The bad news is I only had an hour and five minutes of labor. When you have short labor it is a very hard labor. When you have any labor when you are still in high school (and think the worst thing that could happen is that after you have the baby is that you may not get to go to homecoming) it is a very, very, very hard labor. But I made it through, screaming for my mommy the whole time. And then he was out, my tiny little bundle of joy. 10 fingers. 10 toes. (Covered in what appeared to be cream cheese and raspberry jam). He was screaming and crying and before they even cut the cord, he pee’d on the doctor (I was so embarrassed). I guess I should have paid more attention during the film they showed in Health Class because I was not at all prepared for any of this. His head seemed to long and his lips were a weird color, he looked nothing like any baby I had ever seen. Nobody in the room seemed to notice, though. The doctor claimed that he was perfect. The nurses took him away almost immediately to wash him up and I was wheeled into recovery. All of my family and friends gathered around the nursery viewing my new little miracle and I was alone for a little bit, which was good because I was really tired and just wanted to reflect on everything that had happened. How much I had grown up in just a matter of a few moments. My life had changed, I was a Mom now, and now someone would be screaming for me. My sister’s boyfriend, Stevie, came in after a few minutes. He smiled and asked me how I was. I told him “fine”. We were quiet for a minute and then I just blurted out, “Is he still ugly?” He just lowered his head and nodded. “What am I gonna do?” I asked him. “When no one will go to prom with him, do I tell him it’s cuz’ he’s ugly?”

And that, in a nutshell, is why babies should not have babies.

Dear Davis

As a result of my witty and mildly coherent blog ramblings, tons of people have started turning to me for advice. (Well, maybe not tons, but some people... OK, OK, a few people... Alright, nobody actually has come to me for advice but when I eavesdrop and add my two cents nobody really complains. They may not even take my advice but they don't complain.) Therefore, I thought that it was my DUTY to share my wealth of wisdom (yeah, right) with my readers. So in order to start the ball rolling, I have simulated a few inquiries for counsel and some of my very well thought out answers.(These questions are based on conversations that I have overheard other people having... Yeah, I know that sounds kind of stalker creepy but sometimes I am) Please Read!

Dear Davis:

I have a close friend whom I love dearly but I think she has a problem. She and her live-in boyfriend keep adopting children from various countries. They have like seven already and I think she might be pregnant now. She seems to love them all but because she has so many, she's resorted to tattooing their birth order and country they were adopted from on the backs of their necks. I just find it all rather disturbing. Do you think I should say something or continue to support her habit.

signed, Godmother of 7 and counting - CA

Dear Godmother:

It is obvious that your friend has a problem. Sit Angie and Brad down and tell them how you are feeling. Explain that you applaud their interest in global exploration but that they should just collect shot-glasses or key chains like the rest of us. Keep me posted!

- D

Dear Davis:

I am a fabulous looking guy in my mid-30s. I drive a nice car. I have a fantastic career and own my own home, which is in a great neighborhood and impeccably decorated. I am surrounded daily by great friends and family, as well as, two cats and a dog. However, I have a hole in my heart and my life feels incomplete. I have never been married or had a serious relationship and despite my attempts have had absolutely NO luck meeting the woman of my dreams. I need help.

signed, Lonely Heart - AK

Dear Lonely Heart:

I think that you are having trouble meeting the girl of your dreams for two reasons. 1.) You come across as a bit arrogant and that can be a real "turn off" to some people. And 2.) You're GAY! Extremely and undeniably Super Gay... and there is nothing wrong with that. Stop trying to meet your "Beautiful Barbie" and start trying to get it on with "G.I. Gigolo". Believe me, any holes that you have won't go unfilled for long! Good Luck!

-D

Dear Davis:

I recently found out that my fiance slept with my best friend. He is now my EX-fiance and she is my EX-best friend. It has been 6 months since it happened and I have pretty much moved on with my life but I still want revenge. What should I do?

signed, Wants Vengeance - IL

Dear Vengeance,

I hope that you know that you have conquered the hard part by getting rid of people who were obviously not worthy of your time. Revenge will not heal your heart any faster or make you feel any better about what has happened. That being said, if you still want revenge I have a few tricks up my sleeve.

• Exchange a 50 dollar bill for ones, on each one write "For a good blow job, call..." and then write your ex's full name and phone number (remember to include the area code) and then spend those dollars at any local gay bar.



• Design fake Department of Public Health letter head and then compose a letter to your EX-friend stating that "an undisclosed partner" has tested positive for both Syphilis and Gonorrhea and that she needs to report to the Public Health building on a specific date and time with a full list of sexual partners. (Be there with friends and a camera!)
  
  
• If you can get access to his car - Fill an old duffel bag with duct tape, rope, latex gloves, a tube of whore red lipstick, a ratty blond wig, a pocket knife, half a bottle of Vodka, and seven bottles of Tylenol PM. Write on a piece of paper a list of 6 random women's names but cross through 5 of them, place this in the duffel bag as well. When your ex is out for the evening place it just beneath the back seat of his car and wait. When you are sure he is behind the wheel call the police and report his car for driving erratically. It will be hilarious! TRUST ME!

I hope that these sample letters have given you some sense of my ability to give thoughtful and astute advice. If any of you have any situations that you would like hear my opinion on, please do not hesitate to e-mail me at olivesandunderpants@comcast.net.

Seriously e-mail me! I really would like to hear from you!

(I've only received one e-mail so far, and it was from my silly proof-reader.)

Party People, Come On Get Funky!

Our house was the house where all of the kids congregated. We hosted birthday parties, pool parties, slumber parties, Back-to-School parties and Last Day of School parties, and Hey-I-Just-Want-To-Party parties. And quite frankly, it was a win-win for my parents and me. I got to reap the benefits of popularity and “cool points” that came with having the “party house” and they knew exactly where I was and what I was doing 90% of the time. But it is the other 10% of the time that I would like to talk to you about.

