Moonlight and Lesbians

My very best friend in the fifth and sixth grade was Gina Calandrino. Gina was a chubby-cheeked Italian girl who in my opinion had the nicest smile in our whole school. It was warm and sincere; when she smiled at you, you knew she really meant it. Once we became friends we were inseparable. We talked on the phone, had sleep-overs, and even traded stickers for our sticker books. She stood by me through the Ricky Galloway fiasco, she didn’t laugh with the rest of the class when one of the “mean girls” in art class drew a picture of Bozo the Clown and labeled it with my name (honestly, when I wore my hair down, I did look a lot like Bozo and on that particular day my early on-set acne had placed a Mt. Vesuvius sized zit on the tip of my nose), she was the best friend I had ever had. Being a bit chubby herself, Gina shared some of my same insecurities, so when we did social things we generally did it together. And one of those things was going to Skateland.

At the time Skateland was the place for all of the cool 11 and 12 year olds to hang out, so we did, too. Most people went on Friday nights when Skateland had two sessions – one that lasted until 9pm and another that went until 11:30. Gina and I could only stay for the first session (because it was the ‘70s and our parents actually cared about us); therefore we had to make every minute count. Every Friday night I would painstakingly pick out a pair of jeans that one, or both of my parents, would politely hint were too tight. After stuffing myself into them I would thread the hook end of a wire coat hanger through the hole in the zipper and pull with all my might to pull the zipper closed before I was forced to exhale. After picking out a shirt which was usually adorned with some sort of corny iron-on transfer (i.e., 90% Angel – 10% Devil, ETC… Extra Terrific Chick, Keep On Truckin’), I’d put my comb in my back pocket (it said “If you can read this you’re too close”), grab my skates and pom-poms, and head for the backseat of our Marigold-Colored Station Wagon.

I would spend the rest of the evening trying my best to seem cool – drinking Suicides (it is when you ask for every flavor of soda in one cup… plus grenadine!), playing air hockey (on skates it ain’t easy), and trying my best not to look pitiful when no one asked me to skate the Moonlight Skate (seriously, never ever asked). I would always skate to the bathroom or go to the bench and pretend the pom-poms on my skates were loose; sometimes Gina and I would make a loud production of how we couldn’t believe (insert imaginary boy’s name here) had asked us to skate, “What a loser”! When my parents would pick me up, they would always ask “Did you have a good time” and I always assured them that I did but it ate at me and ate at me that no one found me even remotely attractive enough to skate with… in the dark. (Damn, that sounded depressing. I’m sorry! The sadness usually only lasted till I got home and at a couple bowls of ice cream. After that I was fine and would practice kissing on my pillow until I fell asleep! So, no worries.)

Every once in awhile, my mother would take us skating on a Sunday afternoon. That was always a treat because on Sundays very few kids were there and I could work on my skating moves (think a short little pudgy brown female Napoleon Dynamite on skates – yeah, those kind of moves). Gina, my sister and I skated the crazy trio, musical corners, and every other skating game the management thought up that week. It was so much fun. I was having a blast… And that’s when it happened. The lights dimmed and the announcement for the Moonlight Skate came on. My own personal hell, the Moonlight Skate! Making losers out of the chubby, the Moonlight Skate! The once a week confidence destroyer, The Moonlight Skate! Finally after two years of torture, I could take it no more and I said to Gina, “Let’s Skate!” So, we did. It was magical, I slayed my dragon, conquered my demon, and did it with my best friend by my side! Two friends proving that just because the boys don’t like you (quite yet) doesn’t mean you have to lean on the half wall and watch. Hand-in-hand we skated, happy and confident, until a lady and her goofy looking boyfriend skated by and shouted, “LESBIANS!” We left the floor immediately. I’m not sure if I knew what a lesbian was but I knew it was bad. When I told my mom, I knew it was really bad! When my mom grabbed my Aunt’s hand and headed out to finish the Moonlight Skate, I knew that it was extremely bad. But it wasn’t until I saw the women flat on her back at the feet of my screaming mother that I knew that my mom either really hated lesbians or really loved me. (After a long explanation as to what a lesbian is, I realized she just really loved me) She also took Gina and me skating the very next Sunday and, once again, we skated the Moonlight Skate, with no problems what-so-ever.

