"How do you measure, measure a year? In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife. In 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year in the life?"
Sorry, I had to go a little "Rent' on ya'll. In case you didn't know, I love musicals. Anyway.
Last year this time, I set some goals for myself. I figure now is as good a time as any to check my progress. My theme for 2006 was "Enjoy the moment," and here were the things I vowed to do with my 525,600 minutes:
~take salsa lessons
~get a full night's sleep (on a new mattress) DONE - I bought my mattress in May
~learn how to walk in heels so my feet don't get tired (a la Sex in the City) DONE
~forget about color schemes and what's "in" and decorate my house with things I love
~sit on the waterfront and enjoy a lazy afternoon breeze
~change my hair (maybe go natural) DONE - I went natural in June
~learn how to put together an outfit DONE
~buy a banging overcoat DONE - I bought a lovely turquoise number in January
~spend good money on quality items more often DONE
~splurge on something for me every month DONE - maybe not every month, but regularly
~volunteer and give something back to the community
~eat more things that will keep me healthy DONE
~eat more of the things that make me happy DONE
~take better care of my body DONE - I've taken up swimming!
~find a church home, attend regularly and tithe correctly DONE New Life Church, boyeee!
~speak proper English - or at least a less broken version
~read more good books DONE The Color of Water, White Oleander, Two Edna Buchanan books, Symptomatic,
~listen to good music
~add onto my jazz collection
~go to art exhibits, plays and other cultural events DONE Art night in Providence you can tour the different galleries around town for free!
~visit a foreign country (Canada doesn't count)
~be a tourist in any town that I'm in and not care that I look like a tourist DONE - J.R. and I went to Shaker Village in New Hampshire and took pics everywhere
~take my "pictures"
~visit my friends and family more often DONE - I visit Russatta at least once every 3 months, went to Florida to see peeps, spent Christmas and portion of summer with family, visited New Jersey to see Jarrod
Not bad for a year, huh?
So what next? I'm not exactly sure. I'll have a theme by Jan. 1 - so I have a few days to figure it out. Until then...
"Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes - how do you measure a year in the life? How about love? How about love? How about love? Measure in love. Seasons of love."
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Saturday, December 30, 2006
A Christmas Story: The Epilogue
Real friends don't let friends wear Christmas buttons.Apparently, this sentiment escaped my good friend, Jessie. I love her to death, but the child sent me the Christmas themed button you see on the left.
Jessie, Rashida, Mike, Shawn and I decided to observe a bastardized version of Kwanzaa this year. We didn't light any candles. Nor did we pour some out for the homies. We just made homemade gifts and vowed to send them to one another by Jan 1.
Jessie's was waiting for me when I got home from Detroit. It was just what I needed after the morning I'd had.
I woke up at 5 a.m. to call and check the status of my flight. My flight, the woman told me, had been cancelled. I'd been rescheduled for a later flight on another airline. Great, I thought - more sleep.
I arrive at the airport just about two hours before my plane leaves and hop in line. Though the check-in line snakes well past the counter, it moves quickly, so in no time, I'm up front. I stick my credit card into the machine and wait to check in.
The screen flashes "See attendant for check in." Odd. But okay, I was a transfer, so cool.
I get the attendant's attention and ask for her help. After a few computer clicks, she tells me USAirways has booked me on their flight, but has not transferred over the e-ticket. So I have a seat, but I just can't board. I'll need to call the airline and have them transfer the ticket - and no, she can't do it because she only has the 800 number for USAirways, not a direct line to their concourse.
Shoot. I've got to call Manilla again.
I step out of line and dial. A woman answers the phone and I tell her my plight. She tries to ease my concerns.
"Ma'am," she begins, "You're already booked on the Northwest flight and you should be all set."
I sigh because I know it's going ot be a long conversation.
"You don't understand," I say. "I JUST got out of line and the person at the desk told me that your airline needs to transfer my ticket over. I'm booked, they just need some paperwork. What I need YOU to do, is transfer my e-ticket to Northwest. That's it."
She puts me on hold. Then: "Okay, ma'am, you're all set."
I'm not impressed.
"What did you do?" I ask skeptically. "Did you just confirm that my name was on your screen or did you transfer the e-ticket like I asked you to?"
Sheepishly she says: "I confirmed you were on the flight."
She's going to make me yell at her. "But did you TRANSFER my TICKET? I'm confirmed on the flight. They told me that at the desk. But I need my ticket from ya'll to get on the plane!"
She gives me the ticket number and a confirmation number. That, she says, should be enough to get on the plane. I sigh and head back up to the ticket counter.
The woman there takes the ticket number and punches it into the computer. No go. "They still haven't transferred your ticket," she says. "Let me find someone who might be able to help you."
She finds a manager and he finds the number to US Airways at Detroit Metro and gets me squared away. I speed through security (after an extra search) and board my plane. I'm in Rhode Island by 12:30 p.m. and at my house by 1 p.m.
The manilla envelope was propped up against my door when I arrive, as it probably had been since the Saturday prior. I opened my door, lugged my suitcase inside and plopped onto my couch. Without even taking off my coat, I ripped into the envelope and pulled out the accompanying note, which read something to the effect of:
"I always wondered why people wore those ugly Christmas buttons. Now, I know. They got them from friends and felt obliged to wear them. I know if anyone can pull this off, it's you."
Gotta love Jessie.
She sent me her Kwanzaa present that the entire crew got - a mixtape of holiday music that she owed to me since she forgot to bring it during the Bestest Christmas Ever. She also bought each of us a gold star ornament, continuing the tradition I started with her last year. In addition to the stationary she got me for Christmas, she sent me this pin.
Now, if you know anything about me - and clearly you do because you read this blog - you know I'm not the type to wear Christmas pins. I'm not even a huge fan of broaches. I'm really quite a simple dresser. But she'd given it to me. Like she said, I had to wear it.
So, on Wednesday, my first day back at work, I scrounged through my closet for something that matches cat. I couldn't wear my green shirt - I'd clash. Same with my purple. I found my red sweater, pulled it on and attached the silver kitten.
I glanced in the mirror and checked my hair. The kitten stared back at me, it's feet swaying from my movement. I sigh and remind myself to thank Jessie.
I get to work and begin relaying my Christmas story to my co-workers who gasp, laugh and sigh at the appropriate times. I'm in the midst of telling how I had to almost curse out a guy from Manila when one of my coworkers walks in the door.
"That's a lovely pin," she says. "It looks beautiful on you."
I smile and accept the compliment before getting back to my story.
I guess Jessie was right. Thanks, hon.
Friday, December 29, 2006
A Christmas Story: Part 4
This clock can't be right.
I'm downstairs in the kitchen, trying to will my eyes to work after my niece woke my sister and I up to open Christmas. My eyes scan the clock on the stove as I walk by.
It says 5:56. You've got to be kidding.
My sister and I went to bed around 1:30 a.m., after stuffing stockings, arranging presents and opening toys. And now, four hours later, we were up. I blame my mother.
"Ma," I say, "Why didn't you tell the kids to stay in bed? You NEVER let us get up this early on Christmas."
She's sitting in a chair, watching her grandchildren open their presents. She smiles at me.
"I figured the baby was up, so why not let them open their presents," she says. I put my hand on my forehead. Who was this grandmother and what did she do with my mother who told us we couldn't wake before 8 a.m. to open presents on Christmas Day - and would threaten to whoop us if we tried to wake her earlier. I plop down on the couch next to my sister and watch the kids open their presents.
Though I was tired, it was energizing to see the kids so happy. Kiera, 8, and Kyla, 16 months, had the smiles of life plastered on their faces the entire time. My sister, mother and I watched quietly and intently as they opened their presents, pausing every so often to snap photos. I wondered to myself when I had I become old enough to be Santa Clause? When did the rush of seeing what I would get for Christmas become replaced with the joy of seeing what my nieces would do when they saw what they'd recieved? In short, when had I become a grown-up?
We open the rest of the presents, and my sister and I begin the job of getting all of the presents to work. We install batteries, dismantle packaging and read instructions so all of the wonders of Christmas can begin to be enjoyed. It is 7:30 a.m. when we finish.
My sister disappears into the kitchen. My mother begins cooking breakfast. I grab the Dora the Explorer throw and curl into the fetal position on my couch. I stay there for hours as I get the sleep I was deprived.
We'd planned to start some family traditions this year. But throughout the day, our visions of grandiose are shot down one by one.
Movie matinee to see "Dreamgirls"? Replaced with a household nap.
Games of Scrabble? Scratched because my sister and I couldn't get our sleep-deprived brains to work
Big family dinner? Replaced with lasagna, chicken, salad and peach cobbler, because no one wanted to have a dinner that was so extra.
Even though our plans went down in flames, I had a good time. I got my niece to the 7th level of the Cheetah Girls game on her Gameboy. I got to eat my mom's cooking. I got to kick it with my brother and coon with my sister in person. And I got to spend Christmas with my family - something I hadn't done since college.
Toward the end of the night, I started packing. My flight was scheduled to leave at 7 a.m. the next morning to take me back to Providence. My mother instructed me that my requested Christmas gift, real knives, would be shipped to me soon. She lamented that I had to leave so soon and cursed the airlines once again for losing my luggage. I rolled my sweaters, placed them in the suitcase and smiled.
Nothing beats home for the holidays.
I'm downstairs in the kitchen, trying to will my eyes to work after my niece woke my sister and I up to open Christmas. My eyes scan the clock on the stove as I walk by.
It says 5:56. You've got to be kidding.
My sister and I went to bed around 1:30 a.m., after stuffing stockings, arranging presents and opening toys. And now, four hours later, we were up. I blame my mother.
"Ma," I say, "Why didn't you tell the kids to stay in bed? You NEVER let us get up this early on Christmas."
She's sitting in a chair, watching her grandchildren open their presents. She smiles at me.
"I figured the baby was up, so why not let them open their presents," she says. I put my hand on my forehead. Who was this grandmother and what did she do with my mother who told us we couldn't wake before 8 a.m. to open presents on Christmas Day - and would threaten to whoop us if we tried to wake her earlier. I plop down on the couch next to my sister and watch the kids open their presents.
Though I was tired, it was energizing to see the kids so happy. Kiera, 8, and Kyla, 16 months, had the smiles of life plastered on their faces the entire time. My sister, mother and I watched quietly and intently as they opened their presents, pausing every so often to snap photos. I wondered to myself when I had I become old enough to be Santa Clause? When did the rush of seeing what I would get for Christmas become replaced with the joy of seeing what my nieces would do when they saw what they'd recieved? In short, when had I become a grown-up?
We open the rest of the presents, and my sister and I begin the job of getting all of the presents to work. We install batteries, dismantle packaging and read instructions so all of the wonders of Christmas can begin to be enjoyed. It is 7:30 a.m. when we finish.
My sister disappears into the kitchen. My mother begins cooking breakfast. I grab the Dora the Explorer throw and curl into the fetal position on my couch. I stay there for hours as I get the sleep I was deprived.
We'd planned to start some family traditions this year. But throughout the day, our visions of grandiose are shot down one by one.
Movie matinee to see "Dreamgirls"? Replaced with a household nap.
Games of Scrabble? Scratched because my sister and I couldn't get our sleep-deprived brains to work
Big family dinner? Replaced with lasagna, chicken, salad and peach cobbler, because no one wanted to have a dinner that was so extra.
Even though our plans went down in flames, I had a good time. I got my niece to the 7th level of the Cheetah Girls game on her Gameboy. I got to eat my mom's cooking. I got to kick it with my brother and coon with my sister in person. And I got to spend Christmas with my family - something I hadn't done since college.
Toward the end of the night, I started packing. My flight was scheduled to leave at 7 a.m. the next morning to take me back to Providence. My mother instructed me that my requested Christmas gift, real knives, would be shipped to me soon. She lamented that I had to leave so soon and cursed the airlines once again for losing my luggage. I rolled my sweaters, placed them in the suitcase and smiled.
Nothing beats home for the holidays.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
A Christmas Story: Part 3
A sinking feeling settled in my stomach as I watched the odometer stay steady at 55 miles per hour.
We'd never make it to Flint. This is what I get for letting my mother drive.
Early Christmas Eve (okay, 10 a.m.) my mother, niece Kiera and I set out for the hour drive north to my hometown of Flint, Mich. I had errands to run, so did my mother and niece, and I had to visit family and friends - all before it got too late. See, my sister needed us back in Detroit before the stores closed to do some last minute shopping - batteries, salad and whatnot. We'd taken her car because my mother's is out of commission so we had to make light work of our many errands.
And my mother was driving like Miss Daisy.
"Ma, you can at least go 70," I coaxed. "Keep up with the speed of traffic."
She wasn't having it.
"No, you're not going to have me getting a ticket," she scolded. "It's the holiday. The police are just waiting for me to speed. You know your brother got stopped on Thanksgiving for speeding. We're staying at the speed limit. "
(I later found out that my brother had indeed been stopped on Thanksgiving, but the officer didn't give him a ticket. Ma decided to leave that little point out in an effort to prove her theory right.)
We arrived in Flint around 11:15 a.m. (I could have made it by 10:45) and headed to Kiera's aunt's house to pick up some presents. Then, to my mom's friend's house to chop it up. After that, we stopped at my grandmother's apartment to spread some Christmas cheer and take pictures. She looks good to be in her 90s, doesn't she?
So, during our visit, my granny mentions she wanted some turkey necks and turkey tails as she and my mother wax poetic on their upbringing in Oxford, Miss. Of course, that meant that after we left her apartment, we stopped by Mr. B's grocery store and picked up said turkey parts. I dropped my mom off at home to gather some things we needed to take back to the D with us and started blowing up my friend's cell phones.
Somehow, I managed to stop by two of my best friend's homes and see their children, one of whom is now walking and shoots the J everytime you say "Ballin" a la Jim Jones. I just shook my head and laughed as they demonstrated. By this time, it's 3:30 p.m. and I know I've got to get going. So my niece and I head back to the house to load the car, pick up ma and hop on the road.
This time, I remain control of the steering wheel.
The joy of driving in Michigan washes over me as I turn on my signal and weave in and out of traffic. No one rides my bumper. No one honks. Everyone just smiles and drives. Smile and drive. We breeze along at a leisurely 72 miles per hour.
We make it to Detroit at 4:45 p.m. - just about 45 minutes after we leave Flint (I'm a beast, I'm telling you). We unload the car and I toss the keys to my sister, who heads out to brave the Christmas Eve crowds. My girl, Aesha, another one of my best friends, stops by on her way to Flint to see me and exchange gifts. We're chopping it up when I get a call on my cell phone. It's my sister.
"Everything is closed," she says, a little upset. "Target is closed. Best Buy is closed. Everything is closed."
It's 6:20 p.m. I tell her to go to Meijer's, an all night, everything kind of store that the news says is open 24 hours today. She protests, but goes and gets into the doors at 6:45 p.m. The stores closed at 7 p.m.
By the time Kinra returns home, Aesha is gone and so is half the night. We head to my brother's house to pick up my niece's presents and pull back into her driveway. The wrapping, she insists, won't be done until the wee hours of the morning.
Pish posh, I say. The kids will be asleep in no time. She laughs at me. Hard.
It's 11 p.m. when my niece comes up the stairs to my sister's bedroom. I was stuffing their stockings and stopped her before she could turn the corner. She had gone to bed three hours ago.
"Girl, what do you want?"
A hotdog - she was hungry. I look at my sister in exhaustion, who tells her child to go fix one and get in the bed. It's midnight before the child finally falls asleep.
My sister and I creep down to the car and unload the presents, trying to stifle our footsteps and not bang anything on the way upstairs. The work should be easy, Kinra reasons, because we only have to wrap half of the items.
Why?
"Oh, Santa is too busy to wrap presents," she says matter-of-factly. "He doesn't have time to individually wrap his stuff. So everything from Santa just sits in front of the tree."
Sometimes her comments stupify me. I begin to ask her about the elves and Santa's helpers, but give up. It's too late at night for me to try to defend Santa's honor.
Instead, I tell her to pass me the tape.
We'd never make it to Flint. This is what I get for letting my mother drive.
Early Christmas Eve (okay, 10 a.m.) my mother, niece Kiera and I set out for the hour drive north to my hometown of Flint, Mich. I had errands to run, so did my mother and niece, and I had to visit family and friends - all before it got too late. See, my sister needed us back in Detroit before the stores closed to do some last minute shopping - batteries, salad and whatnot. We'd taken her car because my mother's is out of commission so we had to make light work of our many errands.
And my mother was driving like Miss Daisy.
"Ma, you can at least go 70," I coaxed. "Keep up with the speed of traffic."
She wasn't having it.
"No, you're not going to have me getting a ticket," she scolded. "It's the holiday. The police are just waiting for me to speed. You know your brother got stopped on Thanksgiving for speeding. We're staying at the speed limit. "
(I later found out that my brother had indeed been stopped on Thanksgiving, but the officer didn't give him a ticket. Ma decided to leave that little point out in an effort to prove her theory right.)