My parents were pretty particular about what parties I was allowed to attend. Therefore, when we got to go to a party it was really exciting. My friends would all meet at our house to get ready. Both bathrooms would be inundated with curling irons, hair gel, various kinds of make-up (including about 2 tons of black eyeliner) aerosol hairspray, and roll-on glitter perfumes (Don’t judge, it was the 80s). My room would be used as the dressing room with all of us dumping clothes in the middle of my waterbed (Again, it was the 80s) and mixing and matching until we all found that perfect blend of teenage naughty and nice. Once we all put on the finishing touches we started the fashion show for my parents. As we strutted and twirled, my mother would tell us we all looked beautiful and my father would offer critiques and do hair touch-ups (I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, he definitely was not gay! Not that there’s anything wrong with that).

On one particular Friday, we were headed to the Boys and Girls Club. They would occasionally host after hours parties from 7 until midnight and the coolest boy I knew, Jimmy, was the Dee Jay. (Despite my insanely obsessive crush on him for most of my adolescence, my parents trusted him implicitly. So if he was the Dee Jay, I got to go). My friends and I got there about 8:30 because no really hot girl shows up on time. (I feel that I should clarify that although I was a remarkably chubby child and an admittedly rotund adult, there was a brief window during my teen years, 1981 – 1984, where I was pretty damn hot! And then I got pregnant! If only I could have used my powers for good instead of evil…) Anyway, before getting out of the car my dad gave us “the speech”, don’t leave the party, don’t do drugs, don’t dance like whores, don’t show your boobs, and be out front at 11:30 (my dad NEVER let us stay until the end of a party).

When we got into the party it was already jumping. There were hordes of people dancing, a few dancing like whores. There were about a dozen little clusters of folks scattered around the gym whispering and laughing, and Jimmy and his “crew” were at the Dee Jay table. We checked in with Jimmy (the way we were supposed to) and began to work the room. “Hi”, “How are you?”, “Cute skirt!” - You know the drill. By 11:00 we were having so much fun. We were laughing and dancing and were well on our way to becoming Punchoholics. It had been an outstanding evening already so you can imagine how ecstatic I was when, at 11:10, Jimmy slowed the music down, and Rabbit (super cute boy from another school) asked me to dance. It was outstanding! We danced three songs IN A ROW and he kept breathing right in my ear!!! Then (damn it!) Jimmy, with a little help from George Clinton, sped it back up. 11:24. I rounded up the girls and we started saying our good-byes. By 11:27, we were heading for the door. Perfect timing!

And then it happened, Jimmy played Planet Rock (one of the best and longest dance songs of the 80s) and Rabbit grabbed my hand and pulled me back onto the dance floor and my friends followed suit. The song was really good (still is - Google it!) and Rabbit was really cute, so all good senses just danced right out of my mind. My girls and I were swinging, sweat was rolling off everybody. I don’t know if I will ever forget that sense of freedom and joy and the subsequent humiliation I felt when I looked up and saw my father. He was in a white tee shirt (about a size too small) and a pair of bright yellow sweatpants and sandals that highlighted his ashy feet. I froze. “I am soooo sorry Daddy. It was a reallllly good song and we just lost track of time”, I blurted out. He just smiled. Whew, I thought... until he started to dance. He said, “You’re right this IS a good song!” He kept dancing. My friends and I just stood there mortified. He kept shaking his hips in a way that no girl wants to see her dad shake his hips and his pants were sliding low enough that you could see the crack of his butt. But kids just kept high-fiving him and he seemed to be deriving some sick pleasure from our humiliation! We begged for him to stop but he just kept saying, “Wait, this is a good song!” He danced for 20 more very long minutes and then we finally all made it to the car. We rode home in complete silence and we were never… ever… late to the car again.

Dani, Girl Genius

I have gotten tons of questions since I started this blog. Obviously I am asked if the stories I write are true and I also have been asked just how long it took for me to find humor in my crazy childhood. But lately, I have had quite a few questions about my relationship with my sister. It seems that people find it puzzling that I ran to her for answers (and occasionally for protection) even though she was younger than me. I say to these people, "You haven't met my sister". Since we were very young Dani has been the more dominant one. She protected me from bullies. Always won when we fought (my dad once told me, "If you don't hit her back at least once, she is gonna to continue to whoop your ass until the day you die). She came up with all of our "master plans" and usually was the one who got us out of the trouble our "master plans" got us into. To me, Dani was like a Superhero using her powers for both Good and Evil. She was a force to be reckoned with... and always will be.

One summer we decided to build a go cart. Technically it was just a board on wheels that we covered in a carpet remnant. We then taped a bicycle blinker and a horn to the front. It had NO steering wheel. Or motor. No doors. No windows. Just a board on wheels that only moved if you pulled it or pushed it downhill. But then Dani decided it needed a brake. You know, for safety. And she designed one. It was a two foot rope with one end tied to the board and the other tied to a cinder block. The idea being that when it was time to stop, the rider would just throw the cider block off the board and it would act like an anchor. She was an 8 year-old genius, so I believed her when she said it would work and I should be the one to test it. I believed her when she said, "Hey, you get on and I'll push you down the driveway". I still believed her when she told me that we should wait until a car was coming so we could see how quickly the break would work. (In hindsight it's possible that my sister wasn't a genius, maybe she was just a way above average girl with a moron for a big sister.) Clearly, I didn't die and I wasn't ht by the car but I can attest, in no uncertain terms, that a cinder block thrown from a board, holding a screaming 10 year old, rolling down a hill into moving traffic, does not stop the board. It just breaks into big ass chunks that your dad will yell at you for leaving in the front yard... Consider this a lesson that I learned for all of us!

Naked and the Emerald City

Even though it was just my sister and I growing up, we were always surrounded by family. My Grandma and Grandpa, Aunts and Uncles, fake Aunts and Uncles, cousins, fake cousins, you know dozens and dozens of people that we loved and who loved us. But unfortunately, we did not get to spend a lot of time with my dad's family. My dad had nine brothers and sisters but they were scattered around the country with their own families. So, when we did get to see them it was always an adventure.