Now, thirty years later, I am kind of glad that no boy ever asked me to skate because if they had I probably would have never got to see my mom knock that girl on her ass simply for hurting my feelings.

Thanks Mom.

Fat Girls Need Love, Too...

A few weeks ago, one of my regular customers, a retired gym teacher, came in and told me that she would be hosting high school exchange students. I reacted politely and appropriately (How wonderful, That’s fantastic, That sounds like so much fun) but given her advanced age (somewhere between Blanch Deveraux and Barbara Bush) I wondered if she would know what kids these days like to do. Having two teenagers and I thought I would be nice and jotted down a few things that her guests might like to “experience” while they were in town – a few family entertainment venues, some local pizza places, various stores they might like to buy some clothes, and also reminded her of a couple of local dishes they might want to try. I am nothing if not helpful. The next time I saw her I asked her how things were going and if she had taken the kids to the restaurant I suggested. She replied that things were going well but she hadn’t taken them out to eat. She said quickly, “I don’t want get them to fat.” And then, this is my favorite part, she patted my hand and said “No offense.” (NO OFFENSE – one of the most offensive phrases in the English language. – Black people are so loud! No offense. Men are pigs! No offense. I like to put my foot in your old ass! No offense.) Apparently she thinks I’m fat. What the hell? I mean I know I’m fat but, damn, I didn’t know that she knew I was fat. Ouch!

Don’t get me wrong, my weight has fluctuated over the years. I was a chubby kid, a thick but sexy teenager (at 16 - think a younger, shorter, untalented Beyonce – Halle Berry mix with a lazy eye and a stupid ‘80s hairdo. Seriously, I was like the prettiest girl in my Lamaze class and I got half a gym credit for it, so I could graduate high school on time) and now, well now, I am … uhhmmm… substantial! Yeah substantial, I like the sound of that (It makes me sound less like Shrek and more like Mae West, Jane Russell, or Queen Latifah). I have earned my pounds, whether it is from “birthin’ my young’ins” or from Fritos and Ranch dressing, I have worked for every single pound and you know what, I am alright with that. I have admitted to being a casual girl but I am not sloppy – I do not wear stretch-pants at the mall, making people suffer at the sight of me bending over trying to tie my shoes. I always wear a bra in public. I don’t get winded halfway through the grocery store and have to resort the special “Sit and Shop” cart. I am happy, I am clean, I work, I play, I can keep up with my kids and grandkids, and quite frankly, I am pretty damned adorable. Not adorable for my size, just adorable. So you can imagine why it is hard for me to understand other people’s infatuation with weight.

I get that people want to look good in the latest fashions but not at the expense of permanently depriving yourself of Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream. I understand wanting to be attractive to the opposite sex (or the same sex, I don’t judge) but if someone loves you or even likes you, it should be for whoever or whatever you are. I can tell you right now my husband appreciates “a little cushion for his pushin’!” Sometimes I diet and work out (by work out I mean a handful of doing sit-ups on my bed and taking the steps DOWN to the first floor instead of the elevator) and sometimes I don’t, depends on my mood. Sometimes I feel sexy in my skin and sometimes I don’t, again it depends on my mood. However, I honestly think that we all feel that way not matter how big or how small. The key is being healthy, mentally and physically, at size 2 or size 22 (I should know because I’ve been both – that’s a bit of exaggeration. I’ve never been a size 2). But big ass, wandering eye, uneven boobs (I probably haven’t told you about those yet but believe me eventually I will fill you in), potential unibrow, and all – I am beautiful and the people I love know that….because I know that.

Skinny people – don’t judge the pudgy. We are not necessarily lazy, stupid, or depressed. We are simply rotund (but so are panda bears and look how cute they are).

My chubby friends – all of the thin ones are not hateful or hungry. We are all built differently and some of my best friends are “leanies” (Big shout out to Annie and Mandy) and they have never asked me to be anything but me.

We are all fantastic and can coexist in harmony! Pretzels and marshmallows are delicious together (My sista “thickens” know what I’m talkin’ about). So, I challenge each of you to find someone physically different from you, find something beautiful about them and tell them. Trust me; it’ll do wonders for you both.