We arrived in Flint around 11:15 a.m. (I could have made it by 10:45) and headed to Kiera's aunt's house to pick up some presents. Then, to my mom's friend's house to chop it up. After that, we stopped at my grandmother's apartment to spread some Christmas cheer and take pictures. She looks good to be in her 90s, doesn't she?So, during our visit, my granny mentions she wanted some turkey necks and turkey tails as she and my mother wax poetic on their upbringing in Oxford, Miss. Of course, that meant that after we left her apartment, we stopped by Mr. B's grocery store and picked up said turkey parts. I dropped my mom off at home to gather some things we needed to take back to the D with us and started blowing up my friend's cell phones.
Somehow, I managed to stop by two of my best friend's homes and see their children, one of whom is now walking and shoots the J everytime you say "Ballin" a la Jim Jones. I just shook my head and laughed as they demonstrated. By this time, it's 3:30 p.m. and I know I've got to get going. So my niece and I head back to the house to load the car, pick up ma and hop on the road.
This time, I remain control of the steering wheel.
The joy of driving in Michigan washes over me as I turn on my signal and weave in and out of traffic. No one rides my bumper. No one honks. Everyone just smiles and drives. Smile and drive. We breeze along at a leisurely 72 miles per hour.
We make it to Detroit at 4:45 p.m. - just about 45 minutes after we leave Flint (I'm a beast, I'm telling you). We unload the car and I toss the keys to my sister, who heads out to brave the Christmas Eve crowds. My girl, Aesha, another one of my best friends, stops by on her way to Flint to see me and exchange gifts. We're chopping it up when I get a call on my cell phone. It's my sister.
"Everything is closed," she says, a little upset. "Target is closed. Best Buy is closed. Everything is closed."
It's 6:20 p.m. I tell her to go to Meijer's, an all night, everything kind of store that the news says is open 24 hours today. She protests, but goes and gets into the doors at 6:45 p.m. The stores closed at 7 p.m.
By the time Kinra returns home, Aesha is gone and so is half the night. We head to my brother's house to pick up my niece's presents and pull back into her driveway. The wrapping, she insists, won't be done until the wee hours of the morning.
Pish posh, I say. The kids will be asleep in no time. She laughs at me. Hard.
It's 11 p.m. when my niece comes up the stairs to my sister's bedroom. I was stuffing their stockings and stopped her before she could turn the corner. She had gone to bed three hours ago.
"Girl, what do you want?"
A hotdog - she was hungry. I look at my sister in exhaustion, who tells her child to go fix one and get in the bed. It's midnight before the child finally falls asleep.
My sister and I creep down to the car and unload the presents, trying to stifle our footsteps and not bang anything on the way upstairs. The work should be easy, Kinra reasons, because we only have to wrap half of the items.
Why?
"Oh, Santa is too busy to wrap presents," she says matter-of-factly. "He doesn't have time to individually wrap his stuff. So everything from Santa just sits in front of the tree."
Sometimes her comments stupify me. I begin to ask her about the elves and Santa's helpers, but give up. It's too late at night for me to try to defend Santa's honor.
Instead, I tell her to pass me the tape.
A question I thought of in the shower
Why isn't "gret" the past tense of "greet," " just like "met" is the past tense of "meet?"
It just seems so awkward to have to say "greeted" when you could just say "She gret me at the door." Fewer syllables. Less effort. Same meaning.
What do you think? Any words you would change if you could?
(And Part 2 of the Christmas story is coming. I just wanted to put this out there.)
It just seems so awkward to have to say "greeted" when you could just say "She gret me at the door." Fewer syllables. Less effort. Same meaning.
What do you think? Any words you would change if you could?
(And Part 2 of the Christmas story is coming. I just wanted to put this out there.)
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
The Christmas Story: Part 2
I woke up Saturday morning with a child on my stomach and a cramp in my back.
The air mattress where I'd spent the night had started to deflate, turning the normally firm bed to the consistency of Jello. To make matters worse, my 16-month old niece, Kyla, was greeting me the only way she knew how: by jumping - or more accurately, falling - on me.
"Owf," I exhaled as all of her weight went onto and all of the air went out of my body. "Kyla! Get off of me!"
I threw her to the side and she sat up quickly, smiling at me. I couldn't help but smile back. Even though I hadn't seen her in months, she remembered me. My mother stirred me from my glee with orders to come eat breakfast. I filled my plate, then my belly, and laid back onto the air mattress, falling into a deep sleep.
I figured what was the sense in waking - I had no clothes, no toiletries, no presents - I couldn't do anything until I got my luggage back. I got up and trolled around the house, hair uncombed, teeth unbrushed and clad in my mother's oversized nightgown. I pulled the lost luggage claim ticket from my purse and dialed the 800-number for the airline. They'd told me the first plane from Philly would get in around 11 a.m. I waited until 1 p.m. to check on my luggage, to ensure they'd have enough time to locate and log my bag into the computer.
"We have located your bags," the automated voice on the other end claimed. "They will be delivered to your home in . . . 4 to 6 hours."
Four to six hours? This was unacceptable and shot my weekend plans right down the toilet. My plan was to go to Flint on Saturday, kick it with the homies, visit with my granny and run some errands. Now, I'd have to wait until Sunday to take the hour drive north. What was I supposed to do in the meantime?
I don't know what I was supposed to do, but what I did was watch TV. And a lot of it. I think TV One was having some sort of holiday marathon. I swear I saw every holiday-themed Martin, Good Times, The Jeffersons, Amen, and On Our Own. By 5 p.m., I was TV'd out and feening for my luggage.
I dialed the number again.
"We have located your bags," the voice said. "They will be delivered to your home in . . . 4 to 6 hours."
Bastards. I hung up the phone and grabbed the phone book. I was going to talk to somebody today about my bag.
First, I tried the numbers listed for Detroit Metro International Airport.
No answer.
Then, I tried the number to US Airways.
On hold for 10 minutes.
I hang up and dial again. I get through the menus and ask to speak to a person. I wait a few minutes and then I'm connected.
"Hi, my name is Paul and you've reached US Airways," the man on the other end says. "Would you like to book a flight."
No. I wouldn't. I begin explaining my plight to Paul.
"I know you aren't in Detroit, but I'm hoping you can tell me if my bag is at the airport. I flew in last night after my plane was delayed and my bags were misplaced. If my bags are at the airport, let me know and I will just come get them. If you can't help me, maybe you can give me the number to the US Airways counter in Detroit."
Silence.
"Hello," I ask into the phone.
"Yes," Paul answers. "Would you like to book a flight on US Airways?"
What? NO.
"Paul, where are you," I ask. "Are you in Detroit? Are you in America?"
I can hear Paul wondering what he should do. If he knows what's best, he'll tell me the truth.
"I am in Manilla," Paul says.
I look at the phone in disgust. This man is not in The Phillipines. I sigh.
"Alright, Paul, so clearly you have no idea where my luggage is and therefore can't help me," I say sternly. He's silent on the other end. "Aiight, Paul."
"Thank you for choosing U.S. --" Click.
I place the cordless phone back on its reciever, sit on the couch and flick on the TV. An episode of "How Do I Look" is on. My mother is concerned and asks where my bags are. I tell her I have no idea and they'll be delivered in four to six hours.
She goes off, yelling about the airline in ways I just don't have the energy to. Instead, I change the channel.
Then, my sister's phone rings. She looks at it quizzically because she doesn't recognize the phone number. She answers, talks and then hangs up.
"That was the airport people," she says, a smirk on her face. "The delivery man said they just picked up your bag, but they have a lot of Detroit deliveries so it might take a while."
It is 7 p.m.
My mother continues to curse the airport and their inconsiderate policies. I watch Hanging with Mr. Cooper.
My sister's phone rings again around 9 p.m. She answers and hangs up moments later.
"That was the delivery man. He said he'll be here in 'Onnne Minute'," she says with a chuckle, imitating what I assume is the delivery man's drawl. "How is he going to be here in one minute? Who says that? And where is he?"
About 90 seconds later, the doorbell rings. We burst into laughter. My sister lugs my suitcase inside while I hide my nightgowned body beneath a Dora the Explorer throw. The door closes and I jump from my seat, excited to make sure everything I packed is in tact. I head to my niece's room and close the door to ward off any Christmas spoilers.
"I can wear pants now," I exclaim as I rifle through my bag. "And I can bathe!"
I vow then and there to always carry a pair of underwear and a toothbrush in my purse when I travel from now on.
The air mattress where I'd spent the night had started to deflate, turning the normally firm bed to the consistency of Jello. To make matters worse, my 16-month old niece, Kyla, was greeting me the only way she knew how: by jumping - or more accurately, falling - on me.
"Owf," I exhaled as all of her weight went onto and all of the air went out of my body. "Kyla! Get off of me!"
I threw her to the side and she sat up quickly, smiling at me. I couldn't help but smile back. Even though I hadn't seen her in months, she remembered me. My mother stirred me from my glee with orders to come eat breakfast. I filled my plate, then my belly, and laid back onto the air mattress, falling into a deep sleep.
I figured what was the sense in waking - I had no clothes, no toiletries, no presents - I couldn't do anything until I got my luggage back. I got up and trolled around the house, hair uncombed, teeth unbrushed and clad in my mother's oversized nightgown. I pulled the lost luggage claim ticket from my purse and dialed the 800-number for the airline. They'd told me the first plane from Philly would get in around 11 a.m. I waited until 1 p.m. to check on my luggage, to ensure they'd have enough time to locate and log my bag into the computer.
"We have located your bags," the automated voice on the other end claimed. "They will be delivered to your home in . . . 4 to 6 hours."
Four to six hours? This was unacceptable and shot my weekend plans right down the toilet. My plan was to go to Flint on Saturday, kick it with the homies, visit with my granny and run some errands. Now, I'd have to wait until Sunday to take the hour drive north. What was I supposed to do in the meantime?
I don't know what I was supposed to do, but what I did was watch TV. And a lot of it. I think TV One was having some sort of holiday marathon. I swear I saw every holiday-themed Martin, Good Times, The Jeffersons, Amen, and On Our Own. By 5 p.m., I was TV'd out and feening for my luggage.
I dialed the number again.
"We have located your bags," the voice said. "They will be delivered to your home in . . . 4 to 6 hours."
Bastards. I hung up the phone and grabbed the phone book. I was going to talk to somebody today about my bag.
First, I tried the numbers listed for Detroit Metro International Airport.
No answer.
Then, I tried the number to US Airways.
On hold for 10 minutes.
I hang up and dial again. I get through the menus and ask to speak to a person. I wait a few minutes and then I'm connected.
"Hi, my name is Paul and you've reached US Airways," the man on the other end says. "Would you like to book a flight."
No. I wouldn't. I begin explaining my plight to Paul.
"I know you aren't in Detroit, but I'm hoping you can tell me if my bag is at the airport. I flew in last night after my plane was delayed and my bags were misplaced. If my bags are at the airport, let me know and I will just come get them. If you can't help me, maybe you can give me the number to the US Airways counter in Detroit."
Silence.
"Hello," I ask into the phone.
"Yes," Paul answers. "Would you like to book a flight on US Airways?"
What? NO.
"Paul, where are you," I ask. "Are you in Detroit? Are you in America?"
I can hear Paul wondering what he should do. If he knows what's best, he'll tell me the truth.
"I am in Manilla," Paul says.
I look at the phone in disgust. This man is not in The Phillipines. I sigh.
"Alright, Paul, so clearly you have no idea where my luggage is and therefore can't help me," I say sternly. He's silent on the other end. "Aiight, Paul."
"Thank you for choosing U.S. --" Click.
I place the cordless phone back on its reciever, sit on the couch and flick on the TV. An episode of "How Do I Look" is on. My mother is concerned and asks where my bags are. I tell her I have no idea and they'll be delivered in four to six hours.
She goes off, yelling about the airline in ways I just don't have the energy to. Instead, I change the channel.
Then, my sister's phone rings. She looks at it quizzically because she doesn't recognize the phone number. She answers, talks and then hangs up.
"That was the airport people," she says, a smirk on her face. "The delivery man said they just picked up your bag, but they have a lot of Detroit deliveries so it might take a while."
It is 7 p.m.
My mother continues to curse the airport and their inconsiderate policies. I watch Hanging with Mr. Cooper.
My sister's phone rings again around 9 p.m. She answers and hangs up moments later.
"That was the delivery man. He said he'll be here in 'Onnne Minute'," she says with a chuckle, imitating what I assume is the delivery man's drawl. "How is he going to be here in one minute? Who says that? And where is he?"
About 90 seconds later, the doorbell rings. We burst into laughter. My sister lugs my suitcase inside while I hide my nightgowned body beneath a Dora the Explorer throw. The door closes and I jump from my seat, excited to make sure everything I packed is in tact. I head to my niece's room and close the door to ward off any Christmas spoilers.
"I can wear pants now," I exclaim as I rifle through my bag. "And I can bathe!"
I vow then and there to always carry a pair of underwear and a toothbrush in my purse when I travel from now on.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
A Christmas Story: Part 1
I should've know this wasn't going to be easy.
I'll admit it. I'm a holiday travelling virgin. I've never had to brave the long lines and crowded terminals that happen around Christmahanukwanzakah. For the last four years, I've been in college, so I travelled around the middle of December, effectively missing the holiday rush. When I was younger, we always got caught in holiday gridlock on our annual trips to Mississippi, but I didn't care because I slept most of the way.
Last year, my first as a working adult, I spent Christmas here in Rhode Island with my friend, Jessie, who was also not able to go home for the holiday. This year, since I didn't have to work on the day we celebrate my Savior's birth, I decided to go home.
I just wasn't ready for what would come with that.
I got to the airport early, since I figured getting through security would be a pain. I sped through the lines without a beep and thought I was well on my way to Motown. I found my gate and sat down. Three hours later, I was still sitting.
Turns out Philly, which I connected through, was having some major fog and messing up flights all up and through the air. So we waited. And waited. And waited. As I waited, I saw my fellow passengers jump in line to talk to the airport clerk person. I figured, my plane is delayed and no matter what, standing in that line won't make the plane come any faster. So I sat. The line got longer and longer. I asked someone in line why they were waiting and when they told me the clerk could rebook you on a different flight, I hopped in line.
I stayed in line for an hour and didn't move 3 feet.
All of a sudden, the clerk says, "The plane is here and we're boarding. If you want to get on, board. I can't guarantee you'll make your connection so the chance is up to you."
WTF.
"Ma'am," passengers cried, "can you at least let us know which people for sure won't make their connections?"
No answer.
I sped toward the front of the line as people jumped ship and went to take their seats on the plane. The ticket taker started to get antsy, and looked like she was about to close the door.
Do or die time.
Do I take the flight and risk getting stranded in Philly for Christmas? Or do I leave the airport and celebrate on my couch in East Providence.
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
I decide to take my chance and hop on the plane. I'm seated next to a nice talkative business owner from Brockton who proceeded to talk my ear off for the entire flight. I don't particularly like talking to people on planes. Sorry, I just don't. But he was nice. He was on his way to the Caribbean with his girlfriend, whom he was meeting in Philly. Long distance relationship deal. When we landed, he offered to block traffic so I could make a speedy getaway.
Sometimes talking on the plane can have its advantages, I suppose.
We land and I burst out of the jetway doors. I'd already gotten my terminal information from the flight attendant, so I knew where I was headed. I get to speed walking. I just couldn't bring myself to run. But I was walking with some authority and urgency, please believe. I make it to my terminal and ... I see a seating area full of people. I glance at the LCD monitor behind the podium.
Flight 1342 Detroit - - 9:45 p.m.
I look at my watch. It's 8:30 p.m. I knew I didn't need to run. So, I troll around the shops in the Philly airport. I buy a sweater and belt at the gap and a bottle of water from the food court. Then I make my way to the seating area, break out "The Color of Water," and pop a squat. I eavesdrop on two black flight attendants seated next to me.
"Girl, they said anything else about the flight?"
"No. You know they said 9:45, but by the time they clean that plane, we won't be boarding until 10 if we're lucky."
Shoot. I call my sister and give her the update. Then, I bury myself in the book.
It is midnight when I finally land at Detroit International Airport. I'm tired and have been in airports since 3:30 p.m. I'm ready to go home. I head over to baggage claim to pick up my belongings. I wait. And wait. And wait. Finally the carousel begins.
My gaze follows every bag that comes down the conveyor belt. I ease my concerns by saying I was a transfer. My bag will be buried beneath others. (Logic which makes absolutely no sense now that I think about it.) I wait. And wait. And wait. The carousel stops.
The shouting begins.
"WTF," one man cries.
"I know they have to have more bags," says a woman.
"What now?" another one says.
I'm silent as I walk over to the US Airways office. There's no sense in me getting upset. My bag isn't here. I just have to deal with it.
Inside the office, I try to cut the clerk some slack. I'd watched through the glass windows as passenger after passenger cursed him out for losing their baggage. He didn't lose their bags. Blame the sky caps. Blame the airline. Blame the fog that caused all of these delays in the first place. But this clerk in Detroit had nothing to do with your bag and has probably had a much longer night than you have.