My great Aunt, let's call her Helena, was a bit eccentric. For most of my childhood she lived only a couple hours away, so we would go see her from time to time. She lived in a great apartment, in a big city, and loved to spoil the people she loved. Sounds great, right? Sure it does... However, I was not one of those people (Too be fair, she probably loved me but I was definitely not one of her favorite people but my sister, Dani, was). We went to see her around my 13th birthday and she was very generous to give me $25 Gift Certificate to Saks Fifth Avenue. I was genuinely excited and grateful. I was in St. Louis and was going to get to go to SAKS FIFTH AVENUE! I couldn't believe it! I was even happy when she told me she had a little something for Dani, too. Because she was younger, Aunt Helena was worried Dani might get jealous. And then she handed my sister her gift... an emerald ring. Yeah, you heard me. It was my birthday and I got a gift certificate but Dani got an emerald. (I guess my sister was one of her favorite people and that was just fine with me because the older Aunt Helena got the stranger she got)

During one of her last stays at our house, Aunt Helena completed her journey from eccentric to, as my father would put it, "nuttier than a damn fruitcake". Her visit started off simply enough. We all sat around talking.

"How are you doing in school, sweetheart?", she asked my sister.

Then she turned to me, "And you, are you doing any better?"

"Are you still in gymnastics, Dani?" she inquired.

Then she turned to me, "I see you finally lost some weight".

"Dani, you know it is never to early to think about colleges. The good ones start looking at candidates early."

Then she turned to me, "I hear there is a nice community college here in town." That is kind of how the whole conversation went. I'm sure you get the picture. She was, however, oddly interested when I told her that I had a boyfriend. She asked his name. Did he make good grades? Was he into sports? Did my parents know his family? And then, she suggested that he join us for dinner. I was ecstatic! This was the most attention that Aunt Helena had ever paid me. So I jumped on the phone and called my boyfriend.

As my mom put dinner out, we all (my boyfriend included) sat around the table and waited for Aunt Helena, who had gone upstairs to get her "beauty rest". We waited... and waited... and waited. But I did not get upset or complain. I was just happy that Aunt Helena was finally interested in me and my life. I hated the fact that she had never really cared for me. She was my grandma's sister. The grandma I had never had a chance to know. So, this was my chance to have a sort of "grandma" substitute. And I was so proud to introduce my boyfriend to her. When I heard her coming down the steps, I smiled excitedly at my boyfriend and said, "Here comes my Aunt Helena". And in she came, all right. She walked into our kitchen. Well rested. With a fresh wig and make-up on. Smiling warmly. A youthful spring in her step. Wearing a pink and white incredibly see-through negligee with nothing underneath. Nothing! Nothing at all! Completely commando! I swear to Bob, I almost died. What the hell was she thinking? For a moment, I wondered if it had been an accident, maybe she was just senile. But I looked deep into her eyes hoping to find some signs of dementia and I found none. She was just an evil old crazy exhibitionist!

We all ate dinner in silence that night and although I would love to tell you how everyone was reacting, I can't because I never looked up from my plate. This was another one of those "olives and underpants" moments that only family can cause and after that I was TRULY glad that I wasn't Aunt Helena's favorite. And believe me when I tell you that I would sacrifice every birthday gift given to me by anyone to undo the damage done to me by viewing Aunt Helena's 75 year-old chiffon draped bits 'n' pieces across the table from a plate of meat loaf and mashed potatoes.

Nancy Drew & the Mystery of the Smoking Gun

Growing up with my parents was no easy task. They were loving and supportive. Intelligent and active in the community. People loved them... cashiers and bag-boys at the grocery store, teachers and principals, and worse yet, our friends. All of our friends adored our parents. My mother was very hands-on and always around and my father was the funniest person that I have ever known; Therefore, it stands to reason that all of my friends were drawn to them. I, of course, was mortified by this. I knew girls who were being raised by single mothers, who worked two jobs! My mother owned her own business and was married to my dad. I had friends who had step-brothers and step-sisters! My sister and l had the same mother and father, who were married until my father passed away. In contrast to my peers, my life felt very "vanilla pudding" (Well maybe a teensy bit tapioca). I guess that is why I was constantly trying to "get some dirt" on my parents. Now I realize that children are naturally curious creatures, but in retrospect I confess I may have been a smidgen worse than most.

At 10 years old, and after years of reading (and watching) a ton of Nancy Drew Mysteries, I was positive that I would make a genuinely great detective. And the key to detection is investigation. So, I would wait... and wait... and wait... until both of my parents were gone from home (they had to have plans to be gone for no less than two hours) and then I would make my move. Oddly. the first stop would be the dirty laundry basket. This is where I would begin to search my father's pockets, hoping that he may have forgotten to remove any small piece of evidence of a secret life I may need to know about. At this point, my evidence collected usually consisted of three or four pieces of Freshen Up gum (the gum that peed in your mouth), miscellaneous grocery and clothing receipts, and on one incredibly successful hunting trip - a token from the local "adult cinema" (Jackpot!). Once I was done with that I would, with cat-like prowess (I mean if the cat was over-weight and wasn't used to moving unless food was involved), move to their bedroom. Since I was convinced that my parents suspected my detective work, I was incredibly careful to leave everything exactly the way I found it. I searched in drawers, closets, and shoe boxes... everywhere. And then one day I found something new, a zipped bank bag stuffed between the mattress and box springs of my father's side of the bed. This had to be something important or else why would he have hidden it from us. My pulse (and my imagination) raced, I was so nervous! So, I did what any anxious 10 year-old girl would do... I ran and got my little sister. She wasn't afraid of anything! Nothing at all!

My baby sister never condoned my little investigations but would often consult with me on my findings. And even though she was only 8, I considered her to be the smartest person that I knew (No, really, she was!). So, I took the bag to her, The Wise One, and she opened it without any fear or hesitation! She gasped when she saw what was inside (I did, too... But only because she did, I had no idea what I was looking at). But she did! It seems that in my searching, I had happened upon a big bag full of pot (Marijuana, Giggle Weed, Smoke, Skunk, Mary Jane, Green, etc...). After briefly explaining to me what pot was, my sister went on autopilot. She called my mother at work (who immediately called my father - I would have loved to have heard that call) and then stripped my parents bed (I did not understand this move immediately but when it was all over, I had a new appreciation for my sister's genius).