The Day I Didn't Start My Period

Aside from being only one of four black girls in attendance and the fact that Mr. Hale the Janitor was my only real friend until the fifth grade, the worst part of Elementary School was the “Period Talk”. I remember it perfectly. Permission slips were sent home early in the week and we all knew that “the talk” was coming but what we were unsure off was exactly what “the talk” was. There were rumors floating around and most of us were certain that at least part of the discussion would be about pubic hair but that was about it. When the time came and the boys were whisked into another classroom, I went from nervous to petrified. The teacher had us all sit “Indian Style” (is that racist?) in a half circle on the rug in the back of the room, I guess she was trying to relax us before she pushed us head first from our idyllic world of freeze tag and Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers into the insanity that is Womanhood.

Everything started easily enough… Our bodies are changing, blah, blah, blah... (Duh! I had been wearing a bra since the second grade.) We would start growing hair where hair hadn’t been before, blah, blah, blah... (That was more than evident given the fact that in nothing but my bra I looked like I had a midget in a headlock!) Boys are changing, too… We all giggled a little when we found that the boys were growing hair and we giggled a lot when we heard all of the other things that guys had to deal with (For the life of me, I cannot remember exactly what the teacher told us but for the next three years I waited with baited breath for a boy to get an erection at the chalkboard). And then it happened! The teacher passed out a pink pamphlet and a brown paper bag to each of us and began to explain menstruation. She started clinically – spitting vulgarities at us like ovulation, fallopian tubes, and uterine lining. The giggles were gone, the room was silent, it was at this point she assured us coldly and quite unbelievably that menstruation was a good thing, a gift! (Not since Mariah Carey’s film debut in Glitter has there been such a horrific acting job… most likely because she had cramps!) However, since she had mentioned the word “gift” and we had yet to open the brown paper bags, I saw a glimmer of hope. (Candy, maybe? Puffy stickers with the googoly eyes, perhaps?) I smiled apprehensively at my best friend Gina and she smiled back just as nervously. It was at this point that the teacher opened her paper bag and retrieved what turned out to be the biggest sanitary napkin that to this day I have ever seen. (No lie, it actually came with a belt and looked exactly like Sumo wrestlers diapers). Our teacher explained that women rarely used the belts anymore but that the school still gave them away because they had quite a few of the pre-made bags in storage. If and when got our periods we could just attach the pads to our underpants with safety pins. (Safety pins next to my vagina?) The rest of the class was a blur but I vowed that when this curse was finally upon me I would be ready!

I read that pink “period” pamphlet over and over, backwards and forwards, until I had committed it to memory. According to the pamphlet (the very, very old pamphlet – probably written in the ‘60s, when women still wore their Maxi Pads attached to a, oversized elastic belt under their clothes), a girl’s first menstruation was a wonderful thing to be celebrated and handled responsibly (and because I was such a freak show, I intended to do just that). When the big day came, I followed the rules to the letter. After I noticed the small streak in my underwear and I went straight to the pamphlet and read – TELL YOUR MOTHER WHAT IS HAPPENING AND RELY ON HER FOR GUIDANCE AND WISDOM. I called my mom at work, she told she didn’t get off until nine and asked me if I wanted my father to help me (I almost had a stroke). I sweetly answered no; I had the pamphlet. MAKE SURE THAT YOU STAY VERY CLEAN DURING YOUR MENSTRAL CYCLE. MENSTRATION CAN SOMETIMES CAUSE AN UNPLEASANT ODOR – I immediately took a warm bath (the pamphlet said the water should not be too hot or too cold, I can’t remember why). BE SURE TO MAINTAIN YOUR FEMININITY DURING YOUR MENSTRAL CYCLE. REMEMBER: MENSTRATION IS A GIFT ONLY WOMEN RECEIVE. After stuffing my underwear with a beach towel of a maxi pad, I slipped into my princess pink night gown and even tied a ribbon in my hair (the girl in the picture had one in hers). BE SURE TO LIMIT YOUR ACTIVITIES – TOO MUCH ACTIVITY CAN CAUSE YOUR SANITARY NAPKIN TO SHIFT. BE SURE TO GET PLENTY OF REST – YOUR MENSTRAL CYCLE CAN CAUSE CRAMPING AND WEAKNESS. I went right to bed and waited for my mother to get home from work. When she came into my room I can only imagine her pride. I was sitting up in my bed, back against the headboard, reading quietly. I was clean and I had taken extra time on my appearance. I had secured everything in its place (without safety pins) and had managed to do it without taxing myself physically. I was the portrait of femininity, a chubby little black version of the girl on page three. I had indeed made my first period a beautiful experience. This was a bonding moment every mother and daughter should share (according to page 2). She smiled at me lovingly and told me, “Honey, I just put your underpants in the wash. You didn’t start your period, you just didn’t wipe well.” I threw the pad away and went to sleep. I told you I’m a freak show!