It's my turn now. I go into the office and fill out the lost baggage ticket. The clerk, a black man wearing what can only be described as a flattened pompodour hairpiece, was very curt and told me they'd find my bag and deliver it to my home.
Fine.
I call my sister to make another loop around the terminal and come get me. It is 1:30 a.m. when we walk into her house. My mother has waited up for us. She greets me in red sweatpants and her bra. I didn't ask where her shirt was. We hug. She yells about the airline and asks me questions she knows I don't have the answer to about the whereabouts of my luggage. I begin scrounging my sister's house for food. I inhale two Koegel's polish sausages.
That night, I sleep in one of my mother's nightgowns.
I'll admit it. I'm a holiday travelling virgin. I've never had to brave the long lines and crowded terminals that happen around Christmahanukwanzakah. For the last four years, I've been in college, so I travelled around the middle of December, effectively missing the holiday rush. When I was younger, we always got caught in holiday gridlock on our annual trips to Mississippi, but I didn't care because I slept most of the way.
Last year, my first as a working adult, I spent Christmas here in Rhode Island with my friend, Jessie, who was also not able to go home for the holiday. This year, since I didn't have to work on the day we celebrate my Savior's birth, I decided to go home.
I just wasn't ready for what would come with that.
I got to the airport early, since I figured getting through security would be a pain. I sped through the lines without a beep and thought I was well on my way to Motown. I found my gate and sat down. Three hours later, I was still sitting.
Turns out Philly, which I connected through, was having some major fog and messing up flights all up and through the air. So we waited. And waited. And waited. As I waited, I saw my fellow passengers jump in line to talk to the airport clerk person. I figured, my plane is delayed and no matter what, standing in that line won't make the plane come any faster. So I sat. The line got longer and longer. I asked someone in line why they were waiting and when they told me the clerk could rebook you on a different flight, I hopped in line.
I stayed in line for an hour and didn't move 3 feet.
All of a sudden, the clerk says, "The plane is here and we're boarding. If you want to get on, board. I can't guarantee you'll make your connection so the chance is up to you."
WTF.
"Ma'am," passengers cried, "can you at least let us know which people for sure won't make their connections?"
No answer.
I sped toward the front of the line as people jumped ship and went to take their seats on the plane. The ticket taker started to get antsy, and looked like she was about to close the door.
Do or die time.
Do I take the flight and risk getting stranded in Philly for Christmas? Or do I leave the airport and celebrate on my couch in East Providence.
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
I decide to take my chance and hop on the plane. I'm seated next to a nice talkative business owner from Brockton who proceeded to talk my ear off for the entire flight. I don't particularly like talking to people on planes. Sorry, I just don't. But he was nice. He was on his way to the Caribbean with his girlfriend, whom he was meeting in Philly. Long distance relationship deal. When we landed, he offered to block traffic so I could make a speedy getaway.
Sometimes talking on the plane can have its advantages, I suppose.
We land and I burst out of the jetway doors. I'd already gotten my terminal information from the flight attendant, so I knew where I was headed. I get to speed walking. I just couldn't bring myself to run. But I was walking with some authority and urgency, please believe. I make it to my terminal and ... I see a seating area full of people. I glance at the LCD monitor behind the podium.
Flight 1342 Detroit - - 9:45 p.m.
I look at my watch. It's 8:30 p.m. I knew I didn't need to run. So, I troll around the shops in the Philly airport. I buy a sweater and belt at the gap and a bottle of water from the food court. Then I make my way to the seating area, break out "The Color of Water," and pop a squat. I eavesdrop on two black flight attendants seated next to me.
"Girl, they said anything else about the flight?"
"No. You know they said 9:45, but by the time they clean that plane, we won't be boarding until 10 if we're lucky."
Shoot. I call my sister and give her the update. Then, I bury myself in the book.
It is midnight when I finally land at Detroit International Airport. I'm tired and have been in airports since 3:30 p.m. I'm ready to go home. I head over to baggage claim to pick up my belongings. I wait. And wait. And wait. Finally the carousel begins.
My gaze follows every bag that comes down the conveyor belt. I ease my concerns by saying I was a transfer. My bag will be buried beneath others. (Logic which makes absolutely no sense now that I think about it.) I wait. And wait. And wait. The carousel stops.
The shouting begins.
"WTF," one man cries.
"I know they have to have more bags," says a woman.
"What now?" another one says.
I'm silent as I walk over to the US Airways office. There's no sense in me getting upset. My bag isn't here. I just have to deal with it.
Inside the office, I try to cut the clerk some slack. I'd watched through the glass windows as passenger after passenger cursed him out for losing their baggage. He didn't lose their bags. Blame the sky caps. Blame the airline. Blame the fog that caused all of these delays in the first place. But this clerk in Detroit had nothing to do with your bag and has probably had a much longer night than you have.
It's my turn now. I go into the office and fill out the lost baggage ticket. The clerk, a black man wearing what can only be described as a flattened pompodour hairpiece, was very curt and told me they'd find my bag and deliver it to my home.
Fine.
I call my sister to make another loop around the terminal and come get me. It is 1:30 a.m. when we walk into her house. My mother has waited up for us. She greets me in red sweatpants and her bra. I didn't ask where her shirt was. We hug. She yells about the airline and asks me questions she knows I don't have the answer to about the whereabouts of my luggage. I begin scrounging my sister's house for food. I inhale two Koegel's polish sausages.
That night, I sleep in one of my mother's nightgowns.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
A bath? What is a bath?
Alright, so here is a question I have to pose to the fellas:
Do guys take baths?
Here's why I ask:
I was talking to a friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, when somehow, we got on the subject of bathing. He insists that dudes don't take baths. They take showers instead.
"A bath?," my friend asked. "What is a bath? I mean I bathe, but I don't take baths. At least not since I was a little kid." (Hooray for the Dave Chappelle reference in his comment.)
I just don't get it.
Baths are great. I wasn't always a fan (you're essentially sitting in a dirt stew) but found them to be fantastic when I'm looking to relax - not necessarily feel clean, but to relax.
So, fellas, let me know. I think this is a question the world needs answered.
Do you take baths?
Do guys take baths?
Here's why I ask:
I was talking to a friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, when somehow, we got on the subject of bathing. He insists that dudes don't take baths. They take showers instead.
"A bath?," my friend asked. "What is a bath? I mean I bathe, but I don't take baths. At least not since I was a little kid." (Hooray for the Dave Chappelle reference in his comment.)
I just don't get it.
Baths are great. I wasn't always a fan (you're essentially sitting in a dirt stew) but found them to be fantastic when I'm looking to relax - not necessarily feel clean, but to relax.
So, fellas, let me know. I think this is a question the world needs answered.
Do you take baths?
What I like about YOU!
So, Setta is always big upping the people she likes in her blog. I figured it was about time someone did the same for her because she's friggin' awesome. So, anyway, here's to Russatta, the best big sister on the East Coast.
10. She always picks out the best presents.
Setta always travels - and she always brings me back cool stuff when she does. During her most recent trek to India, she brought me back a cool Indian shirt (I forgot what it was called) and let me pick my next present from a bag of goodies (I picked a pair of slip on shoes). Plus, if anyone has ever recieved a handwritten note on my personal stationary, you have Setta to thank. She got that for me for my high school graduation. Like I said, she picks good gifts. I'm never disappointed.
9. She goes cool places.
So, for Thanksgiving, she went to India. Just packed up and was out. She's been to Thailand. And a million other places that are escaping me right now. And she's going to Africa. Her passport has a gazillion stamps on it. And she just goes whenever she wants to. Aren't you jealous of that? I know I am. I'm trying to get on her level.
8. She has cool stuff.
So, everytime I go to Setta's house, I take a mental picture so I can bite her style when I go home. Her wardrobe is amazing - not designer-crazy - but it fits her. When I go shopping by myself, I try to think of the way things fit her, so I can guage how things should fit me. She loves bright colors (said Indian shirt she got me was magenta). Plus, she has all of the cool momentos from her travels very neatly displayed around her home. Plus, she has a Mac, which is extra cool in itself.
7. She goes after what she wants.
Setta started her adult life as an Engineer. She lived in New Orleans (and came to see me when I spent two weeks there for the NYTI 2003 - shout out to the originators) and was making beaucoup bucks working for a gas company. But she wanted something different. So she went to grad school, got her masters in marketing and now has an even better job in a city she loves. How is that for inspiration?
6. She inspires me.
Not only has she inspired me to start being an international jet-setter (London, 2007, here I come!), she also inspired me to go natural, which I can honestly say has been a wonderful experience. I think she was one of the first ones to introduce me to the concept of HBCU's - she's a FAMU graduate. Overall, I think she's pretty cool so she inspires me to do lots of other things - even small stuff like write personal notes to people and to smile at people on the subway.
5. She writes me.
Well, at least she used to. As you all know, me and pops haven't had the best of relationships. As a result of that, my sisters on his side didn't know I existed until I was about 11 years old. When Setta found out about me, she started writing me. I loved getting mail. Plus, she was in college - which was infinitely cool to me as a 6th grader. When I first visited her in NYC, she pulled out one of the letters I wrote to her, where I was astonished there were homeless people in D.C. She had kept the letter all these years. Which leads me to my next point...
4. She's making up for lost time.
So, she's not allowed to torment me - we're both past that stage. But, she has become a major part of my life in a good way. I'm all alone here in New England, but I know that I have family only 3 hours away. Not a relative. Family. I can show up at her house unannounced and she'd invite me to stay the night (probably). She takes me to go see plays and shows in NYC, we go shopping together and we tell each other about our lives - the good and the bad stuff. When I speak about her to others, I call her my sister, because that's what she is.
3. She never says can't.
Setta always believes that things are possible. If I'm talking about something and semi talking myself out of it, she'll simply ask, "Why not." She figures if you can dream it, you can be it. And optimisim is hecka cool.
2. She's random.
She posted this on her blog the other day. Who thinks stuff like that? She does. You'll be talking about something and she'll just pull some randomness out of her head. You'll listen, thinking it might be relevant somewhere along the line, but she gets to the end of the story/phrase/parable and you realize it was just randomness. But, most likely, it brought you to a happy place and made you smile.
1. She's Setta.
I can honestly say that Setta is true to herself and those who know her knows where she stands. There's no facade. What you see is what you get. If you like it, great. If not, too bad for you.
10. She always picks out the best presents.
Setta always travels - and she always brings me back cool stuff when she does. During her most recent trek to India, she brought me back a cool Indian shirt (I forgot what it was called) and let me pick my next present from a bag of goodies (I picked a pair of slip on shoes). Plus, if anyone has ever recieved a handwritten note on my personal stationary, you have Setta to thank. She got that for me for my high school graduation. Like I said, she picks good gifts. I'm never disappointed.
9. She goes cool places.
So, for Thanksgiving, she went to India. Just packed up and was out. She's been to Thailand. And a million other places that are escaping me right now. And she's going to Africa. Her passport has a gazillion stamps on it. And she just goes whenever she wants to. Aren't you jealous of that? I know I am. I'm trying to get on her level.
8. She has cool stuff.
So, everytime I go to Setta's house, I take a mental picture so I can bite her style when I go home. Her wardrobe is amazing - not designer-crazy - but it fits her. When I go shopping by myself, I try to think of the way things fit her, so I can guage how things should fit me. She loves bright colors (said Indian shirt she got me was magenta). Plus, she has all of the cool momentos from her travels very neatly displayed around her home. Plus, she has a Mac, which is extra cool in itself.
7. She goes after what she wants.
Setta started her adult life as an Engineer. She lived in New Orleans (and came to see me when I spent two weeks there for the NYTI 2003 - shout out to the originators) and was making beaucoup bucks working for a gas company. But she wanted something different. So she went to grad school, got her masters in marketing and now has an even better job in a city she loves. How is that for inspiration?
6. She inspires me.
Not only has she inspired me to start being an international jet-setter (London, 2007, here I come!), she also inspired me to go natural, which I can honestly say has been a wonderful experience. I think she was one of the first ones to introduce me to the concept of HBCU's - she's a FAMU graduate. Overall, I think she's pretty cool so she inspires me to do lots of other things - even small stuff like write personal notes to people and to smile at people on the subway.
5. She writes me.
Well, at least she used to. As you all know, me and pops haven't had the best of relationships. As a result of that, my sisters on his side didn't know I existed until I was about 11 years old. When Setta found out about me, she started writing me. I loved getting mail. Plus, she was in college - which was infinitely cool to me as a 6th grader. When I first visited her in NYC, she pulled out one of the letters I wrote to her, where I was astonished there were homeless people in D.C. She had kept the letter all these years. Which leads me to my next point...
4. She's making up for lost time.
So, she's not allowed to torment me - we're both past that stage. But, she has become a major part of my life in a good way. I'm all alone here in New England, but I know that I have family only 3 hours away. Not a relative. Family. I can show up at her house unannounced and she'd invite me to stay the night (probably). She takes me to go see plays and shows in NYC, we go shopping together and we tell each other about our lives - the good and the bad stuff. When I speak about her to others, I call her my sister, because that's what she is.
3. She never says can't.
Setta always believes that things are possible. If I'm talking about something and semi talking myself out of it, she'll simply ask, "Why not." She figures if you can dream it, you can be it. And optimisim is hecka cool.
2. She's random.
She posted this on her blog the other day. Who thinks stuff like that? She does. You'll be talking about something and she'll just pull some randomness out of her head. You'll listen, thinking it might be relevant somewhere along the line, but she gets to the end of the story/phrase/parable and you realize it was just randomness. But, most likely, it brought you to a happy place and made you smile.
1. She's Setta.
I can honestly say that Setta is true to herself and those who know her knows where she stands. There's no facade. What you see is what you get. If you like it, great. If not, too bad for you.
Stoke, Kick, Stroke, Kick
Swimming isn't as easy as I remember it being.
I used to be a swim master in Elementary and High Schools. You know, in gym class, how they divide you in the three groups? I always placed in the advanced group, but opted to go in the intermediate group because I never wanted to do laps.
So when it came time for me to take up a sport for physical fitness, I figured swimming was a no-brainer. They say it's one of the few total body exercises, you know. Also, at the prodding of a friend of mine, I'm contemplating a 1.7 mile swim in the Narragansett Bay in the summer. Anyway, so I went, bought a swimsuit, swim cap and goggles and headed to my local Bally's, courtesy of my big sister.
I got suited up and headed out to the pool. It was a small one - only four lanes- and only 4 ft 6 in deep at its lowest. I could handle this.
I grabbed one of the lanes and jumped in. Another middle aged guy was swimming laps hard next to me. I think during the whole time, I never saw him stop swimming. So I start my breast stroke. The fact that I haven't been lap swimming in years became very clear as I made my way to the other side. My form was all off, water kept seeping into my nose and I was tired as all get out from one lap.
This was unacceptable.
I tried again.
This time, I made it halfway across the pool - then I had to stand up. This was never that hard before. What changed? All the while, middle-aged man kept splashing little droplets in my face as he passed me. I figured I should take it slow, so for the rest of the time, I swam on my back, worked on my kick and even did some walking lunges in the pool.
When my arms started to ache, I figured it was time to go. Afterwards, I went to Wal-Mart. Dressed in my yoga pants and hoodie, I waited in line to pay for my purchases. I glanced to the left at the pop cooler at the end of the register, and checked out my booty in my reflection.
"Looking pretty good," I thought to myself. I might just have to keep this swimming thing up.
I used to be a swim master in Elementary and High Schools. You know, in gym class, how they divide you in the three groups? I always placed in the advanced group, but opted to go in the intermediate group because I never wanted to do laps.
So when it came time for me to take up a sport for physical fitness, I figured swimming was a no-brainer. They say it's one of the few total body exercises, you know. Also, at the prodding of a friend of mine, I'm contemplating a 1.7 mile swim in the Narragansett Bay in the summer. Anyway, so I went, bought a swimsuit, swim cap and goggles and headed to my local Bally's, courtesy of my big sister.
I got suited up and headed out to the pool. It was a small one - only four lanes- and only 4 ft 6 in deep at its lowest. I could handle this.
I grabbed one of the lanes and jumped in. Another middle aged guy was swimming laps hard next to me. I think during the whole time, I never saw him stop swimming. So I start my breast stroke. The fact that I haven't been lap swimming in years became very clear as I made my way to the other side. My form was all off, water kept seeping into my nose and I was tired as all get out from one lap.
This was unacceptable.
I tried again.
This time, I made it halfway across the pool - then I had to stand up. This was never that hard before. What changed? All the while, middle-aged man kept splashing little droplets in my face as he passed me. I figured I should take it slow, so for the rest of the time, I swam on my back, worked on my kick and even did some walking lunges in the pool.
When my arms started to ache, I figured it was time to go. Afterwards, I went to Wal-Mart. Dressed in my yoga pants and hoodie, I waited in line to pay for my purchases. I glanced to the left at the pop cooler at the end of the register, and checked out my booty in my reflection.
"Looking pretty good," I thought to myself. I might just have to keep this swimming thing up.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Random Post
A little bit of randomness for you on a cool Saturday afternoon:
* I'm lazy. Real lazy. I'm at work right now, and I'm trying to think about what I want to do when I get out of work. I'm supposed to go to the gym, but it's cold. I know I'll probably go because I need to try out this new gym membership Russatta swiped for me to Bally's. Plus, I bought a new swimsuit and I am surely going to put it to good use.