By the time my parents made it home, The Wise One was livid (so of course I was, too). Her brow was furrowed and she was pacing. My dad, visibly nervous, tried to "explain" that he had taken the bag in question from a co-worker who had a drug problem. He went on to "explain" that I had taken it from him just before he could use it. My father beamed at his explanation.

"Why didn't you throw it away?", The Wise One asked.

"Uhhmm", my father stumbled, "I was afraid that if I threw it away some child might find it." My dad was actually sweating at this point.

The Wise One continued, "Why didn't you give it to the police?".

My mother and I just stood back and watched. I was in awe of my baby sister and my mother seemed to be smirking. My father, truly panicked at this point, countered, "What were you doing in my room?"

My sister unflinchingly replied, "We were trying to be nice and clean up around here. You and mom work so hard. We were about to wash your sheets and comforter as a surprise! I mean before we found the DRUGS!" (I told you she's a genius!)

My dad, finally realizing he had met his match, tensely replied, "I didn't call the police because I didn't want my co-worker to get in trouble. He has a family and is trying to get help."

My sister paused thoughtfully, "Then I guess we will just have to flush it." My father's eyes nearly fell out of his head! "We wouldn't want this falling into the wrong hands", she smiled sweetly and started our family parade up to the bathroom.

My father just stood there looking down at the toilet, completely defeated (probably mentally trying to figure out how much cash and relaxation would be flushed), when my sister handed him the bag and said, "You do it. I'm just a kid!" His hands trembled above the toilet and I swear I heard him whimper. Poor guy, he looked so broken. He looked like she had ordered him to sever a limb but she showed no mercy. "FLUSH... IT!", she commanded and he did. He flushed it all (and it was a BIG bag). My sister beamed. I was in shock. My mother was doing a poor job suppressing bursts of laughter. And daddy, he cried. When I asked him why, he said that he was just proud of us for doing the right thing.

I would like to tell you that was the last time I played Nancy Drew in my parents' room but it wasn't. I continued to do it until I started hiding my own stuff. However, after that day I never found anymore pot... only porn. But I guess you can't win every time.

Black and White and Red all over!

In my humble opinion one of the hardest things about growing up, is all of the other people growing up along side of you. Almost everyone you know is either going through an awkward phase, insecure about something (or more realistically some things), or entering that tenuous stage in life where it is decided whether they will be good or evil. Hormones are raging, bodies are changing, and nearly everyone your age is not happy in their own skin. It is a mess.

So consequently, if you stuff a gym class full of 11 year-olds all of whom are completely mentally and physically discombobulated by puberty, problems will arise. Pre-teen (tween) children are predatory. They smell the fear and weakness of everyone around them and they capitalize on those weak points in order to deflect from their own. It is like some well choreographed dance...

• Feeling fat in your gym shorts? Call the girl in glasses standing next to you "four eyes".
• Get caught looking at the cute boy on the other team? Slam the scrawny girl in front of you to the floor.
• Accidentally fart too close to the crowd? Blame it on the disabled kid with the helmet.
• Everyone calling you "four eyes"? Hit the pigeon-toed boy in the head with a basketball.

But me, my weakness was being chubby...oh, and my frizzy hair... also, my tweenage acne... as well as, my utter lack of physical coordination, my super thick glasses, and the fact that I am totally devoid of most social skills. However there was one boy, I will call him Digby (that wasn't really his name but I am still a little angry), that liked to make jokes about my parents being interracially married. He would call me "half-breed", "domino", and "twist cone" any chance he got. At one point he started calling me Oreo and then, much to my humiliation, Oreo with Double Stuff. He tortured me continuously through the 7th and 8th grade and the worst part was... I loved him. He looked just like Chachi from Happy Days (and maybe, if you squinted your eyes just right, Matt Dillon). I told myself time after time, "he teases you because he likes you" when in reality he teased me because he was a sadist. But I kept hope alive and never retaliated when he would make fun of me in class or on the playground, I would just laugh... Well, until the incident.

The week started off the same as always, I got on the bus dressed in my plus-sized Wrangler brand corduroys and started to swing into the seat behind the driver. I really liked our bus driver (another reason why kids thought I was Super Cool and stood in line to be my friend!) and when Digby got on the bus I smiled my brightest smile at him at he said, "You're mother's a nigger lover!" So I said, "At least my mom gets out of bed to got to work." Everybody laughed and I settled back in my seat, proud of my comeback but sad at the dissolution of my imaginary relationship with Digby. The rest of the day technically went fine but I began to stew about all the things he had said to me, all of the names he called me the , the jokes...oh, the jokes... (What's black and white and smells like a dog? You and a Dalmatian) I just got madder and madder and by the time I got back on the bus to go home I was enraged. He had gotten there first and met me in the isle...

• Digby: Get to the back of the bus!
• Me: I don't think so!
• Digby: Oh I forgot, your mom's white. You can ride in the middle!
  

And then I punched him in the nose and he bled and bled (What's black and white and red all over? My fist that's what!) I got put off the bus (apparently the bus driver and I weren't as close as I thought). By the time I made it home I wasn't angry anymore but my Mom and Dad were. By the time they got done Digby had to apologize to me, the bus driver had to apologize to me, and nobody called me half-breed any more. They just went back to calling me thunder butt... and all was right in my world.