A Public Service Announcement

I have to admit that I have been overwhelmed with the feedback that I have gotten since I started writing Olives and Underpants. I have been able to exchange stories, both touching and humorous with various readers, I had a random woman (who turned out to be a friend of a friend) approach me and congratulate me on my un-jinxed vagina, and astoundingly the author of The Bad Behavior of Belle Cantrell, Loraine Despres, not only read my blog but commented positively. I am over-the-moon excited and flattered; therefore I feel that I should pay you all back. Instead of my usual ratings and ramblings, I will use today’s entry as a Public Service Announcement, of sorts.

I would like to address a serious situation, a growing plague within our society that is as potentially crippling to our community as rapidly rising rates of teen pregnancy and gun violence, or the mounting methamphetamine epidemic. As I am sure that you have probably guessed, I am talking about the increasing trend of naming children the most ignorant names possible. This is a sickness that crosses both racial and socio-economic borders, stretching from trailer parks to mansions, from South Central to Manhattan, and quite frankly, THE MADNESS MUST STOP! I, myself, work with the public everyday and I see the sadness in the eyes of the children as their mothers scream, “Shaqueeta Petrone, git’chore ass over here!” or “Cayenne Marie (no, that’s not a typo. I meant Cayenne not Cheyenne), if you don’t keep yo’ little but under that sunlamp you won’t never win Little Miss Corn Curl 2009.” Please don’t get me wrong, I applaud the fact that these parents wanted their children to standout in the crowd. There were three different Jennifer’s in my graduating class, only differentiated by their last initials (Jennifer R., Jennifer M., and Jennifer S.), so I get! We all want individuality for our children! But seriously there is a limit! We all know that Gwyneth went crazy and named her baby Apple (I chalk it up to hunger) and Jason Lee (Earl – from My Name Is Earl) named his child Pilot Inspektor but the problem isn’t just in HollyWeird, it is living right next door. It is in our daycares, our churches, our supermarkets! This Saturday I met a kid at my pharmacy named Million and, I wish that I was lying, but I actually know a 4 year old named Cash Muhnee. Really?!? Cash Muhnee ??? Just how many girls do we need in the world named after cars and liquor…? Alize, Moet, Mercedes, Porsche, Diamante, and Tequila Need I go on?

I just can’t take it anymore. I cannot just sit idly by and watch the children suffer any longer. I feel that if we don’t do something immediately, 20 years from now we'll be living in a society of Lap Dancers and Meth Dealers. So, if you are trying to name a baby or know someone who is, I have composed a list of helpful hints.

• If you can’t decide between names write them down on a piece of paper and draw one out – DO NOT COMBINE THE NAMES (i.e., Diamonique, Krystefanie, Rosehannah, etc.)
• Taking a word and changing spelling doesn’t necessarily make it a name (i.e., Reynbow, Godyss, Majik, etc.) Everything does not need a unique spelling. Your child will have to spell them one day, don't set them up for failure.
• Adjectives and Adverbs don’t need to be names (i.e., Beautiful, Versatility, Sparkle, etc.)
• Just because you love something doesn’t mean you should name your children after it (Harley, Nike, Gun, Levi, Cash, Love, Nautica, Gucci, etc.)
• Do not name your daughters Passion, Promiscuous (Yes, I actually do know a girl named Promiscuous), and Honey. You should be working to keep your girls OFF the pole.
• Please! Please! Please! Do not start naming your babies Barack or Obama. I think he is great, too, but one is enough. Also, let’s stop naming babies Elvis, Beyonce, Fantasia, and Gotti.
• Last but not least, let your conscience be your guide. Practice saying the name over and over with a variety of prefixes – Dr. JaBrezzy Williams, The Honorable Pretty Moore – If it doesn’t sound right, lose it!

I hope my suggestions help and we can all work together to nip this craziness in the bud.