* I'm putting together my living will and I'm wondering what I want done to me in the event I am unable to make my own medical decisions. Do I want to be on a feeding tube, a la Terry Schiavo? Who do I want to be my medical proxy? Weigh in with your own thoughts on the artificial life, thing - I need some help.
* People sleep on me. Not literally. But if I get one more sideways look when I go up to someone and tell them I'm a reporter, I might have to slap somebody. Yes, I have an afro. Yes, I'm 5 ft 2 inches. Yes, I look 12. But I yield the power of the press, suckas. Bow down. And stop asking me how old I am.
* Rhode Island is cold. Real cold. And that's saying a lot seeing as how I'm from Michigan. I'd say it's a different kind of cold than my home state. In Michigan, it's cold, but it's dry. The snow is fluffy and if you grease up in the morn, you'll be good for the rest of the day. True, they have below freezing temps often, but you deal with it. Rhode Island is tricky. They fool you into thinking it's warm by saying - oh, it's 35 degrees - but you step outside and get hit with the kind of cold that hits you in your bones. It's that wet, get you sick kinda cold. I'm glad I got my flu shot already.
* Living by yourself often sucks. I was at home last night, starving and couldn't find anything to eat. One, I was too lazy to fix anything, and two, if I did, I'd be eating it for days because I live by myself. So I ate some leftover risotto. It was tasty, but I felt like a bum.
* I miss my friends. All of them. A lot. Sometimes I miss school but then I think to undergrad and all of the work and stress I had to endure and I decide against it.
*Speaking of school, I need to get accepted into an Ivy League college for grad school. Why is it like every person I know from Hampton now attends Yale, Harvard or some other banging school and either has or is close to having their Master's Degree already? Kind of makes me feel like I've been left behind. I'm all for higher education, but I've yet to decide if I need one right now. I know that eventually I'll get one because I'd like to teach, but I'm still up in the air about whether I want to get it in journalism (probably not). Guess I'll put my dreams of being an ivy league alumna on hold and get to writing my story.
*Maybe not. My eye is jumping. And it has been for the past few weeks. It kind of scares me. And it embarrasess me when I'm interviewing someone and it starts jumping. It's a slight jump, and I know you only see it if you look closely, but it still makes me self-concious. Maybe I should go to the eye doctor. Or have the paper pay for a no-glare screen for my computer. We'll see.
*Okay, it's really off to work now. Holla.
* I'm lazy. Real lazy. I'm at work right now, and I'm trying to think about what I want to do when I get out of work. I'm supposed to go to the gym, but it's cold. I know I'll probably go because I need to try out this new gym membership Russatta swiped for me to Bally's. Plus, I bought a new swimsuit and I am surely going to put it to good use.
* I'm putting together my living will and I'm wondering what I want done to me in the event I am unable to make my own medical decisions. Do I want to be on a feeding tube, a la Terry Schiavo? Who do I want to be my medical proxy? Weigh in with your own thoughts on the artificial life, thing - I need some help.
* People sleep on me. Not literally. But if I get one more sideways look when I go up to someone and tell them I'm a reporter, I might have to slap somebody. Yes, I have an afro. Yes, I'm 5 ft 2 inches. Yes, I look 12. But I yield the power of the press, suckas. Bow down. And stop asking me how old I am.
* Rhode Island is cold. Real cold. And that's saying a lot seeing as how I'm from Michigan. I'd say it's a different kind of cold than my home state. In Michigan, it's cold, but it's dry. The snow is fluffy and if you grease up in the morn, you'll be good for the rest of the day. True, they have below freezing temps often, but you deal with it. Rhode Island is tricky. They fool you into thinking it's warm by saying - oh, it's 35 degrees - but you step outside and get hit with the kind of cold that hits you in your bones. It's that wet, get you sick kinda cold. I'm glad I got my flu shot already.
* Living by yourself often sucks. I was at home last night, starving and couldn't find anything to eat. One, I was too lazy to fix anything, and two, if I did, I'd be eating it for days because I live by myself. So I ate some leftover risotto. It was tasty, but I felt like a bum.
* I miss my friends. All of them. A lot. Sometimes I miss school but then I think to undergrad and all of the work and stress I had to endure and I decide against it.
*Speaking of school, I need to get accepted into an Ivy League college for grad school. Why is it like every person I know from Hampton now attends Yale, Harvard or some other banging school and either has or is close to having their Master's Degree already? Kind of makes me feel like I've been left behind. I'm all for higher education, but I've yet to decide if I need one right now. I know that eventually I'll get one because I'd like to teach, but I'm still up in the air about whether I want to get it in journalism (probably not). Guess I'll put my dreams of being an ivy league alumna on hold and get to writing my story.
*Maybe not. My eye is jumping. And it has been for the past few weeks. It kind of scares me. And it embarrasess me when I'm interviewing someone and it starts jumping. It's a slight jump, and I know you only see it if you look closely, but it still makes me self-concious. Maybe I should go to the eye doctor. Or have the paper pay for a no-glare screen for my computer. We'll see.
*Okay, it's really off to work now. Holla.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
To Russell, with love
I thumbed through my Rolodex, collecting addresses for my Christmas cards.
Granny - check.
Russatta - check.
Gen. Simmons - check.
Prof. Grimes - check.
Then, I turned to one card that stopped me in my tracks.
Russell Buford.
My pen hovered over my notebook while I tried to make up my mind.
Send the card. Don't send the card. Send the card. Don't send the card.
This really shouldn't be that hard.
So, the aforementioned and I haven't exactly had the best of relationships.
For starters, I don't call him Dad. He's only Russell to me.
I don't have a lot of good memories of my father. I have a few pictures of him sitting on his lap at my 7th birthday party, my pink single layer cake pushed in a corner of the shot. I know there were other good times, but without that photo, all I can think of is my 10th birthday when instead of sitting me on his lap, he called me to give me advice from his jail cell.
So, yes, unfortunately, I was a little bitter. For a long time, I was upset that my other sisters had a relationship that I didn't with him. I was upset because even though my mother has lived in the same house on the same street with the same phone number since the day I was born, besides my 10th birthday, I never got a call, card or a visit.
He did come to my high school graduation, though. My mother made me invite him. I'd given up trying to incorporate him into my life years ago when I found that my grandmother had a closet of fully-wrapped presents I brought to her house for his birthday, Father's Day and Christmas.
He wouldn't have to worry about that again.
I blamed him for a lot of things. I've probably shouldered more responsibility on him than warranted. He was my scapegoat. And I justified my feelings by his seeming lack of interest in me. He seemed to only care what I was doing when he saw me at funerals or weddings, or when he stopped by granny's house before I'd finished my visit.
I blamed him, but I didn't hate him. Really, I felt sorry for him. Because I knew that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how he tried to make things right, the feeling that he was a stranger would never go away. I had to find out that he survived a terminal illness from Russatta. I was out of the loop of his life, as much as he was out of the loop of mine.
I saw him this summer before I came to Rhode Island. I was an intern in Detroit and for some reason, I saw him somewhere. I don't remember why. He made me promise to come see him while I was in town. I told him I'd see, but inside wondered why he didn't just stop by and see me.
I never went to visit him.
But I can't go on like this. I don't hate him. At all. I love him deeply. I'm just saddened because I realized long ago that he'll never be the father that I need him to be. He can only be Russell. I may not be able to change the relationship we had in the past, but I don't have to continue to make it a part of my future.
I looked at the card in my hand and wrote his address onto the envelope.
Inside, I signed the card "Love, Talia."
Granny - check.
Russatta - check.
Gen. Simmons - check.
Prof. Grimes - check.
Then, I turned to one card that stopped me in my tracks.
Russell Buford.
My pen hovered over my notebook while I tried to make up my mind.
Send the card. Don't send the card. Send the card. Don't send the card.
This really shouldn't be that hard.
So, the aforementioned and I haven't exactly had the best of relationships.
For starters, I don't call him Dad. He's only Russell to me.
I don't have a lot of good memories of my father. I have a few pictures of him sitting on his lap at my 7th birthday party, my pink single layer cake pushed in a corner of the shot. I know there were other good times, but without that photo, all I can think of is my 10th birthday when instead of sitting me on his lap, he called me to give me advice from his jail cell.
So, yes, unfortunately, I was a little bitter. For a long time, I was upset that my other sisters had a relationship that I didn't with him. I was upset because even though my mother has lived in the same house on the same street with the same phone number since the day I was born, besides my 10th birthday, I never got a call, card or a visit.
He did come to my high school graduation, though. My mother made me invite him. I'd given up trying to incorporate him into my life years ago when I found that my grandmother had a closet of fully-wrapped presents I brought to her house for his birthday, Father's Day and Christmas.
He wouldn't have to worry about that again.
I blamed him for a lot of things. I've probably shouldered more responsibility on him than warranted. He was my scapegoat. And I justified my feelings by his seeming lack of interest in me. He seemed to only care what I was doing when he saw me at funerals or weddings, or when he stopped by granny's house before I'd finished my visit.
I blamed him, but I didn't hate him. Really, I felt sorry for him. Because I knew that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how he tried to make things right, the feeling that he was a stranger would never go away. I had to find out that he survived a terminal illness from Russatta. I was out of the loop of his life, as much as he was out of the loop of mine.
I saw him this summer before I came to Rhode Island. I was an intern in Detroit and for some reason, I saw him somewhere. I don't remember why. He made me promise to come see him while I was in town. I told him I'd see, but inside wondered why he didn't just stop by and see me.
I never went to visit him.
But I can't go on like this. I don't hate him. At all. I love him deeply. I'm just saddened because I realized long ago that he'll never be the father that I need him to be. He can only be Russell. I may not be able to change the relationship we had in the past, but I don't have to continue to make it a part of my future.
I looked at the card in my hand and wrote his address onto the envelope.
Inside, I signed the card "Love, Talia."
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Up with Road Trips
Thanksgiving weekend, I filled Dee-Dee up with gas and headed south, bound for the Garden State and later, a stopover in Do-or-Die Bedstuy.
The reason for the trip (though a lot of great things happened because of the trip) was hands down the chance to see one of my best friends, J. He lives in Virginia, but was visiting family in New Jersey for the holiday a mere 3 hours away.
So on Saturday, down I-95 I travelled.
When I got to his aunt's house in Roselle, N.J., I feasted on sweet potato pie and a fried catfish sandwich. Then, we set out on the official Roselle tour. We hoped in his aunt's cherry red Deville and looked for cruising music before we left the driveway. We flipped past the Mighty Clouds of Joy and other random gospel CDs before one got our attention: R. Kelly's The Chocolate Factory.
"Word," J said. I couldn't agree more.
We cruised to "Ignition" and "Heart of A Woman," while J gave me a tour of his childhood home. We visited his old schools, the chicken shack and his old church. We were driving around a local park J frequented as a child when my song came on.
"Ahhhhh, not 'Step In the Name of Love,'" I squealed. "Dance with me."
J looked at me with a smirk that asked if I was serious, but was hesitant to find out the answer.
He pulled over. And we danced.
I bit my lip and started stepping and hustling the best I knew how. A family walked by and looked at us strangely. A guy across the street ignored us and continued to paint the scenery. There were a couple of missteps, but I do believe we cut a rug - or the concrete parking lot as it was.
We got so into it, J even kept dancing after I stopped to get my camera. Here he is doing his patented two step that I have seen too many times before.
I have to say I was surprised he actually stopped. J never ever humors me. Ever. He's always first to shut down my hopes and dreams when I think of some random activity. Not this time. I'm chalking it up to the fact that I hadn't seen him in over a year because I know if I was in the 757, there would be no hustling, stepping or dropping down to get my eagle on of any sort.
After our dance, we went to the mall and shopped, trying on jackets and hats we both knew we weren't going to buy and talking about the shoppers we passed. We did that until I got tired of being around people. We headed home where J's aunt had cooked a Thanksgiving feast of ham, turkey, yams, mac n cheese, peas and rice, green beans with turkey necks, fried okra, johnny cake cornbread and a pound cake. We ate our vittles in the basement while we watched The Temptations movie on VH1.
"Because there is only one David Ruffin. And without him, the Temps ain't nothin' but a group in SEARCH of a David Ruffin. "
Yeah, that was a good movie.
Back to the trip.
Anyway, I don't want to get too sappy because I know how much J hates that, but I'm glad I made the trek because it gave me a chance to kick it with one of my favorite people in life.
So, up with cars that will handle 300 miles in two days;
Up with well-meaning aunts who always send you home with leftovers;
And up with spending time with your favorite people, no matter how short the visit is.
The reason for the trip (though a lot of great things happened because of the trip) was hands down the chance to see one of my best friends, J. He lives in Virginia, but was visiting family in New Jersey for the holiday a mere 3 hours away.
So on Saturday, down I-95 I travelled.
When I got to his aunt's house in Roselle, N.J., I feasted on sweet potato pie and a fried catfish sandwich. Then, we set out on the official Roselle tour. We hoped in his aunt's cherry red Deville and looked for cruising music before we left the driveway. We flipped past the Mighty Clouds of Joy and other random gospel CDs before one got our attention: R. Kelly's The Chocolate Factory.
"Word," J said. I couldn't agree more.
We cruised to "Ignition" and "Heart of A Woman," while J gave me a tour of his childhood home. We visited his old schools, the chicken shack and his old church. We were driving around a local park J frequented as a child when my song came on.
"Ahhhhh, not 'Step In the Name of Love,'" I squealed. "Dance with me."
J looked at me with a smirk that asked if I was serious, but was hesitant to find out the answer.
He pulled over. And we danced.
I bit my lip and started stepping and hustling the best I knew how. A family walked by and looked at us strangely. A guy across the street ignored us and continued to paint the scenery. There were a couple of missteps, but I do believe we cut a rug - or the concrete parking lot as it was.We got so into it, J even kept dancing after I stopped to get my camera. Here he is doing his patented two step that I have seen too many times before.
I have to say I was surprised he actually stopped. J never ever humors me. Ever. He's always first to shut down my hopes and dreams when I think of some random activity. Not this time. I'm chalking it up to the fact that I hadn't seen him in over a year because I know if I was in the 757, there would be no hustling, stepping or dropping down to get my eagle on of any sort.
After our dance, we went to the mall and shopped, trying on jackets and hats we both knew we weren't going to buy and talking about the shoppers we passed. We did that until I got tired of being around people. We headed home where J's aunt had cooked a Thanksgiving feast of ham, turkey, yams, mac n cheese, peas and rice, green beans with turkey necks, fried okra, johnny cake cornbread and a pound cake. We ate our vittles in the basement while we watched The Temptations movie on VH1.
"Because there is only one David Ruffin. And without him, the Temps ain't nothin' but a group in SEARCH of a David Ruffin. "
Yeah, that was a good movie.
Back to the trip.
Anyway, I don't want to get too sappy because I know how much J hates that, but I'm glad I made the trek because it gave me a chance to kick it with one of my favorite people in life.
So, up with cars that will handle 300 miles in two days;
Up with well-meaning aunts who always send you home with leftovers;
And up with spending time with your favorite people, no matter how short the visit is.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Just call me Betty Crocker
I already had my speech planned out.
"So, first," I'd begin, "let me explain the holes."
This is how I began my first foray in to baking.
Historically, I'm not a baker. Fried Chicken, roasted potatoes, lasagna, collard greens - I 've got them all on lock. But hand me a mixer and flour and I'm at a loss.
But seeing as how I'd volunteered to make a sweet potato pie for Thanksgiving at a friend's house this year, I figured I should try it out lest mine be the dreaded pie that sits untouched at the end of the table.
So last night, I set about making this pie, and it was no easy task. It took me about two hours, from boiling water to cooling pies, but I think it made me stronger. I even broke out a mixer that I bought for just this recipe. Now I have to think of something else to use it for...
Anyway, so I had these two glorious pies that looked good, but now what? I didn't want to take it to my friend's house and it bomb, so I did what anyone in my situation would do: I took it to work.
As we all know, journalists will eat anything. Even still, I felt the need to give my disclaimer to my coworkers, who promptly dismissed me and cut into my pie. I am happy to say that my pie got the thumbs up from the lone other black girl in my newsroom, and it also got rave reviews from my other co-workers. It even got a stamp of approval from my boss' boss who, apparently, has fond childhood memories of sweet potato pie. Go figure.
I gave myself a pat on the back for this one.
Okay, I chicken noodle souped after my pie was validated.
Want to do the same? Here's my momma's recipe. Enjoy!
Sweet Potato Pie
(Makes 2 pies)
5 lbs of small/medium Yams
1tsp Nutmeg
2tsp Vanilla Flavor
1/2 tsp Cinnamon
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 Cup Brown Sugar
1 1/2 Cup Sugar
1/4 Cup Can Milk Carnation or Pet
2-3 eggs (3 eggs will make fluffier)
1 stick of butter
( I also added in a pinch of clove -about 1/2 to 1 teaspoon- to my filling, so you can feel free to add it also)
Boil Potatoes with peeling then peel off skin while still hot and mash with milk and butter, then beat everything else in until fluffy. Taste mixture to make sure sweet enough and tastes OK. Should make 2 pies. Bake 375 45 min-1 hour (less if you have an electric oven) check after 1st 30 minutes by sticking a toothpick in to make sure it ocmes out clean. Once done, rub butter over crust to keep flaky.