She wore a Raspberry Beret

Before I start today's tirade (and yes it very well may be a tirade), I feel I must give the disclaimer that I LOVE MY LIFE AND EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN IT...but sometimes I get tired. Tired of pleasing people. Tired of meeting other people's expectations. Tired of doing favors. Tired of watching the senseless tantrums of fully grown adults. Tired of being invited to other people's pity parties (They are never adequately catered). Tired of answering my phone. Tired of spending so much time in my car. Tired of having a dress code at work when I am waiting on people who won't even pull up their pants. Tired of the fact that my car window doesn't roll down (Do you ever wonder why the driver's side window always goes first?). Tired of the way that my grown children will continue to say Mom! Mom! Momma! Mom! Mom! until I get up and go to them (and then they ask me something stupid like "Do we have any popcorn?" or "When is Labor Day?") I could go on (and on and on) but I think it suffices to say that I am just tired.

I guess as adults we wear so many hats (i.e; the parental hat, the child hat, the employee hat, the sibling, hat, the spousal hat, the citizen hat, the volunteer hat, the student hat, the teacher hat, the friend hat, the neighbor hat, etc...) that changing hats can get exhausting and honestly just make your hair fall out (Why do you think hair starts thinning as we age? More and more hats, that's why!) I enjoy all of the hats I wear, even the ones I complain the most about, but I never get to wear them long enough. Right when I settle down to watch a movie with my fantastic husband, the phone rings and someone's car has broken down. My husband has to then take off husband hat and put on mechanic hat. I am in my Mimi hat (I picture it with polka dots) baking cookies with my grand kids and I realize that it almost time to pick up my daughter from work, time to don the chauffeur's cap. I am at work, in my library bonnet, and I get a call from my son's school and it is mom time. So, I throw on my bright yellow hard hat with an attached spelunking light (because being a mom is hard work) and take the call. We leave work to vote - two hats. We do laundry on our lunch hour - another hat. In one day we can make breakfast for our families, go to work, counsel our friends, banter with our adversaries, shop, do yard work, call our parents, laugh with our siblings, help with homework, and make love to our spouses... and that's on a light day. It is not just the head that gets tired, the back is nearly broken from lugging around all of the gear it takes to be suited up properly. And I don't know if you notice, but I do, there doesn't ever seem time to wear the ME hat - Mine is a Raspberry Beret. (You know, the kind you find in a second hand store.)

I remember in my teens (The teen years that I wasn't pregnant or raising children), I would dance around carelessly wearing that hat. I would sleep until noon without one person calling me and asking me for a favor or wondering what candidate I will be voting for in the upcoming election. I would go to the movies without guilt for not spending my last twenty dollars on the action figure that my grandson really wants. I didn't spend every waking moment worried about what type of example I was setting. And I never had to hide junk food in my room to keep my kid from eating it all. I was just free. Free to be me.

But, I guess I was also a little lonely, too. I spent infinite time trying to make plans outside of the house. Hours at the Mall, I now loathe. I was so excited at the opportunity to vote and be a "counted" citizen. I fantasized about working at the library I now work at. And couldn't have imagined being so lucky to have the husband I married. So, I guess I asked for all of these hats and love every single one. I think I will just have to work a bit harder at occasionally placing them all aside and letting my hair blow freely in the wind (I mean, if I have a fresh relaxer) and then I will grab my Raspberry Beret, curl up in my bed with my dog, my husband, and a bowl of cheese popcorn, and watch the Sci-Fi channel for hours. Because that is my Me hat and it always fits just right.

Light as a feather - Stiff as a board

When my sister was 5 and I was 7, we experienced one of our first rites of passage in to "girlhood"- the slumber party. But since I was only 7 and nothing particularly mortifying happened to me, I do not remember much about this event... except one thing - one of our guest, Jennifer Rose, flipped out somewhere in the middle of the evening and demanded that we all stop (including my parents) and watch the way her nightgown flowed behind her as she walked down the steps. At that age I had no idea what mental instability was and I sure as shit didn't know what a narcissist was but goodness golly, I am sure that girl turned out to be a real piece of work. However, outside of the diva nutcase, the evening was a success. And what spells Slumber Party success? Let me tell you.

For any slumber party to be a hit there must be:

• FOOD and lots of it. Root Beer, Ice Cream, Pizza, Cupcakes, Orange Soda, Popcorn, Doritos, and to be safe you should probably pick up some Red Vines. If the party attendees are under 12, at least one girl will throw up. At this point, all of the girls will gather around and comfort her until her mom comes and gets her (After she leaves the meanest girl will begin to make fun of her and no one will step in to defend her). If the party attendees are between the ages of 12 and 15 they will all pig out (until the meanest girl points out just how fat she thinks everyone is and then she goes to call her "older" boyfriend, leaving the others to mull over what cows they are). Now if the party attendees are over the age of 15, at least one girl will sneak in Bacardi or Everclear and one girl will be tempted to tell. (That girl will be tortured for the rest of the night. At some point the meanest girl will make her cry!) However, If you are really lucky the party host's parents will be stress drinkers and get incredibly drunk. The dad will try to dance and the mom, trying to reclaim her youth, will start participating in all of the "girl talk"... slurring her words, while saying things like "I was the shit when I was your age, all tits and hair. Dated the quarter back, until I got knocked up. Then he left and my tits fell but at least I got you baby girl..."
  
  
• GAMES. Little girl slumber parties usually have games like Simon Says, Uno, Telephone and Tag (the meanest girl usually zeroes in on the fattest girl and makes sure that everyone always makes her "it"). Pre-teen sleepovers generally have games of Light as a Feather - Stiff as a Board, Twister, Dance Dance Revolution, and Truth or Dare (during Truth or Dare the meanest girl will either make the shyest girl confess what boy she likes or make the most flat-chested girl show everyone her boobs). Older girls play Truth or Dare, too but believe me the Truths and Dares are much worse (Truth - How many boys have you had sex with? Dare - Wendy , I dare you to french Lisa. You know that sort of thing. Again, the meanest girl, stirs the pot and someone either confesses to an eating disorder or comes clean about making out with her best friend's boyfriend in the back of the bus on the way home from a track meet.)
  