** Now on a side note: If you discuss this blog (and I truly hope you do), please do not tell the story of how you know someone who knows someone who know brothers name Oranjello and Lemonjello. Everybody knows someone who knows someone who knows these boys but no one has ever actually met them in person…..Hhhmmmmmmm?

Thank you for your support!

How Davis Got Her Groove Back

If you were to ever run in to me on the street you would probably find me in jeans and a sweatshirt, Ked’s tennis shoes in the winter and flip-flops in the summer, and little-to-no make-up. I have contacts but I don’t wear them. I have a lazy eye and I’m really self-conscious about it. (My eye generally only acts up if I am sick, overly-tired or drunk but since I am 1 of the 3 about 82% of the time, I just keep the specs on. It’s just safer that way.) I am a just casual girl, that is my comfort zone. When I try hard enough I can clean-up alright. I have been called pretty a time or two, I have also heard the words cute and adorable bantered about, but when you see me the word “SEXY” will probably not be in the forefront of your mind. I don’t say this so that you’ll say, “Aaaahhhh sure you’re sexy.” I say this because I’ve tried SEXY and it just don’t work for me. Sexy should fit fine, I’ve had boobs and hips since the second grade and I learned the sexy walk from Pinky Tuskedaro – Fonzie’s one true love (I used to knot my shirt up in the front and practice switching my hips from side to side while snapping my fingers, Pinky style – Well, until my sister caught me and made fun of me mercilessly for several years after.) But sadly I just can’t get SEXY right.

Not too long after my divorce, my friend Felicia decided to take me out for the evening. We got all dressed up and went to a jazz club on the top floor of a local hotel. I wore some sexy heels with my all black ensemble and showed just a bit too much cleavage. I was feeling fine. We listened to the music for awhile (actually we acted like we were listening to the music, we were really just scoping the place for hot guys and faking conversation) and when the band took a break, Felicia went to the bar and I slipped into the restroom. The bathroom had fantastic mirrors, as I walked in I got a good look at myself. I look more than a little hot. My hair was fabulous, my make-up was great, and I had tightened the straps on my bra as far as they could go before I left the house, so the girls were sittin’ pretty. After making sure I was alone, I practiced laughing and talking so I could assess my best angles. I was “on”, this was my night. I saw How Stella Got Her Groove Back; I knew that men find women with a few extra miles on them sexier. We are more confident, more self-sufficient. We are not tongue kissing our best-friends for the Girls Gone Wild cameras, we have class and dignity. So, when someone came in I quickly popped into the stall did my business, washed my hands and quickly went back into the club armed with the poise and assurance that comes with maturity. (Oh, you poor, poor, stupid, young girls – you do not have a chance against me). I strutted across the floor and caught the eye of the most gorgeous, chocolate man. He looked like Omar Epps and Shemar Moore combined. I did the half smile and kept walking. (Yeah, Pinky was with me that night) I took a seat next to my friend, pretended to be interested in whatever she was talking about and sipped my drink, pretending he wasn’t still looking at me. My heart nearly stopped when he got up and walked towards our table, eyes locked with mine (hopefully both of them – I don’t think I was drunk yet). He came over smooth like Billy Dee (for those of you under 35 years of age – smooth like Barack Obama) and bent down and whispered something into Felicia’s ear, never breaking eye contact with me. And then as smoothly as came, he returned to his table. Leaning towards me, Felicia said, “Apparently, you have toilet paper hanging out of the back of your pants.”

For what felt like an eternity (but was probably 15 seconds) everything seemed to go still, go completely quiet. Why did stuff like this always happen to me? This was worse than when I farted in the face of my super-cute gymnastics coach while attempting a pull-over on the uneven bars (at least that I could blame that on youth and 25 extra pounds of “baby-fat”). This was even more embarrassing than when my house was broken into and my six-year old son pick up a pair of my thong underwear in front of the police officer and said, “Look Mommy, the bad guys even stole the back of your underpants”! But then I drew off the class and dignity of my age, tapped into my inner Stella, and reached slyly behind my back and pulled what amount to about a foot of toilet paper out of the waistband of my slacks. Mortified I wadded it up and discretely stuffed it into the crease of the chair. I then signaled the waitress and ordered a shot of tequila, because when you have half a roll of toilet paper hangin’ from your ass, who cares if you if you’ve got a wandering eye?

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.