**Disclaimer: Blogger is on my hit list. I had to write this entire blog over because Blogger erased it after I tried to spell check. So if you find some grammatical errors, kick rocks. I tried.**
"So, first," I'd begin, "let me explain the holes."
This is how I began my first foray in to baking.
Historically, I'm not a baker. Fried Chicken, roasted potatoes, lasagna, collard greens - I 've got them all on lock. But hand me a mixer and flour and I'm at a loss.
But seeing as how I'd volunteered to make a sweet potato pie for Thanksgiving at a friend's house this year, I figured I should try it out lest mine be the dreaded pie that sits untouched at the end of the table.
So last night, I set about making this pie, and it was no easy task. It took me about two hours, from boiling water to cooling pies, but I think it made me stronger. I even broke out a mixer that I bought for just this recipe. Now I have to think of something else to use it for...
Anyway, so I had these two glorious pies that looked good, but now what? I didn't want to take it to my friend's house and it bomb, so I did what anyone in my situation would do: I took it to work.
As we all know, journalists will eat anything. Even still, I felt the need to give my disclaimer to my coworkers, who promptly dismissed me and cut into my pie. I am happy to say that my pie got the thumbs up from the lone other black girl in my newsroom, and it also got rave reviews from my other co-workers. It even got a stamp of approval from my boss' boss who, apparently, has fond childhood memories of sweet potato pie. Go figure.
I gave myself a pat on the back for this one.
Okay, I chicken noodle souped after my pie was validated.
Want to do the same? Here's my momma's recipe. Enjoy!
Sweet Potato Pie
(Makes 2 pies)
5 lbs of small/medium Yams
1tsp Nutmeg
2tsp Vanilla Flavor
1/2 tsp Cinnamon
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 Cup Brown Sugar
1 1/2 Cup Sugar
1/4 Cup Can Milk Carnation or Pet
2-3 eggs (3 eggs will make fluffier)
1 stick of butter
( I also added in a pinch of clove -about 1/2 to 1 teaspoon- to my filling, so you can feel free to add it also)
Boil Potatoes with peeling then peel off skin while still hot and mash with milk and butter, then beat everything else in until fluffy. Taste mixture to make sure sweet enough and tastes OK. Should make 2 pies. Bake 375 45 min-1 hour (less if you have an electric oven) check after 1st 30 minutes by sticking a toothpick in to make sure it ocmes out clean. Once done, rub butter over crust to keep flaky.
**Disclaimer: Blogger is on my hit list. I had to write this entire blog over because Blogger erased it after I tried to spell check. So if you find some grammatical errors, kick rocks. I tried.**
Friday, November 10, 2006
Loss of a Legend
I can't say I was one of those kids who ran to the television to watch "60 Minutes."
Even as I grew older, I never really got into the program. I'd flip through the channels and watch it if I came across it, but it was never on my weekly list of shows to watch.
I'm sorry now that it wasn't.
By not watching those shows, I missed out on seeing a legend in action. There was no denying the impact of Ed Bradley, one of the show's correspondents and a pioneer for Black journalists.
By missing those shows, I missed out on seeing a legend in action.
Browsing through the coverage of his death yesterday, I came across a series of clips from interviews he'd conducted. One that sticks out in my mind was when he was confronting what seemed to be a white relative of someone involved in the Emmitt Till case. Bradley, with his smooth voice, didn't back down when the guy got irate in that whole southern-racist kind of way. He quipped back at the guy with the kind of gumption and wit I wish I had. I couldn't help but smile. He let the Philly come out of him.
I think his willingness to be real is what some people loved about him. I know that just from watching his clips, I grew to love that about him, too. I just wish I had grown to appreciate it sooner.
Even as I grew older, I never really got into the program. I'd flip through the channels and watch it if I came across it, but it was never on my weekly list of shows to watch.
I'm sorry now that it wasn't.
By not watching those shows, I missed out on seeing a legend in action. There was no denying the impact of Ed Bradley, one of the show's correspondents and a pioneer for Black journalists.
By missing those shows, I missed out on seeing a legend in action.
Browsing through the coverage of his death yesterday, I came across a series of clips from interviews he'd conducted. One that sticks out in my mind was when he was confronting what seemed to be a white relative of someone involved in the Emmitt Till case. Bradley, with his smooth voice, didn't back down when the guy got irate in that whole southern-racist kind of way. He quipped back at the guy with the kind of gumption and wit I wish I had. I couldn't help but smile. He let the Philly come out of him.
I think his willingness to be real is what some people loved about him. I know that just from watching his clips, I grew to love that about him, too. I just wish I had grown to appreciate it sooner.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Grand Theft Blog
It's been a rough week. I needed some nonsense to help me through. And, of course, Jarrod never lets me down.
Three Names You Go By: Talia, Buford, Thelma (and many more)
Three Parts of Your Heritage: Black, Native American, and some more black
3Three Things That Scare You: insects, guns, complacency
Three of Your Everyday Essentials: singing along to the radio/CD player, writing in my journal (though I've been slacking lately), and talking to a friend or family member on the phone
Three Things You Are Wearing Right Now: Pumas (yeah I'm at work, my pumps are in the car), purple sweater, watch
Three of Your Favorite Bands or Musical Artists: Outkast, Jill Scott, the Fugees (vintage or Lauryn Hill)
Three of Your Favorite Songs: At Last (Etta James), Luchini (Camp Lo), Anything by Outkast
Three Things You Want in a Relationship: Comedy, Passion, Sincerity
Three Physical Things about the Opposite Sex: eyes, smile, nook (more specifically, the way I fit into that little space)
Three of Your Favorite Hobbies: reading, writing, singing
Three Things You Want Really Badly Right Now: for Nov. 8 to come, a day off, a fatter paycheck
Three People You Would Like to See Do This: anybody who feels so inclined to do so (I don't like pressuring people)
Three Non-Physical Things About the Opposite Sex: sense of humor, personality, does their smell count? if so, I want to say smell because it lingers and triggers emotions. If not, I'll say their drive and commitment
Three Favorite T.V. Shows: 24, Grey's Anatomy, Heroes
Three Songs that you have listened to while completing this meme: None. I did this at work.
Three Names You Go By: Talia, Buford, Thelma (and many more)
Three Parts of Your Heritage: Black, Native American, and some more black
3Three Things That Scare You: insects, guns, complacency
Three of Your Everyday Essentials: singing along to the radio/CD player, writing in my journal (though I've been slacking lately), and talking to a friend or family member on the phone
Three Things You Are Wearing Right Now: Pumas (yeah I'm at work, my pumps are in the car), purple sweater, watch
Three of Your Favorite Bands or Musical Artists: Outkast, Jill Scott, the Fugees (vintage or Lauryn Hill)
Three of Your Favorite Songs: At Last (Etta James), Luchini (Camp Lo), Anything by Outkast
Three Things You Want in a Relationship: Comedy, Passion, Sincerity
Three Physical Things about the Opposite Sex: eyes, smile, nook (more specifically, the way I fit into that little space)
Three of Your Favorite Hobbies: reading, writing, singing
Three Things You Want Really Badly Right Now: for Nov. 8 to come, a day off, a fatter paycheck
Three People You Would Like to See Do This: anybody who feels so inclined to do so (I don't like pressuring people)
Three Non-Physical Things About the Opposite Sex: sense of humor, personality, does their smell count? if so, I want to say smell because it lingers and triggers emotions. If not, I'll say their drive and commitment
Three Favorite T.V. Shows: 24, Grey's Anatomy, Heroes
Three Songs that you have listened to while completing this meme: None. I did this at work.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Truth or Dare
I stumbled across this addictive game of Truth or Dare in the blogsophere the other day and wanted to try my hand at it. The dares they were throwing out, however, were a little too much for my taste, so I chickened out and chose truth.
Trish said she'd take it easy on me. My question:
What would you like to do/be when you grow up?
When I first read it, I was kind of disappointed (no offense intended, Trish). I was expecting some question where I'd have to delve into the depths of my sould to answer it properly. Instead, I got what I thought would be an easy question to answer.
Hardly.
Truth of the matter is, on paper, I am a grown up. I own my car and pay insurance. I rent my home and have household bills. I buy my own groceries and clothes. I have a budget. I work a full-time job. I have a 401K for goodness sake. But as far as knowing what I want to do with my life, I'm still in my infantile stage.
Last week, I turned 23. Not a milestone age, but important nonetheless. At 23, you can no longer blame your mistakes on your parents, teachers or the world. At 23, you're expected to know better, and to do so. At 23, your life is yours and yours alone - to cultivate or destroy as you please. My whole life I was trying to get to this point. Graduate high school. Graduate college. Become a journalist. Be successful. I never really thought much further about what success entailed or what I would do when I got it or until it came.
Like most 23 year olds, I have a job. A job that is laying the foundation for the rest of my career. I am a journalist. More specifically, a reporter. I write about any and everything in the town of West Warwick, R.I., a seemingly innocuous town with more scandal and ill-mannered people than you can shake a stick at. While each day I come to work able to do what I love - write - I've come to some realizations lately. Realizations that don't mesh kindly to the world of the bureau reporter.
Realizations like I hate politics. Therefore, I hate politicians. I hate them because they call me and nitpick about the space I allotted them in my profile of the race, or the ommission of their picture in a brief about them. Ugh, I'm getting nauseous just thinking about it.
I like painting pictures with words. Unfortunately, I haven't done it lately because of the deluge of copy they expect me to churn out in this season of last minute vacations and elections. I'm delighted when I find the exact word that conveys the meaning I want, or when a phrase accurately captures the essence of a scene. I used to play a game with some of my journo friends on who could get the most outrageous words into the paper. I'm proud to say I got kerfuffle and feckless into print.
I like explaining things. And pouring over complex documents and subjects and boiling them down to their essence. My editor says it's a strength of mine. I'd like to do more of that.
Anyway, lets bring this all back to the question at hand. So what do I want to do/be when I grow up?
I want to be a great journalist who tells amazing stories about even the most mundane of subjects. I want to recognize and tell the stories that go overlooked. I want to tell local stories, but not be so localized that all of my days are spent at sewer commission meetings and traffic board hearings. I want to write about things that matter, without having to churn out 80 inches of copy on my birthday just to fill space in the next day's paper (and yes, that really happened). I want to be able to make words flow like butter from my pen. I want to get back to the writing that I enjoy and the writing that sustains me.
That's what I want to do when I grow up.
Trish said she'd take it easy on me. My question:
What would you like to do/be when you grow up?
When I first read it, I was kind of disappointed (no offense intended, Trish). I was expecting some question where I'd have to delve into the depths of my sould to answer it properly. Instead, I got what I thought would be an easy question to answer.
Hardly.
Truth of the matter is, on paper, I am a grown up. I own my car and pay insurance. I rent my home and have household bills. I buy my own groceries and clothes. I have a budget. I work a full-time job. I have a 401K for goodness sake. But as far as knowing what I want to do with my life, I'm still in my infantile stage.
Last week, I turned 23. Not a milestone age, but important nonetheless. At 23, you can no longer blame your mistakes on your parents, teachers or the world. At 23, you're expected to know better, and to do so. At 23, your life is yours and yours alone - to cultivate or destroy as you please. My whole life I was trying to get to this point. Graduate high school. Graduate college. Become a journalist. Be successful. I never really thought much further about what success entailed or what I would do when I got it or until it came.
Like most 23 year olds, I have a job. A job that is laying the foundation for the rest of my career. I am a journalist. More specifically, a reporter. I write about any and everything in the town of West Warwick, R.I., a seemingly innocuous town with more scandal and ill-mannered people than you can shake a stick at. While each day I come to work able to do what I love - write - I've come to some realizations lately. Realizations that don't mesh kindly to the world of the bureau reporter.
Realizations like I hate politics. Therefore, I hate politicians. I hate them because they call me and nitpick about the space I allotted them in my profile of the race, or the ommission of their picture in a brief about them. Ugh, I'm getting nauseous just thinking about it.
I like painting pictures with words. Unfortunately, I haven't done it lately because of the deluge of copy they expect me to churn out in this season of last minute vacations and elections. I'm delighted when I find the exact word that conveys the meaning I want, or when a phrase accurately captures the essence of a scene. I used to play a game with some of my journo friends on who could get the most outrageous words into the paper. I'm proud to say I got kerfuffle and feckless into print.
I like explaining things. And pouring over complex documents and subjects and boiling them down to their essence. My editor says it's a strength of mine. I'd like to do more of that.
Anyway, lets bring this all back to the question at hand. So what do I want to do/be when I grow up?
I want to be a great journalist who tells amazing stories about even the most mundane of subjects. I want to recognize and tell the stories that go overlooked. I want to tell local stories, but not be so localized that all of my days are spent at sewer commission meetings and traffic board hearings. I want to write about things that matter, without having to churn out 80 inches of copy on my birthday just to fill space in the next day's paper (and yes, that really happened). I want to be able to make words flow like butter from my pen. I want to get back to the writing that I enjoy and the writing that sustains me.
That's what I want to do when I grow up.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Feliz Cumpleanos to me!
I can't quite put my finger on it, but for some reason, I've had a little extra pep in my step lately.
My clothes have been freshly ironed (ya'll know I hate ironing).
My hair has been molded into a perfect 'fro.
I'm wearing heels and my lips are extra glossy.
I'm a grown up. And I think I like it.
Today is the 23rd anniversary of the day of my birth. This time last year, I was in Hampton, celebrating homecoming and preparing for my move to the Ocean State. For my birthday post last year, I made a list of all of my accomplishments up to that point. I haven't done much this year, but I've lived my life well and been blessed beyond measure. So I figure I'd share some of the things I'm thankful for.
My clothes have been freshly ironed (ya'll know I hate ironing).
My hair has been molded into a perfect 'fro.
I'm wearing heels and my lips are extra glossy.
I'm a grown up. And I think I like it.
Today is the 23rd anniversary of the day of my birth. This time last year, I was in Hampton, celebrating homecoming and preparing for my move to the Ocean State. For my birthday post last year, I made a list of all of my accomplishments up to that point. I haven't done much this year, but I've lived my life well and been blessed beyond measure. So I figure I'd share some of the things I'm thankful for.
- FRIENDS in RHODE ISLAND! Okay, so really, it's one friend and some possibles. I'm thankful for Jackie Raye who gets me out of the house and encourages me to come with her to see foliage in New Hampshire. Road Trips all day - and good food!
- My family. Though I don't talk to them as often as I should, they're the best people in the whole world. Tee hee, last night, I called my mom to thank her for my birthday card. She tells me happy birthday before we hang up and promises she won't call me early the next morning. Around 8 a.m. my house phone rings. Of course, it's Ma. "Oh, I figured you'd be up by now. Happy Birthday." Thanks Ma. At least she didn't call at 7:00 a.m. like she usually does. Another thing, my sis, Russatta wrote about me in her blog today. Check it out.
- My adopted family. So, I'm a member of J.R.'s family by proxy. I cook in their kitchen, eat their food, watch their movies and go shopping with them. I get to do all the fun stuff without having to bother with chores. Gotta love it. Plus, they give me my weekly dose of family, even though my biological family is hundreds of miles away.
- Weekly paychecks; My money is looking real low right now, but in 12 hours, I'll have that fat direct deposit right into my account. Cha-ching!
- Opportunities at work; I've been bounced around a lot, yet every new beat I go to, I get to do these amazing articles that often end up on Page 1. They've also made some big impacts in Rhode Island society. For that, I'm proud and thankful.
- My church home. Through J.R., I found a wonderful church that's nurtured me and helped me grow spiritually. Can't beat that with a bat.
- the Internet: Though I don't have it at my apartment, it helps me keep in contact with my friends, both new and old. When I checked my Facebook account this morning at work, I had well beyond a page and a half of birthday salutes. It was 10 a.m.
- Friends outside of Rhode Island: Like Darby, Shida, Jarrod, the Flinttown crew, Ten95, and all the YBJ peeps. They give me a place to visit and remind me of all the good times I've had thus far. Nothing like old friends and new shoes - I'm a fan of both.
- Frequent flyer miles. I'm accumulating them like a mug. Ft. Lauderdale, Detroit, Indianapolis. D.C. is coming, and ATL has officially been rescheduled. I'm gonna have a funky good time.
- Flyness: So, I think I'm finally coming into my own, fashion-wise, that is. Today, might I add, I'm looking sharp, in a black polka-dot sweater that ties in the front, pumps and pearls. Yesterday, I belted a purple mock turtleneck and felt instantly chic. Let me get my hands on some extra money and I swear I'm just going to get a new wardrobe.
- Midday chats with the cool YBJ kids (you know who you are). Not only do they keep me laughing, but they actually (sometimes) provide some journalistic value. Love you guys.