  
• SECRETS. Secrets are the cornerstone of any good slumber party, that doesn't change with age. The secrets, of course, do. Varying from "I don't think there really is a Santa Claus... I think my Daddy leaves the gifts" to "I once saw my Mom and Dad doing it", the questions run the gambit but the "mean girl" is always there revealing nothing, remembering everything! (She will then wait about a week or two before she "accidentally" spills all the secrets in the most humiliating way possible) However, when it comes to secrets the meanest girl isn't the only one to watch-out for. During a supposedly "mean girl" free slumber party I had in the 6th grade, several of my BFF's found my diary and read my five page tribute to Jeff Crum (Dear Diary, I know it sounds crazy because he really doesn't talk to me but I am pretty sure that Jeff loves me as much as I love him. On '50s day, he looked so cool with his hair slicked back. I swear he looked just like Fonzie and when I said that my '50s skirt made me look fat he said "You look the same". I swear I almost died. And when he gets on the bus , his eyes lock with mine and I know that he can see straight into my soul...). Of course they told him everything and apparently he was NOT in love with me and could NOT see straight into my soul.

I know I have not painted the most pleasant picture of Slumber Parties (Boys fantasize that we are all in our underwear holding slow motion pillow fights) but believe it or not they really are fun. It is where girls learn the survival skills to be women. We learn not to trust other women and really not to trust BITCHY other women. We learn that we should eat what ever we want... just not in front of anyone else. We learn that ALL women play games. We learn to treat our present friends as if they could be our future enemies, so we should never pick dare and when telling the truth we should lie. But what Slumber Parties taught me is that if I have any deep, dark secrets that could potentially cause me any sort of embarrassment, DO NOT put them in a diary... put them on a blog for the world to see.

Breakin' up is hard to do...

There are a few things I am good at. I play a mean game of Scrabble. Nobody, I mean nobody, googles information as good as I do. My head is full of trivia (albeit miscellaneous and generally useless trivia). I dance really great when I am drunk. I can write a fairly interesting story. I am an absolute champ at designing things in MicroSoft Publisher. And my husband says I am an above average kisser but there are just as many things that I am bad at. I have a difficult time matching names with faces. I cannot make delicious sugar cookies. When I am sober I am an awful dancer. I am mathematically retarded. And I have always had a hard time breaking up with people. There! I said it! I am a bad breaker-upper but at least I know it. (However, it probably would have been more beneficial to figure that out when I was still dating.)

In the 7th grade I went steady with a boy named Donnie. I thought he was cool because he played the drums. We "went together" for two whole weeks and held hands twice. However, as magical as it sounds, I quickly realized he just wasn't the one and I needed my 12 year old freedom. Despite that, I just couldn't bring myself to hurt his feelings. So I had my friend Kendra call him and tell him we were through. He took it fairly well. He immediately started seeing Molly the first white girl in our middle school to exclusively date black boys. Then my freshman year, I had to break up with a super sweet uber geek (he was way toooooo nice and I just couldn't take it). Therefore, I carefully picked a fight with him until he was really mad and then I burst into tears. I yelled, "I can't believe you are breaking up with me" and I ran into the house. Poor guy didn't know what hit him. When he would call I told him that I couldn't talk because it was too painful. Coniving? Yes but after about two weeks, he had gained a bit of a bad-boy rep and had completely forgotten that he really hadn't wanted to break up with me. Eventually we became friends again. Even as an adult, I once dated a guy for nearly seven months after I stopped liking him because I just couldn't bring myself to say "Hey dude, I'm just not that into you." (Alright! Alright! Maybe I am not being completely honest. Part of my inability to part ways in that situation was the fact that I didn't want him but I really didn't want anybody else to have him either. But that is only because I can be a little territorial. It's only natural, I'm a Leo!)

I don't know exactly why I had such a problem saying sayonara when I wasn't happy with someone. I guess, I just don't like hurting people's feeling and I (I've told you this before) have an unnatural need to be liked (and needed and loved and lusted after and... well, I'm sure you get the point). I like when people refer to me as "nice" or "sweet" or even "funny" but I would hate to hear some guy in a bar telling someone I was a bitch or calling me a heartbreaking whore. Was I always honest when I ended relationships? Of course not (But honestly, who is?) I have a friend who stopped dating a boy because she realized she had been also seeing his cousin. Would it have been right for her to cause a big family dispute? No! So she told him he lived too far away (he didn't). Another friend broke up with a guy by telling him she didn't have time for a serious relationship because of an increased work load but the truth was that he moaned too much and far too loudly during sex. Should she really have told him that? It would have crushed his spirit. Hell, I once broke up with a guy because his curl activator smelled like corn (white people if you don't know what a curl is ask a black person). But I told him that I couldn't see him anymore because I had heard that he had been smoking crack. Now doesn't that seem nicer than screaming "Your head stinks and it gives me a headache"?

I guess I am saying that A.) if you have to break up with someone, you should be gentle and think about the damage that you can do to their psyche and B.) I am awfully glad that I am married to the perfect husband and will never have to break-up with anyone ever again. Why? Because Neil Sedaka was right... Breakin' up is hard to do.

Here comes Hobo Cottontail!

Once you are a certain age, holiday anticipations are very, very dissimilar from those of your youth. I remember my sister and I bouncing off the walls of our room at 3:30am Christmas morning because our father had threatened to kill us if we woke him one minute before 5. I also recall nearly stroking out from excitement from October 29th until 5:30pm on October 31st, when our parents would finally open the front door and set us free to Trick or Treat until we passed out from sheer exhaustion. However in your adult years the fervor that comes with each holiday is remarkably different. There is the weeks of planning and debating over which house the gathering will be held (usually my sister's - she has the good house), accompanied by the assignment of potluck dishes to bring (you should know that if you are always assigned rolls and soda, they think you can't cook). Then there is the inevitable last minute time changes that come with family emergencies, travel complications, and the schedule conflicts tied to extended and blended families. But then the day comes and the fun really begins!