- My couch. It still feels like the first day I bought it. Up next: a coffee table.
- Coworkers. They surprised me with a tiramisu cake yesterday (half the office is out today in training) which was a big thing because they don't do celebrations. At lunch, the office assistant suggested we make birthday celebrations a regular thing. I concur. AND my old office said they were getting me a cake today for my real birthday. Two cakes. Two days. One birthday. YES!
- Singing in the Car. When I was younger, the best thing in life was to have someone call the local radio station on your birthday so your name could be read on the air. Clearly, they don't do that in RI. When I hopped in my Cavalier to go to work, NPR was on the dial. I thought about how it felt to have Showbiz read my name on air, followed by the birthday song - of course the Stevie rendition. I began singing aloud to the song playing in my head. Happy birthday to ya, happy birthday to ya. Happy birthdaaayy! Then I laughed to myself as the BBC drowned out my festive tune.
So, here's to happy birthdays, soundproof cars and multiple birthday cakes. Cheers.
Friday, October 06, 2006
I'm a girl: so sue me
Bloomingdale's is launching their own makeup line called Elf. They are selling everything online right now for $1. Some of the kits are $5 for two eye shadows, a lipstick and a blush.
www.eyeslipsface.com
Seems like a pretty good deal - shipping and handling, however, is $7. Figured I'd pass it along to anyone looking to try an alternative to M.A.C. (though their lip glass is my junk).
www.eyeslipsface.com
Seems like a pretty good deal - shipping and handling, however, is $7. Figured I'd pass it along to anyone looking to try an alternative to M.A.C. (though their lip glass is my junk).
Monday, October 02, 2006
Take note:
Ten days until my 23rd anniversary on this Earth.
Four days until my birthday celebration begins in Atlanta.
Let it be known: I like cake. I like bright colors (like green and orange). I like food.
Get ready. Or get left behind.
Four days until my birthday celebration begins in Atlanta.
Let it be known: I like cake. I like bright colors (like green and orange). I like food.
Get ready. Or get left behind.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
We's ain't second class citizens no mo!
One of my co-workers, a middle aged white woman just spit out this gem during a conversation about Oprah, music and other random things:
"I want oprah to go through menopause first so I know it's okay."
Gotta love it.
"I want oprah to go through menopause first so I know it's okay."
Gotta love it.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Bestest Florida Vacation Ever
Last week, I got to go on my first real vacation since I started life int he real world.
True, I've taken time off for funerals, conferences and scurried out of town for long weekends, but this was my first real vacation.
And it was fantastic. Even though it started off less than stellar.
Wednesday night, I headed to Boston after work. A friend of mine was going to take me to Logan airport, where I would catch the 6:40 a.m. plane nonstop to Ft. Myers, Fla. We got to the airport around 5:15 a.m. and started looking for the Southwest Airlines terminal.
"I see Northwest, United, Jet Blue - no Southwest," I said. "It's gotta be here somewhere."
Then I checked my itinerary. I was flying out of Providence.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
We hightailed it back to my car and I floated down I-95 back to Rhode Island. I made it in record time: walking into the airport at 6:20 a.m. I jumped to the head of the line and explained that I was trying to make a 6:40 plane and the guy let me go infront of him. I'm thinking, yes, I can make it.
Then, the woman at the counter burst my bubble. There would be no 6:40 flight for me because I'd never make ti trhough security. So she booked me on the 8:10 flight. It had a layover in Orlando and got me into my destination about three hours later, but I took it and went through security.
After a bit of hoopla during my layover involving my job, I hopped on the plane and got ready to vacate life for a while. When I stepped off the plane, I almost broke down. The palm trees. The gaudy colors. The old people. I was in FLORIDA. I chuckled to myself as I stepped over the tiled coconuts and palm trees on the airport floor. I couldn't help but let out a scream as I drove my rental car to my friend's office in Naples. For five days, I would be with people I hadn't seen in forever. I wouldn't have to worry about deadlines or AP Style. I just had to soak up the sun.
I could do that.
During the next five days, I travelled south Florida, hitting Delray Beach, Ft. Lauderdale and Naples during my stay. Thursday and Friday, I spent in Ft. Lauderdale, kicking it with friends and checking out the sights. Jessie and I battled the mean waters of the Everglades Saturday, and Rashida came down from Ocala and we shopped till we dropped. I got a festive green bag to show for it.
Anyway, it was a great trip and a refreshing break that I so desperately needed. Thanks, J.Lee for taking me in and showing me around. When I got back to work Tuesday morning, everyone said the same thing:
"You look so relaxed - Florida must have been fun."
It was. In fact, it was the Bestest Vacation Ever. And I have the pictures to prove it.
True, I've taken time off for funerals, conferences and scurried out of town for long weekends, but this was my first real vacation.
And it was fantastic. Even though it started off less than stellar.
Wednesday night, I headed to Boston after work. A friend of mine was going to take me to Logan airport, where I would catch the 6:40 a.m. plane nonstop to Ft. Myers, Fla. We got to the airport around 5:15 a.m. and started looking for the Southwest Airlines terminal.
"I see Northwest, United, Jet Blue - no Southwest," I said. "It's gotta be here somewhere."
Then I checked my itinerary. I was flying out of Providence.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
We hightailed it back to my car and I floated down I-95 back to Rhode Island. I made it in record time: walking into the airport at 6:20 a.m. I jumped to the head of the line and explained that I was trying to make a 6:40 plane and the guy let me go infront of him. I'm thinking, yes, I can make it.
Then, the woman at the counter burst my bubble. There would be no 6:40 flight for me because I'd never make ti trhough security. So she booked me on the 8:10 flight. It had a layover in Orlando and got me into my destination about three hours later, but I took it and went through security.
After a bit of hoopla during my layover involving my job, I hopped on the plane and got ready to vacate life for a while. When I stepped off the plane, I almost broke down. The palm trees. The gaudy colors. The old people. I was in FLORIDA. I chuckled to myself as I stepped over the tiled coconuts and palm trees on the airport floor. I couldn't help but let out a scream as I drove my rental car to my friend's office in Naples. For five days, I would be with people I hadn't seen in forever. I wouldn't have to worry about deadlines or AP Style. I just had to soak up the sun.
I could do that.
During the next five days, I travelled south Florida, hitting Delray Beach, Ft. Lauderdale and Naples during my stay. Thursday and Friday, I spent in Ft. Lauderdale, kicking it with friends and checking out the sights. Jessie and I battled the mean waters of the Everglades Saturday, and Rashida came down from Ocala and we shopped till we dropped. I got a festive green bag to show for it.
Anyway, it was a great trip and a refreshing break that I so desperately needed. Thanks, J.Lee for taking me in and showing me around. When I got back to work Tuesday morning, everyone said the same thing:
"You look so relaxed - Florida must have been fun."
It was. In fact, it was the Bestest Vacation Ever. And I have the pictures to prove it.
Another survey
I stole this from Jarrod, but really, does it matter any more? All of these things come from somewhere else. Read on if you are so inclined.
1. How tall are you barefoot? 5 feet 3 inches
2. Have you ever flown first-class? Nope
3. One of your favorite books when you were a child? Babysitters Club, which begat R.L. Stine's Fear Street series, which evolved into the "black love" books (Eric J. Dickey, etc.) - all by the time I was 15. Yeah, I was doing a whole lot.
4. A good restaurant in your city? Pakarang - it's Thai.
5. What is your favorite small appliance? Gonna have to go with microwave - or cell phone.
6. One person that never fails to make you laugh? That negro J.
7. What’s your favorite Christmas song? Traditional: Silver Bells (we sang it in elementary school) - Contemporary/Other: anything off of the Temptations Christmas album. It just ain't Christmas until I hear Motown put some funk on the holiday
8. What was the first music that you ever bought? That would be Kid N' Play "Funhouse" - and yes, it was on cassette.
9. Do you do push-ups? Nah. I'm too lazy.
10. What was one of your favorite games as a child? Red Rover, Double Dutch
11. What is the one thing that you cook that always receives compliments? Fried chicken
12. When you were twelve years old, what did you want to be when you grew up? I actually wanted to be a teacher. But that was around the time I realized I don't really like kids and loved writing.
13. Your favorite Soup of the Day? I used to love chicken and stars - now I go for chicken noodle - or some authentic gumbo.
14. What in your life are you most grateful for? The favor I've recieved just by being a child of God. He's given me more opportunities and made more ways out of no way's than I can even remember.
15. Have you ever met someone famous? Yes, Matthew Modine & Floetry
16. Date Of Birth? October 12, 1983. My 23rd anniversary is coming up in less than a month - make a note.
17. Top 3 thoughts at this exact moment: Is it time to go yet? My back hurts. Why did my coworker just say my name?
18. Three people you're thinking about right now: Chris, Marlon and Veronica (we're chatting right now)
19. Name five drinks you regularly drink: Water, Newman's Own virgin Lemon-aided Iced Tea, Orange Juice, Lipton's/Nestea Iced Tea, V8 Splash (Berry Blast or Fruit Medley) or Tropicana Twisters (Tropical Punch)
20. From what news source do you receive the bulk of your news? NPR, www.projo.com
21. Current hair? Natural - Afro
22. Current worry? If I'll have enough money to pay my rent, buy new tires and go to ATL at the beginning of the month.
23. Current hate? I don't have one. But if I did, it'd be inconsiderate grocery line people.
24. Favorite place to be? With loved ones
25. Least favorite place to be? Work
26. Do you consider yourself well organized? I have functional chaos in my life.
27. Do you believe in an afterlife? Yes, but I don't believe heaven has a ghetto.
28. Where do you think you will be in 10 years? I'll be 33, hmmm, working as a social issues or crime reporter for a major metro daily. Either that or in management.
29. Do you burn or tan? Tan
30. Who was the last blogger you hung out with? Jessie, even though she's hung up her keyboard. Before that, it was Erin E. and Darren.
31. Are you more optimistic or pessimistic about the future? Optimistic
32. Last time you had an alcoholic drink? Sept. 15
33. What songs do you sing in the shower? It varies, but currently, it's Breakthrough by the Jazzyfatnastees
34. What did you fear was going to get you at night as a kid? I always was afraid of burglers and thugs coming into my house to hurt my sister and I while my mom was at work.
35. What’s in your pockets right now? I don't have pockets on my pants. In my jean jacket, a pen, some cotton balls, and chapstick.
36. Last thing that made you laugh? A conversation with Rashida.
37. Best bed sheets you had as a child? Um, we were poor. Our sheets were plain blue or beige.
38. Worst injury you’ve ever had? I dislocated my right knee one day in the cafeteriaa. I popped it back in place, but that joint has never been the same since that day.
39. Favorite song? Varies, but I will always love At Last by Etta James.
40. How many TVs do you own? At my current apartment - one. In life: four
41. In the last calendar year, how many people have you told that you love them? Four or five - all family
42. Last person that made you blush? No comment
43. Best compliment received? Whenever someone says I'm their role model. It's cool, but kind of scary at the same time.
44. What song is in your head? Breakthrough by the Jazzyfatnastees (thanks to this survey)
45. What is your favorite book? The Autobiography of Malcolm X
46. Last meal you cooked for the opposite sex? Meatloaf, mashed potatoes and I think corn, months ago.
47. What songs do you want played at your wedding? Etta James - At Last, Hay - Crucial Conflict; Electric Slide/ the Hustle; Bunny Hop; Red Hot Pepper Boy (partnas in crime); Some Jill Scott and anything else to set the party off right.
48. What song do you want played at your funeral? I'm not sure if I've lived enough to decide a proper song to say goodbye to the world to
49. What were you doing at 12 midnight last night? fighting off sleep, trying to stay awake for Shida's call.
50. What would you like to accomplish with the remaining years of your life? Unconditional Happiness, freedom from debt, Success in my career, and some other stuff.
1. How tall are you barefoot? 5 feet 3 inches
2. Have you ever flown first-class? Nope
3. One of your favorite books when you were a child? Babysitters Club, which begat R.L. Stine's Fear Street series, which evolved into the "black love" books (Eric J. Dickey, etc.) - all by the time I was 15. Yeah, I was doing a whole lot.
4. A good restaurant in your city? Pakarang - it's Thai.
5. What is your favorite small appliance? Gonna have to go with microwave - or cell phone.
6. One person that never fails to make you laugh? That negro J.
7. What’s your favorite Christmas song? Traditional: Silver Bells (we sang it in elementary school) - Contemporary/Other: anything off of the Temptations Christmas album. It just ain't Christmas until I hear Motown put some funk on the holiday
8. What was the first music that you ever bought? That would be Kid N' Play "Funhouse" - and yes, it was on cassette.
9. Do you do push-ups? Nah. I'm too lazy.
10. What was one of your favorite games as a child? Red Rover, Double Dutch
11. What is the one thing that you cook that always receives compliments? Fried chicken
12. When you were twelve years old, what did you want to be when you grew up? I actually wanted to be a teacher. But that was around the time I realized I don't really like kids and loved writing.
13. Your favorite Soup of the Day? I used to love chicken and stars - now I go for chicken noodle - or some authentic gumbo.
14. What in your life are you most grateful for? The favor I've recieved just by being a child of God. He's given me more opportunities and made more ways out of no way's than I can even remember.
15. Have you ever met someone famous? Yes, Matthew Modine & Floetry
16. Date Of Birth? October 12, 1983. My 23rd anniversary is coming up in less than a month - make a note.
17. Top 3 thoughts at this exact moment: Is it time to go yet? My back hurts. Why did my coworker just say my name?
18. Three people you're thinking about right now: Chris, Marlon and Veronica (we're chatting right now)
19. Name five drinks you regularly drink: Water, Newman's Own virgin Lemon-aided Iced Tea, Orange Juice, Lipton's/Nestea Iced Tea, V8 Splash (Berry Blast or Fruit Medley) or Tropicana Twisters (Tropical Punch)
20. From what news source do you receive the bulk of your news? NPR, www.projo.com
21. Current hair? Natural - Afro
22. Current worry? If I'll have enough money to pay my rent, buy new tires and go to ATL at the beginning of the month.
23. Current hate? I don't have one. But if I did, it'd be inconsiderate grocery line people.
24. Favorite place to be? With loved ones
25. Least favorite place to be? Work
26. Do you consider yourself well organized? I have functional chaos in my life.
27. Do you believe in an afterlife? Yes, but I don't believe heaven has a ghetto.
28. Where do you think you will be in 10 years? I'll be 33, hmmm, working as a social issues or crime reporter for a major metro daily. Either that or in management.
29. Do you burn or tan? Tan
30. Who was the last blogger you hung out with? Jessie, even though she's hung up her keyboard. Before that, it was Erin E. and Darren.
31. Are you more optimistic or pessimistic about the future? Optimistic
32. Last time you had an alcoholic drink? Sept. 15
33. What songs do you sing in the shower? It varies, but currently, it's Breakthrough by the Jazzyfatnastees
34. What did you fear was going to get you at night as a kid? I always was afraid of burglers and thugs coming into my house to hurt my sister and I while my mom was at work.
35. What’s in your pockets right now? I don't have pockets on my pants. In my jean jacket, a pen, some cotton balls, and chapstick.
36. Last thing that made you laugh? A conversation with Rashida.
37. Best bed sheets you had as a child? Um, we were poor. Our sheets were plain blue or beige.
38. Worst injury you’ve ever had? I dislocated my right knee one day in the cafeteriaa. I popped it back in place, but that joint has never been the same since that day.
39. Favorite song? Varies, but I will always love At Last by Etta James.
40. How many TVs do you own? At my current apartment - one. In life: four
41. In the last calendar year, how many people have you told that you love them? Four or five - all family
42. Last person that made you blush? No comment
43. Best compliment received? Whenever someone says I'm their role model. It's cool, but kind of scary at the same time.
44. What song is in your head? Breakthrough by the Jazzyfatnastees (thanks to this survey)
45. What is your favorite book? The Autobiography of Malcolm X
46. Last meal you cooked for the opposite sex? Meatloaf, mashed potatoes and I think corn, months ago.
47. What songs do you want played at your wedding? Etta James - At Last, Hay - Crucial Conflict; Electric Slide/ the Hustle; Bunny Hop; Red Hot Pepper Boy (partnas in crime); Some Jill Scott and anything else to set the party off right.
48. What song do you want played at your funeral? I'm not sure if I've lived enough to decide a proper song to say goodbye to the world to
49. What were you doing at 12 midnight last night? fighting off sleep, trying to stay awake for Shida's call.
50. What would you like to accomplish with the remaining years of your life? Unconditional Happiness, freedom from debt, Success in my career, and some other stuff.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Saving All My Love
Whitney sang it, but apparently, she's fed up with Bobby's ways.
From the Associated Press
LOS ANGELES -- Whitney Houston has filed for divorce from her husband Bobby Brown, her publicist told The Associated Press on Wednesday. Publicist Nancy Seltzer declined to reveal where or when Houston filed the divorce papers, and said the singer had no statement to make. "I can just confirm that she has filed for divorce,'' Seltzer said. Houston and Brown, who married in 1992, have had a sometimes tumultuous marriage, and rumors of their breakup have surfaced often over the years. The couple have one child, 13-year-old daughter, Bobbi Kristina.
What is the world coming to when even two crackheads can't stay married?
From the Associated Press
LOS ANGELES -- Whitney Houston has filed for divorce from her husband Bobby Brown, her publicist told The Associated Press on Wednesday. Publicist Nancy Seltzer declined to reveal where or when Houston filed the divorce papers, and said the singer had no statement to make. "I can just confirm that she has filed for divorce,'' Seltzer said. Houston and Brown, who married in 1992, have had a sometimes tumultuous marriage, and rumors of their breakup have surfaced often over the years. The couple have one child, 13-year-old daughter, Bobbi Kristina.
What is the world coming to when even two crackheads can't stay married?
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
What's your slogan?
So, my little brother posted this on MySpace and I thought it was hilarious. A bit of a waste of time, but who cares? Sometimes you need a good distraction.
Sloganize Your Name
Put your name in the box and hit the Sloganize button. Then share your slogan with the rest of us.
I'll go first: "The Best Talia a Man Can Get"
Can't argue with that.
Sloganize Your Name
Put your name in the box and hit the Sloganize button. Then share your slogan with the rest of us.
I'll go first: "The Best Talia a Man Can Get"
Can't argue with that.
Monday, September 11, 2006
The Laws of Power
Every time I went over J's house, it would be there.
The book, with it's striking orange and blue jacket, demanding attention. I'd see J walking around campus with the volume in his hand, ready to be cracked open during a lull in the day.
The book, of course, was The 48 Laws of Power.
Ah yes, the 48 Laws of Power, which the book jacket proclaims is for "those who want POWER, watch POWER, or want to arm themselves against POWER."
The book seemed interesting, but I wasn't drawn to buy it. After all, I had history and philosophy chapters to read for tests the following weeks. The Laws of Power would have to wait.
Fast forward to last weekend. I went to NYC to visit my sister and there it sat, on her end table, The 48 Laws of Power.
"You're reading this?," I asked, somewhat astonished that someone else in life was reading this book besides J.
It was her subway read and was actually turning out to be a good book.
This is the way it's set up:
Each chapter is a different law of power, ranging from "never outshine the master," to "do not go past the mark you aimed for; in victory, learn when to stop." Throughout the chapter, examples from historical leaders using the law - and breaking the law- are given, along with their consequenses. The law is then broken down step by step on how to use it.
I took my sister's interest, coupled with the years of hearing J rave about the book as a sign. When I got back to Rhode Island, I added The 48 Laws of Power to my bookshelf.
Here's an example of one of the laws, to tide you over until you get your own copy. Enjoy.
The book, with it's striking orange and blue jacket, demanding attention. I'd see J walking around campus with the volume in his hand, ready to be cracked open during a lull in the day.
The book, of course, was The 48 Laws of Power.
Ah yes, the 48 Laws of Power, which the book jacket proclaims is for "those who want POWER, watch POWER, or want to arm themselves against POWER."
The book seemed interesting, but I wasn't drawn to buy it. After all, I had history and philosophy chapters to read for tests the following weeks. The Laws of Power would have to wait.
Fast forward to last weekend. I went to NYC to visit my sister and there it sat, on her end table, The 48 Laws of Power.
"You're reading this?," I asked, somewhat astonished that someone else in life was reading this book besides J.
It was her subway read and was actually turning out to be a good book.
This is the way it's set up:
Each chapter is a different law of power, ranging from "never outshine the master," to "do not go past the mark you aimed for; in victory, learn when to stop." Throughout the chapter, examples from historical leaders using the law - and breaking the law- are given, along with their consequenses. The law is then broken down step by step on how to use it.
I took my sister's interest, coupled with the years of hearing J rave about the book as a sign. When I got back to Rhode Island, I added The 48 Laws of Power to my bookshelf.
Here's an example of one of the laws, to tide you over until you get your own copy. Enjoy.
Law 34
Be Royal in Your Own Fashion: Act Like a King to be Treated Like One
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Monday, September 04, 2006
Back Back, Give me 50 Feet.
Some friends of mine have this blog, brothersmanlaw, where they wax poetic about the rules for being a man.
Things like, the Points system for relationships; or you leave with what you came in with.
Well, today, I'm adding a rule from the sister's point of view:
A dance, is just a dance, is just a dance. I owe you exactly what it means: NOTHING.
Ladies, I know we all have our personal horror stories of the dude in the club who thinks because you danced to Sean Paul with him, you're going to birth his next three children. Here's my story:
My sister and I went to BK:NY, a club in Brooklyn, for Reggae Sundays - all reggae, all night. We get there and it's kinda dead, so we meet up with some of her friends and their friends. We're dancing, drinking and trying to entertain one another. After a few dances with some random dudes, I began dancing with one of the guys we'd met through my sister's friends - we'll call him Peter. We were joking, laughing, having a good time. Danced to one song. Grinded to another. Shimmy to the next. Popped on the one that followed. He goes to get a drink - I decline, citing the one I'd already had. Peter offers to get me a water. Cool. Comes back with the drinks and we're dancing. As I sip my water, I notice the dances getting a lot more provacative and aggressive as his cup empties. I don't mind breaking out the good hip roll for some reggae, so I obliged for a while.
Then, he went to get another drink. By now, the club is hopping - people are packed in the tiny store front from front to back. It's hot. For the next - um, 20 songs - Peter proceeds to press his body against mine and grind - even when the songs didn't warrant that type of dance. I'd step back and two step, trying to put some space between us. At first, I didn't notice how fast his personality was changing, but somewhere after the third time the pushed me up against the wall and humped my leg, I began to get the hint. He was grinding and holding my hand and rubbing my back - and even when I pushed him away, he'd just come back and do it again. He had me cornered and I couldn't get away. Dancing stopped being fun. I felt dirty. When I told him I was tired, he stood there, like he was guarding me from other men.
When he broke to take a potty break, I tried to regain my strength. As I held up the wall, this amazingly fine guy walked up and asked me to dance. I told him I was tired (because I honestly was) and he offered to just two-step with me. I obliged and we started talking. Just as the conversation started getting good, Peter walks up and looks dude up and down. Amazingly fine guy motions like "that's yours?" and Peter replies "yes."
I'm floored.
I try to wrap my head around what just happened as Amazingly Fine Guy walks away and I'm left again with sweaty, drunk Peter. Oh, something has got to give.
I tell Peter I've got to go to the bathroom and head to the back of the club. I'd seen Amazingly Fine Guy walk that way, and I wanted to find him and talk to him. He was standing near the big screen in the back when I grabbed his arm.
"Hey, wasn't I just dancing with you?" I ask. Don't laugh. I have no game. I can admit that.
"I thought old dude was your man," Amazingly Fine Guy asked. I shook my head vehemently "no." "So, ya'll aren't dating?"
"No."
I tell him how I appreciated how he was nice to me and wasn't pressuring me to dance. But that I wanted to dance with him. Now.
I grab his hand and we get lost in the music. "You know you only have like 5 minutes," Amazingly Fine Guy joked to me after I told him how I'd broken away from Peter. "It's okay," I said. "There's a line."
We danced and talked and then I turned to head back up front. For some reason, I felt some loyalty to this sweaty sleazy Peter, mostly because he wasn't just an anonymous guy in the club, he was a friend of a friend. I figured maybe my break had calmed him down, plus I wanted to get back to my sister so we could leave soon. So, I head back up front, and I'm stopped by another guy, whom my sister was dancing with earlier. We're talking when Peter comes up on the side of me.
And. Stands. There.
No this dude didn't follow me.
"That your man?" The guy asks. I shake my head vehemently no and tell him how I've been held hostage in a corner of the club. He tells me to shake old dude off and stay back there and dance. We continue talking and then, Peter grabs my hand and pulls. Hard.
My new found friend pulls back and gives Peter the ice grill. Peter won't let go and I'm honestly tiring of the whole charade and I'm ret to go anyway. So I tell my friend to take it easy and walk toward the front of the club - alone.
I tug at my sister's shirt. "I'm ready to go," I say. But the guy she's dancing with has engaged her in the conversation of life, so I'm stuck there, waiting. And of course, Peter comes up to keep me company.
All the while I'm waiting, I see Amazingly Fine Guy keep coming up to the front of the club where I am, for no particular reason. I think he's waiting to talk to me, but I can't tell because he never approaches. Peter continues trying to spit the same tired game he's been giving me all night:
So when can I see you again? Never.
Can I have your number? No.
If you take mine, will you call me? I don't have my phone and even if you write it down, no, I won't call.
Can I drive you home? NO.
Can I come to Rhode Island to see you? *Blank stare* No.
Finally, my sister is ready to leave. I thank Peter for the water and tell him to have a nice life. As I walk away, he looks like I just left him at the alter.
Fellas, never do you have the right to hem a girl up for the entire night. Even if you're feeling her, let her do her own thing for a while. If she likes you, she'll find you later. Let her breathe. I admit that I should have had more of a backbone and just kicked him or taken the out when my new friend gave me one. Sue me, I couldn't be mean. Now I know better. But even still, clinginess is never sexy.
Fellas, make a note.
Things like, the Points system for relationships; or you leave with what you came in with.
Well, today, I'm adding a rule from the sister's point of view:
A dance, is just a dance, is just a dance. I owe you exactly what it means: NOTHING.
Ladies, I know we all have our personal horror stories of the dude in the club who thinks because you danced to Sean Paul with him, you're going to birth his next three children. Here's my story:
My sister and I went to BK:NY, a club in Brooklyn, for Reggae Sundays - all reggae, all night. We get there and it's kinda dead, so we meet up with some of her friends and their friends. We're dancing, drinking and trying to entertain one another. After a few dances with some random dudes, I began dancing with one of the guys we'd met through my sister's friends - we'll call him Peter. We were joking, laughing, having a good time. Danced to one song. Grinded to another. Shimmy to the next. Popped on the one that followed. He goes to get a drink - I decline, citing the one I'd already had. Peter offers to get me a water. Cool. Comes back with the drinks and we're dancing. As I sip my water, I notice the dances getting a lot more provacative and aggressive as his cup empties. I don't mind breaking out the good hip roll for some reggae, so I obliged for a while.
Then, he went to get another drink. By now, the club is hopping - people are packed in the tiny store front from front to back. It's hot. For the next - um, 20 songs - Peter proceeds to press his body against mine and grind - even when the songs didn't warrant that type of dance. I'd step back and two step, trying to put some space between us. At first, I didn't notice how fast his personality was changing, but somewhere after the third time the pushed me up against the wall and humped my leg, I began to get the hint. He was grinding and holding my hand and rubbing my back - and even when I pushed him away, he'd just come back and do it again. He had me cornered and I couldn't get away. Dancing stopped being fun. I felt dirty. When I told him I was tired, he stood there, like he was guarding me from other men.
When he broke to take a potty break, I tried to regain my strength. As I held up the wall, this amazingly fine guy walked up and asked me to dance. I told him I was tired (because I honestly was) and he offered to just two-step with me. I obliged and we started talking. Just as the conversation started getting good, Peter walks up and looks dude up and down. Amazingly fine guy motions like "that's yours?" and Peter replies "yes."
I'm floored.
I try to wrap my head around what just happened as Amazingly Fine Guy walks away and I'm left again with sweaty, drunk Peter. Oh, something has got to give.
I tell Peter I've got to go to the bathroom and head to the back of the club. I'd seen Amazingly Fine Guy walk that way, and I wanted to find him and talk to him. He was standing near the big screen in the back when I grabbed his arm.
"Hey, wasn't I just dancing with you?" I ask. Don't laugh. I have no game. I can admit that.
"I thought old dude was your man," Amazingly Fine Guy asked. I shook my head vehemently "no." "So, ya'll aren't dating?"
"No."
I tell him how I appreciated how he was nice to me and wasn't pressuring me to dance. But that I wanted to dance with him. Now.
I grab his hand and we get lost in the music. "You know you only have like 5 minutes," Amazingly Fine Guy joked to me after I told him how I'd broken away from Peter. "It's okay," I said. "There's a line."
We danced and talked and then I turned to head back up front. For some reason, I felt some loyalty to this sweaty sleazy Peter, mostly because he wasn't just an anonymous guy in the club, he was a friend of a friend. I figured maybe my break had calmed him down, plus I wanted to get back to my sister so we could leave soon. So, I head back up front, and I'm stopped by another guy, whom my sister was dancing with earlier. We're talking when Peter comes up on the side of me.
And. Stands. There.
No this dude didn't follow me.
"That your man?" The guy asks. I shake my head vehemently no and tell him how I've been held hostage in a corner of the club. He tells me to shake old dude off and stay back there and dance. We continue talking and then, Peter grabs my hand and pulls. Hard.
My new found friend pulls back and gives Peter the ice grill. Peter won't let go and I'm honestly tiring of the whole charade and I'm ret to go anyway. So I tell my friend to take it easy and walk toward the front of the club - alone.
I tug at my sister's shirt. "I'm ready to go," I say. But the guy she's dancing with has engaged her in the conversation of life, so I'm stuck there, waiting. And of course, Peter comes up to keep me company.
All the while I'm waiting, I see Amazingly Fine Guy keep coming up to the front of the club where I am, for no particular reason. I think he's waiting to talk to me, but I can't tell because he never approaches. Peter continues trying to spit the same tired game he's been giving me all night:
So when can I see you again? Never.
Can I have your number? No.
If you take mine, will you call me? I don't have my phone and even if you write it down, no, I won't call.
Can I drive you home? NO.
Can I come to Rhode Island to see you? *Blank stare* No.
Finally, my sister is ready to leave. I thank Peter for the water and tell him to have a nice life. As I walk away, he looks like I just left him at the alter.
Fellas, never do you have the right to hem a girl up for the entire night. Even if you're feeling her, let her do her own thing for a while. If she likes you, she'll find you later. Let her breathe. I admit that I should have had more of a backbone and just kicked him or taken the out when my new friend gave me one. Sue me, I couldn't be mean. Now I know better. But even still, clinginess is never sexy.
Fellas, make a note.
Monday, August 28, 2006
An Open Letter
To you (you know who you are):
I know you see me.
Because I sure enough see you.
I see you - with your Super Bowl sized shopping cart filled to the brim with baked goods, Aquafina and raw beef - trying to pretend you don’t see me. But I’m right there, standing behind you in line, a bag of frozen salmon beneath one arm, an eight-pack of muffins beneath the other and a bag of shrimp in between my first finger and thumb holding on for dear life.
See me?
Yeah, I’m the one whose eyes are throwing daggers your way.
I shift the frozen fish beneath my arms as you take care to load your 16 pack of hot dog buns onto the conveyor belt. You pick through the bottom of your never-ending cart to pass more items toward the cashier.
Triple chocolate cake.
Tyson’s Hot Wings.
Jumbo-sized Shampoo.
Batteries.
You make me sick.
You and people like you. You’re the person who decides to wait until the end of the month to stock up on everything you need in life and then jump in the express line at Sam’s Club. As you unload your purchases, I, or someone like me, come up behind you.
I just ran in for a few items. I hadn’t expected to be in line for that long. I didn’t even need to pick up a shopping cart. I could hold it all in my hand. It's going on 15 minutes in line.
My arms are going numb now. You don’t seem to care.
Instead of saying, “oh, you can go ahead in front of me since you only have a few items,” you stubbornly continue to unload your cart onto the moving belt.
A 15-pack of college ruled notebooks.
Toilet paper.
Anti-freeze.
Truth be told, I probably don’t have the right to be mad. You were here before I was, standing in line a whole two seconds before me. It’s only right I should wait while you pay for enough supplies to last your family through winter hibernation.
Clam chowder.
Coffee creamer.
A folding lawn chair.
Rightfully or not, I am mad. I’m steaming, actually. I try not to let it show on my face as you look toward the back of your cart, averting your gaze to keep from locking eyes with me.
My salmon is on the floor now. My muffins, on the display of Gatorade to my left. I watch you unapologetically. I want you to see me staring at you.
I want you to see me waiting.
Twin-packed loaves of bread.
A dictionary.
A rotisserie chicken.
Finally, you make your way up to the checkout. The cashier swipes your card and begins transferring your purchases to an empty cart nearby. I move forward and place my seafood and muffins on the conveyor belt, being careful to put the plastic separator between our orders.
I look down to dig into my purse, so I can have my debit card and membership card at the ready when its finally my turn. As I raise my head, I wonder to myself what is taking so long.
My gaze finds you hunched over the credit card machine, but you’re not swiping plastic.
Are you really writing a check? No. Not now. Not today. Not ever.
You tear the perforated edges and hand the slip to the cashier, glancing back in my direction.
Oh, you want to see me now? What do you expect, a polite smile?
If so, you need to keep looking because you won’t find one here. I despise you and people like you. You make life hard for single people like me who just want to run into the store and grab enough fixings to make a bowl of spaghetti or a simple seafood supper tonight. If I hated things, you’d be at the top of the list. You and all of your groceries.
Sincerely,
T-Dot
I know you see me.
Because I sure enough see you.