Today was Easter and I was blessed enough to spend it with my family. My husband, my kids and their kids, my mom, and my sister and her family. It was a crowded house but definitely full of people who love one another. There were no fights or heated debates (One Christmas my Aunt broke down in tears when someone told her that her theory that Tupac was still alive and living on an island somewhere was completely insane). No practical jokes were played (During a Thanksgiving gathering, we waited until my mother went into the kitchen to check the turkey and then we rearranged all of the living room furniture - when she returned we were all sitting down watching t.v. as if nothing had changed) . Nobody got drunk (I remember my extremely inebriated Uncle paying me $20, one 4th of July, to find his wallet at the bottom of our pool. I dived for 3 hours... it was in his pocket). It was a perfect day... almost.

I got up early to cook my contributions to Easter dinner, fried chicken and spaghetti (Note to white people: Black families do cook the traditional favorites, ham, mac 'n' cheese, potato salad, etc... but we just usually add some other stuff. Black women like to show-off a little in the kitchen. Plus, two of my boys live on their own now, so when I get to feed them I like to make their favorites!) Things went well. Nothing burned! We met at my mom's house about 1:30 and all of the kids looked beyond adorable (Honestly you could barely tell what hellions they usually are). The kids played hide and seek until it was time to eat and my beautiful niece led the prayer before we all made our plates. After lunch, my sons slipped out to the front yard and hide Easter Eggs and candy. When they came in, we announced that we had just spotted the Easter Bunny hopping by and the kids should get their baskets and help us find anything he may have left. I grabbed my camera, the kids ran to the front door and I started onto the porch. And that is when I witnessed one of the most unbelievable things I have ever seen (and I promise you, I am not exaggerating). Two homeless people cheerfully collecting the candy hidden around the yard. They were smiling and frolicking, as if they had come across some sort of sugary jackpot! In that moment, I realized that this might have been the only joy they felt on what should be a joyous holiday. Searching for the candy most likely brought back memories of their youth and carefree times in their lives. For that one moment, they were not John and Jane Doe in bunks 4 and 5; they were kids again. Kids experiencing that long lost holiday excitement of finding something sweet and decadent concealed in a bunch of daffodils or patch of dewy grass. So, I did what any loving and compassionate person would of done. I look right at them and screamed, "Put that shit down! That is for the children! Are you fucking crazy? Put it all down and get out of here." They threw it all down and walked away mumbling something about not knowing they couldn't have it and how they found it fair and square. I probably would have, at least momentarily, felt some shame about my reaction, if I had not been almost immediately stampeded by niece and grandchildren. They, too, smiled and frolicked, yelling "I found some " and "Jackpot" and I couldn't feel bad. This is their time to be excited and light-hearted about the holidays. John and Jane Doe's time has come and gone. It is my job to protect my babies' youthful innocence from anyone, including Hobo Cottontail, who tries to steal it away.

I hope you all had a wonderful holiday!

Throwing the "N" word around in the real world

When I was a little girl, my parents worked really hard to provide us with the most idyllic life possible. We had dogs, they drove a station wagon, we went to the local Presbyterian Church, we took dance classes, they were Co-Presidents of the PTA, and our dad worked while our mom stayed hope and established our sense of self worth. It was just glorious. I've said it before, we were just like the Cleavers, I mean if Mr. Cleaver was black and Mrs. Cleaver had once tended bar in hot pants and go-go boots. We had a great life and I think that was because my parents wanted to give my sister and I everything that they had never had. My paternal grandparents had not had much money (which was to be expected - they were black and raising ten children in the 30s, 40s and 50s) and my maternal grandparents were not on quite as limited a budget but they were nowhere near rich and were raging racists. So, my parents banded together to raise their children in the most nurturing and comfortable setting humanly possible. And for that I will be eternally grateful... but I was surrounded by the Real World and the Real World was interesting.

At the time I was sure that I lived on the most interesting street in the whole world. There was a boy named Gary that lived across the street from us who's dad (to the best of my recollection) was in a wheelchair because of some torturous war wound... His house was always dark. The little girl to the left of us used to take off all of her clothes and run naked up and down the street until her mom could catch her. Across the street on the other side of our house, was the poorest family on the block - the dad didn't work, drank too much, and used to scream and shout all of the time. (Eventually their house caught fire when, in drunken stupor, he fell asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand). P.D., my first real "tomboy" friend, lived down the block from our house. P.D.'s legs were always dirty and covered in band-aids and her hair was consistently disheveled. For some reason I always got the impression that my mother was not thrilled about our friendship but I thought she was just the coolest girl ever. She taught me how to spit and more importantly how to cuss. (Which is remarkable for two reasons - 1.) my father had a mouth that could make Richard Pryor blush and 2.) because whatever she did stuck and now I have a mouth that would make both, Richard Pryor and my father blush). And finally, right next door was the Wingerter family. The Wingerters were more of a traditional family. One of their sons, Dennis, was my age and my mother was happier about my friendship with him. Dennis and I walked home from school together everyday and I loved it. Although his older brother walked with us, I felt so free and emancipated walking without my mom and occasionally that new found liberation went straight to my 6 year-old brain and made me completely crazy. How so? Let me tell you.

On our way home one day, Dennis's big brother started to tease us about being friends. We tried to ignore him but he just kept going. Eventually we started to get embarrassed and began fighting with each other. He tried to trip me to prove to his "stinky faced" brother that he didn't like me and I very haughtily responded by telling him if he didn't stop I was going to throw "a nigger at him" (P.D. taught me how to cuss but she didn't actually teach me what any of the words meant) The minute we made it to my house, Dennis's "stinky faced" brother told my mom. You can imagine the hysteria that ensued... My mom was livid! And then she told my dad and he was not any happier!

Did I get a time out? No, of course not (I told you my dad was black... we don't do that!) Did I get my ass beat? No (my mom is generally a pacifist - except when she is kicking ass at the roller rink). So they just let it go? Hell no (this is my life remember). They made me look "Nigger" up in the dictionary, write it down and then go to the Wingerter's house read the definition and apologize to his entire family for the misuse of the word. It was humiliating and quite frankly I didn't understand why "Stinky Face" didn't have to say he was sorry for teasing me and Dennis didn't have to apologize to me for trying to trip me. In hindsight though, I think my parents did the right thing. "Stinky Face" grew up to be some sort of professional heckler and I am almost positive that Dennis went on to trip again... but me... I never again, not even once, threatened to throw a nigger at someone.