I see you - with your Super Bowl sized shopping cart filled to the brim with baked goods, Aquafina and raw beef - trying to pretend you don’t see me. But I’m right there, standing behind you in line, a bag of frozen salmon beneath one arm, an eight-pack of muffins beneath the other and a bag of shrimp in between my first finger and thumb holding on for dear life.
See me?
Yeah, I’m the one whose eyes are throwing daggers your way.
I shift the frozen fish beneath my arms as you take care to load your 16 pack of hot dog buns onto the conveyor belt. You pick through the bottom of your never-ending cart to pass more items toward the cashier.
Triple chocolate cake.
Tyson’s Hot Wings.
Jumbo-sized Shampoo.
Batteries.
You make me sick.
You and people like you. You’re the person who decides to wait until the end of the month to stock up on everything you need in life and then jump in the express line at Sam’s Club. As you unload your purchases, I, or someone like me, come up behind you.
I just ran in for a few items. I hadn’t expected to be in line for that long. I didn’t even need to pick up a shopping cart. I could hold it all in my hand. It's going on 15 minutes in line.
My arms are going numb now. You don’t seem to care.
Instead of saying, “oh, you can go ahead in front of me since you only have a few items,” you stubbornly continue to unload your cart onto the moving belt.
A 15-pack of college ruled notebooks.
Toilet paper.
Anti-freeze.
Truth be told, I probably don’t have the right to be mad. You were here before I was, standing in line a whole two seconds before me. It’s only right I should wait while you pay for enough supplies to last your family through winter hibernation.
Clam chowder.
Coffee creamer.
A folding lawn chair.
Rightfully or not, I am mad. I’m steaming, actually. I try not to let it show on my face as you look toward the back of your cart, averting your gaze to keep from locking eyes with me.
My salmon is on the floor now. My muffins, on the display of Gatorade to my left. I watch you unapologetically. I want you to see me staring at you.
I want you to see me waiting.
Twin-packed loaves of bread.
A dictionary.
A rotisserie chicken.
Finally, you make your way up to the checkout. The cashier swipes your card and begins transferring your purchases to an empty cart nearby. I move forward and place my seafood and muffins on the conveyor belt, being careful to put the plastic separator between our orders.
I look down to dig into my purse, so I can have my debit card and membership card at the ready when its finally my turn. As I raise my head, I wonder to myself what is taking so long.
My gaze finds you hunched over the credit card machine, but you’re not swiping plastic.
Are you really writing a check? No. Not now. Not today. Not ever.
You tear the perforated edges and hand the slip to the cashier, glancing back in my direction.
Oh, you want to see me now? What do you expect, a polite smile?
If so, you need to keep looking because you won’t find one here. I despise you and people like you. You make life hard for single people like me who just want to run into the store and grab enough fixings to make a bowl of spaghetti or a simple seafood supper tonight. If I hated things, you’d be at the top of the list. You and all of your groceries.
I hope the bad things in life happen to you and only you, inconsiderate grocery line person. You make me sick.
Sincerely,
T-Dot
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Now we're listening to people in Prauge?
I know, I know, that's an elitist American kind of statement, but that's what I said when I heard about this. How you gonna just kick a planet out of the solar system?
CNN says:
After a tumultuous week of clashing over the essence of the cosmos, the International Astronomical Union stripped Pluto of the planetary status it has held since its discovery in 1930.
For now, membership will be restricted to the eight "classical" planets in the solar system: Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune.
I demand a revote.
No lie, Pluto was always my favorite planet. Something about it being a little different than the others and out in the middle of nowhere appealed to me. Pluto was like the renegade planet. The black sheep if you will.
No more.
I guess this means the old memory device goes out the window, huh?
CNN says:After a tumultuous week of clashing over the essence of the cosmos, the International Astronomical Union stripped Pluto of the planetary status it has held since its discovery in 1930.
For now, membership will be restricted to the eight "classical" planets in the solar system: Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune.
I demand a revote.
No lie, Pluto was always my favorite planet. Something about it being a little different than the others and out in the middle of nowhere appealed to me. Pluto was like the renegade planet. The black sheep if you will.
No more.
I guess this means the old memory device goes out the window, huh?
My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pies.
Turn off the oven, because there will be no more pie for us, guys.
Pluto, you will be missed.
*Pours some out for the departed planet.*
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Negros Ain't Bout Journalism
If Poynter is a journalistic oasis, then NABJ conventions are spring break.
It's not relaxing enough to completely re-energize you (in fact, I think I'm more tired now than I was before the convention), but you leave with so many good memories, you don't mind sacrificing the sleep.
To tell you the truth, most of the convention is a blur. Not because I was juiced up on some illicit substance, but because there were so many things competing for my attention.
Should I go to the Job Fair and lay ground work for my next move? That session on Hurricane Katrina looks pretty interesting. What, Mr. Recruiter? You want to take me out for coffee and talk about my future at your paper? Oh, Ten95, I'll be at the hotel suite for the social in a minute.
Not only was the schedule stimulating, I was in a sort of awkward position during this, my first NABJ-only convention. During UNITY, I was on the prowl for a job. Clearly, I'm now gainfully employed, so the familiar routine of trolling the job fair for ledes wasn't high up on my list. So, instead, I did something I haven't been able to do in a long time when it comes to my career:
I enjoyed myself.
I went to the sessions that interested me. After a long night of partying, I slept in until 9 a.m., then made my way to the job fair to drop off a few resumes and chat with mentors. I lunched with friends, had coffee with mentors and just soaked in the fact that I was surrounded by thousands of journalists who looked like me.
Besides serving as a mini-vacation, the convention also gave me the chance to chill with old friends, make new ones and cultivate relationships with journalists across the country. Shout out to the Ten95 clique, who kept me rolling, M.G. for being my partna in crime for much of the convention, and Dapper Don for buying me lunch when a chick was a little more than starving.
I can only imagine if we had this much fun in a city like Indy, the trouble we'll get into in Sin City.
NABJ 2007 - Vegas, here we come!
It's not relaxing enough to completely re-energize you (in fact, I think I'm more tired now than I was before the convention), but you leave with so many good memories, you don't mind sacrificing the sleep.
To tell you the truth, most of the convention is a blur. Not because I was juiced up on some illicit substance, but because there were so many things competing for my attention.
Should I go to the Job Fair and lay ground work for my next move? That session on Hurricane Katrina looks pretty interesting. What, Mr. Recruiter? You want to take me out for coffee and talk about my future at your paper? Oh, Ten95, I'll be at the hotel suite for the social in a minute.
Not only was the schedule stimulating, I was in a sort of awkward position during this, my first NABJ-only convention. During UNITY, I was on the prowl for a job. Clearly, I'm now gainfully employed, so the familiar routine of trolling the job fair for ledes wasn't high up on my list. So, instead, I did something I haven't been able to do in a long time when it comes to my career:
I enjoyed myself.
I went to the sessions that interested me. After a long night of partying, I slept in until 9 a.m., then made my way to the job fair to drop off a few resumes and chat with mentors. I lunched with friends, had coffee with mentors and just soaked in the fact that I was surrounded by thousands of journalists who looked like me.
Besides serving as a mini-vacation, the convention also gave me the chance to chill with old friends, make new ones and cultivate relationships with journalists across the country. Shout out to the Ten95 clique, who kept me rolling, M.G. for being my partna in crime for much of the convention, and Dapper Don for buying me lunch when a chick was a little more than starving.
I can only imagine if we had this much fun in a city like Indy, the trouble we'll get into in Sin City.
NABJ 2007 - Vegas, here we come!
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
"Girl, you so fine, I'd drink your bathwater..."
The drinks are gone, the dance floors have cleared and I'm still trying to catch up on all of the sleep I missed.
NABJ was a good time.
Check out my pictures here: http://picasaweb.google.com/TaliaBuford/NABJ
I'll post more later, but I just wanted to share this exchange I had with a good friend of mine around 9 a.m. today about a certain producer in the District of Columbia. Enjoy.
My buddy: "So, I peeped your Facebook pics and I've decided me and your girl Veronica need to meet."
Me: "You ain't ready for her jelly. She's in DC. Roadtrip, nigga."
Buddy: "I'll make a sandwich out of that jelly. How am I gonna look just appearing at her doorstep?
Me: "Like a stalker. But crazy is as crazy does."
Buddy: "I'm good. I don't need any additional charges."
He's right about that. V, watch your back. Looks like you have an admirer. I'll be sure to tell that nigga to watch his conduct. :-)
NABJ was a good time.
Check out my pictures here: http://picasaweb.google.com/TaliaBuford/NABJ
I'll post more later, but I just wanted to share this exchange I had with a good friend of mine around 9 a.m. today about a certain producer in the District of Columbia. Enjoy.
My buddy: "So, I peeped your Facebook pics and I've decided me and your girl Veronica need to meet."Me: "You ain't ready for her jelly. She's in DC. Roadtrip, nigga."
Buddy: "I'll make a sandwich out of that jelly. How am I gonna look just appearing at her doorstep?
Me: "Like a stalker. But crazy is as crazy does."
Buddy: "I'm good. I don't need any additional charges."
He's right about that. V, watch your back. Looks like you have an admirer. I'll be sure to tell that nigga to watch his conduct. :-)
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Somebody, ring the alarm...
...NABJ is coming.
I'm well rested from my Monday holiday. One of the perks of living in Rhode Island. Don't everybody rush to resettle here all at once, now.
Anyway, I'm amped. In just about 24 hours, I'll be in sunny Indianapolis rubbing elbows with some of the best in the business. Not to mention these jokers.
In the meantime, to all my sources: if you have a news tip - leave a message. I'm on vacay until Sunday.
Peace out!
I'm well rested from my Monday holiday. One of the perks of living in Rhode Island. Don't everybody rush to resettle here all at once, now.
Anyway, I'm amped. In just about 24 hours, I'll be in sunny Indianapolis rubbing elbows with some of the best in the business. Not to mention these jokers.
In the meantime, to all my sources: if you have a news tip - leave a message. I'm on vacay until Sunday.
Peace out!
Friday, August 11, 2006
I'm weak
I said I'd never join MySpace.
I spoke too soon.
www.myspace.com/taliabuford
But I have a good reason. My boy, Joe, who is overseas right now, has a page and will be making regular updates on his band's touring escapades. So he said to join, add him as a friend and I'd be sure to stay in the loop.
So I gave in. Ah well.
If you're on MySpace, and I haven't already hit you up, add me as a friend.
First Facebook. Then Blogger. Now MySpace. Like I needed something else to distract me from work. Geez.
I spoke too soon.
www.myspace.com/taliabuford
But I have a good reason. My boy, Joe, who is overseas right now, has a page and will be making regular updates on his band's touring escapades. So he said to join, add him as a friend and I'd be sure to stay in the loop.
So I gave in. Ah well.
If you're on MySpace, and I haven't already hit you up, add me as a friend.
First Facebook. Then Blogger. Now MySpace. Like I needed something else to distract me from work. Geez.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Reminisce
This originally came from Hizzle, and has made it's way to a few blogs. Figured I'd follow suit.
Ten years ago today, it was August 10, 1996.
1) How old were you?
THEN: 12
NOW: 22
2) Where did you work?
THEN: Um, Flint Southwestern Academy. I was in 7th grade, dude. I didn't have a job.
NOW: At a major newspaper in the Rhode Island
3) Where did you live?
THEN: Flint, Mich.
NOW: East Providence, RI
4) How was your hairstyle?
THEN: I was rocking the perm and the slicked back pony tail. My edges were TIGHT!
NOW: Natural and loving it. Currently sporting the mini-fro.
5) Did you wear contacts?
THEN: No.
NOW: No.
6) Did you wear glasses?
THEN: Yes, but I didn't wear them often just because I forgot.
NOW: Yup, now, sometimes I forget to take them off.
8) Which of your pets were still alive?
THEN: Pets? Rutha Mae wasn't going to stand for having more mouths to feed.
NOW: No pets in my apartment.
9) Who was your boyfriend/girlfriend?
THEN: Nobody. I was a late-comer to the social scene
NOW: Beyonce said it best: "Me, myself and I is all I got in the end"
10) Who was your celebrity crush?
THEN: I think I was leaning real hard on Larenz Tate.
NOW: I still love Larenz.
11) How many piercings did you have?
THEN: Two in each ear.
NOW: One in each ear.
12) How many tattoos did you have?
THEN: Zero.
NOW: None. Not really my style.
13) What was your favorite band/singer?
THEN: Fugees
NOW: I'm really feeling Miles Davis right now. But my favorite will always be Outkast.
14) Had you smoked a cigarette?
THEN: Smoking stinks. Yuck.
NOW: Negativo. I have, however, tried its green cousin. But only once. I didn't inhale.
15) Had you gotten drunk?
THEN: Not then. But it was coming.
NOW: Mojitos, anyone?
16) What kind of car did you drive?
THEN: Um, how about I rode the bus. Or got chauffeured in my mom's Buick LaSabre.
NOW: "Dee-Dee," my Chevy Cavalier
17) Looking back, are you where you thought you would be in 2006?
No way. I never thought I'd end up in Rhode Island. I don't even think New England was on my radar. I just knew I'd be out of Flint doing something with my life. I probably thought I'd be in Atlanta, which is where all people from Flint went to "be somebody."
Now, an addendum from my sister's blog:
I'll take this opportunity to make a few predictions for August 10, 2016.
Age: 32
Family: In a relationship with (or married to) a man who loves God and me. No prenups!
Job: Reporter or Editor for a good newspaper somewhere in the world. Teaching journalism at a local college, freelancing for a magazine or two.
Home: Three-bedroom condo or a 3-bedroom home.
Accomplishments: Preparing young minds for a life in the biz; recipient of some good industry awards (a Pulitzer would be nice); financially stable and student loans paid off; visited 3 to 5 different countries.
Volunteer work: Career and personal development with teenagers.
My ride: Something nice, simple and petite. Maybe a compact since Dee-Dee goes so hard.
Drinking: Sparingly, if at all.
Glasses: Indeed. It'll help me look sophisticated with my - by then - huge afro puff or twists.
Ten years ago today, it was August 10, 1996.
1) How old were you?
THEN: 12
NOW: 22
2) Where did you work?
THEN: Um, Flint Southwestern Academy. I was in 7th grade, dude. I didn't have a job.
NOW: At a major newspaper in the Rhode Island
3) Where did you live?
THEN: Flint, Mich.
NOW: East Providence, RI
4) How was your hairstyle?
THEN: I was rocking the perm and the slicked back pony tail. My edges were TIGHT!
NOW: Natural and loving it. Currently sporting the mini-fro.
5) Did you wear contacts?
THEN: No.
NOW: No.
6) Did you wear glasses?
THEN: Yes, but I didn't wear them often just because I forgot.
NOW: Yup, now, sometimes I forget to take them off.
8) Which of your pets were still alive?
THEN: Pets? Rutha Mae wasn't going to stand for having more mouths to feed.
NOW: No pets in my apartment.
9) Who was your boyfriend/girlfriend?
THEN: Nobody. I was a late-comer to the social scene
NOW: Beyonce said it best: "Me, myself and I is all I got in the end"
10) Who was your celebrity crush?
THEN: I think I was leaning real hard on Larenz Tate.
NOW: I still love Larenz.
11) How many piercings did you have?
THEN: Two in each ear.
NOW: One in each ear.
12) How many tattoos did you have?
THEN: Zero.
NOW: None. Not really my style.
13) What was your favorite band/singer?
THEN: Fugees
NOW: I'm really feeling Miles Davis right now. But my favorite will always be Outkast.
14) Had you smoked a cigarette?
THEN: Smoking stinks. Yuck.
NOW: Negativo. I have, however, tried its green cousin. But only once. I didn't inhale.
15) Had you gotten drunk?
THEN: Not then. But it was coming.
NOW: Mojitos, anyone?
16) What kind of car did you drive?
THEN: Um, how about I rode the bus. Or got chauffeured in my mom's Buick LaSabre.
NOW: "Dee-Dee," my Chevy Cavalier
17) Looking back, are you where you thought you would be in 2006?
No way. I never thought I'd end up in Rhode Island. I don't even think New England was on my radar. I just knew I'd be out of Flint doing something with my life. I probably thought I'd be in Atlanta, which is where all people from Flint went to "be somebody."
Now, an addendum from my sister's blog:
I'll take this opportunity to make a few predictions for August 10, 2016.
Age: 32
Family: In a relationship with (or married to) a man who loves God and me. No prenups!
Job: Reporter or Editor for a good newspaper somewhere in the world. Teaching journalism at a local college, freelancing for a magazine or two.
Home: Three-bedroom condo or a 3-bedroom home.
Accomplishments: Preparing young minds for a life in the biz; recipient of some good industry awards (a Pulitzer would be nice); financially stable and student loans paid off; visited 3 to 5 different countries.
Volunteer work: Career and personal development with teenagers.
My ride: Something nice, simple and petite. Maybe a compact since Dee-Dee goes so hard.
Drinking: Sparingly, if at all.
Glasses: Indeed. It'll help me look sophisticated with my - by then - huge afro puff or twists.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)