Take two aspirins and call me in the morning...

I would once again like to apologize for the absence of yesterday's post. My back has been killing me for the past few days and after taking the amount of medicine that it takes for me to be able to rest comfortably it is utterly impossible for me to put together any sort of coherent thoughts (shut up, Mark!). So last night I popped some pills, curled up in bed, watched American Idol, and (according to my very, very patient and handsome husband) started babbling nonsensically and fell asleep... mid-sentence. It was fabulous!

There is something incredibly outstanding about being all hopped up on painkillers and muscle relaxers. Calm down everybody! I am not stealing prescription pads and forging my way into Oxycontin heaven or scoring dirty Vicodin tablets from the medicine cabinets of abandoned houses BUT if I can grind up some legally prescribed Percocet and use it as the Margarita Salt around my little glass of tequila-based joy, I see no real harm. (Well, except for all of that DO NOT MIX WITH ALCOHOL nonsense the doctors HAVE to put on the side of the pill bottle.) And for the record, I almost always follow the instructions on any prescription bottles or medicine packets that I use (you know for my sinuses, and my allergies, and my high blood pressure, and my anxiety, and my insomnia, and all of the other pills I take daily - Yes, Walgreen's does love me!). But it just seems as though it might take a bit more Ibuprofen than most to effect me, maybe it's because I am not some tiny little teacup of a girl or perhaps it is just that my pain is more determined than other people's pain. I don't know for sure exactly what the problem is. Now, I am guessing that at this point you are recalling my previous confession that I am a hypochondriac (I am) but I actually do have x-rays proving the arthritis in my back (they found it when I went in complaining about what I thought was a tumor in my intestines... or maybe it was my stomach... anyway it turned out to be just the flu and arthritis in my back). In any case, "take two aspirin and call me in the morning" just doesn't work for me when I am hurting. So, I take the two aspirin, add two Tylenol PMs, and chase it with the daintiest glass of Boone's Farm Snow Creek Berry Wine. I just don't see the problem.

It might not seem like it, but I tend to be a tad high strung and these concoctions work wonders slowing me down. If they didn't, I might have to develop a drinking problem or something and that wouldn't be good for anyone. I would probably act all crazy (well,crazier) and start slurring my words all of the time. Nobody really likes the inebriated and I really need to be liked (I also need to sleep with a t.v. on but that is completely irrelevant, in this case). After a slow spiral into a drunken abyss, I would have to go to A.A., and well, that's just for quitters. I can't do that, it wouldn't set a good example for my little sister (for that matter, not for my kids and grand kids, either). I guess if I'm being honest, mixing my own pain "remedies" is not the best example either. Most likely, I won't support my grandson sucking down an Ambesol / Baby Tylenol / Similac Cocktail when he starts teething or my son dosing my granddaughter's popsicle with Ritalin and NyQuil the next time she gets a little wound up. For that reason, I should probably ease up some... plus, my husband slipped and called me Anna Nicole the other night. So from now on, whenever I take ANY medicine I will read (and follow) the instructions given... even if I have "borrowed" the medicine from someone else.

Dear Friends!

Dear loyal readers and remarkably tolerant friends,

I will not be submitting a blog entry today. The arthritis in my back is flairing up and tonight I plan to wash down three tylenol arthritis pills with a Bacardi Spritzer and watch American Idol (I love Adam and Matt!). I will, however, be back tomorrow (hopefully in far less pain) with a new post.

Love - D

Friends Don't Let Friends Dial Drunk!

At 2:39 a.m. this past Saturday, my son (who is well over 21) called me, DRUNK, from the bathroom of a bar. He had to tell me something funny... it was funny but what I found funnier is that he called me. Some men make booty calls, some men call to yell at ex-girlfriends and ex-wives, and some men just call around trying to score some weed, but my son called his mommy. My husband and I were very proud. However, it started me thinking about all of drunk phone calls I have made.

• My best friend, Annie, and I once sat at my house and got drunk (we finished off the end of every bottle of liquor we had in both of our houses). After videotaping ourselves lip syncing Talk Dirty To Me by Poison and Michael Jackson's Wanna Be Startin' Somethin', we got bored and decided to prank phone call my beautiful, adoring, and remarkably understanding baby sister... over and over again. She happened to be entertaining that evening (she was NOT happy)!

• After a Bachelorette Party that I was enjoying a little too much moved to a local gay bar for a superb drag show, I grabbed a strangers cell phone and called an ex-boyfriend to come get me. When he reluctantly came in to pick me up, I threw my arms around him, kissed him passionately, and turned to the lady(?) next to me and said "It's okay, he's a girl".

• When I first started dating my husband, I was fighting our relationship every step of the way. And after a night out with my friend Felicia, I left him this message, "I know you think that I am going to fall in love with you but I'm not. Just because I think I love you doesn't mean I do, because I don't. You know why because I know that you love me and that's not good. Not good at all. So I love you and I will talk to you later. O.K.? Oh, Felicia say hi! I'm a little drunk and don't love you. Bye!" He politely waited for 10 whole minutes the next time I saw him before he started laughing hysterically.

Now this is very small sampling of my drinking and dialing history. I have a laundry list of drunken moments where my mouth has run amok and I blame my friends! If you see someone you love attempting to dial a phone while intoxicated, it is your duty to stop them (the only exception being, if your drunkenness is equal to or exceeds theirs). I once staggered up to a man in a bar with the intention of telling him that his face appeared to be morphing into a werewolf or perhaps a yeti but my friends stopped me. That is friendship. When I wanted to call my ex-husband with an itemized list of ways he had never satisfied me, my friends stopped me. Again, friendship!

In my opinion, when witnessing a friends mouth writing a check that their ass can't cash, we should remember... Friends Don't Let Friends Dial Drunk.