Ashy Knees and Stone Washed Jeans

Once while visiting my in-laws, I saw a picture of my husband as a child. He was about 7, and was wearing a tight t-shirt, red I think, and cut off stone washed jeans with ashy little legs and those 80's style glasses that looked more like protective goggles than anything that could improve one's sight. As a man, my husband is clean cut, wearing a low fade with no hint of the potential curl his fairly straight hair can have. As an ashy kneed little boy, he had a head full of hair, curly, shiny, and black, which only empasized the disparity between the size of his head and the size of the rest of his body. Whenever he mentions his childhood, I think of that image, with him walking on the side of the road in beat up, formerly white hight tops of no recognizable brand kicking the rocks in his path, carrying a Voltron lunchbox with a bookbag that was far to large on his back. I don't know how much truth there is to this image, but it's one that I hold dear. When given the opportunity to day dream, I imagine what a day in the life of this little boy must look like, and how much different it must have been from mine. . .

If he were 7 then I was 9 and living the life of an inquisitive child who never wanted for anything. I spent my days at school waiting for it to be over and my mother to come and get me from the afterchool program where I would cross stitch and make friendship bracelets. As a child, I enjoyed being outside in the sun, and as a result, my hair had faded to an Aboriginal red, worn in braids, and I managed to have ashy legs as well, as I have always suffered from overly dry skin. My glasses we also too large, and were designed in a way that made strangers stop me on the street and inform me that my glasses were upside down. I don't know if you've ever put on glasses upside down, but know that doing so requires some effort, and keeping them that way requires even more effort, so one would have to be a certified idiot to not notice their glasses were on upside down. But clearly, as children, we are at the mercy of our parents whims and awkward fashion sense, and decisions like those are often made hastily as you just want to get the hell out of the doctor's office. The rest of my fashion decisions revolved around Bart Simpson and cut off stone washed jeans. My book bag was too large, and I never had a lunch box as I always bought my lunch at school, but I did manage to kick every rock foolish enough to wind up in my path. . . That little girl couldn't be further from the woman I am today.

So in my day dreams, when I have the time to really committ to them, I think about the little boy and the little girl, both with ashy legs. I think about their mothers and how the little boy's mother loved herself more than her son and how the little girl's didn't love herself enough, and only loved her children. I do not think of the boy and girl in their teenage years. I don't care to ponder first kisses or our respective band or orchestral experiences. I just think of their lives on a random day at 7 and 9, both enjoying the sun of the south, both eager to learn in school, both with ashy little legs.

At some point, these awkward looking kids came to be not so awakward looking, and the split screen image of two kids carrying too big bookbags becomes one picture screen with two adults milling around the kitchen, talking about financial plans and starting a family. We chat about work and our futures and don't spend much time talking about the past anymore. At some point in our relationship, all we had to talk about was a time called "then." Now "then" has been replaced with "will," and in an effort to ensure we never tread on "then" again, so that "then" never causes us to look back, we simply never talk about "then."

But I still think about "then," and I see him on his stroll down the street after school, I on my ride on the school bus, and both of us, looking to the same sky, la misma sol, and wondering what was next for us even though, at that time, there was no "us." Just a "me" and a "him" in different places but at the same time. And no matter how different our days were, we were still the same skinny kids with cut-off stone washed jeans and ashy knees.

The First 48

On November 7, 2002 at 3:47 a.m. I received a call from my grandfather requesting my presence at his home as soon as possible as my uncle had "gone crazy." As my car pulled up to my grandparent's home on the south side of Chicago, dozens of police officers milled around the front of the home seeking a way to gain entrance. On the ground beneath my grandfather's window lay the body of my uncle, knife in hand, eyes wide open. Within the house, in the closet in my grandfather room lay my grandmother's body, strangled, bludgeoned and stabbed beyond recognition, preventing an open casket at her funeral. That night comes back to me in flashes, triggered by a smell, a sound, a familiar phrase that I thought I had forgotten but still sits in my unconscious. . . Two years and some days later, I stood at the side of my father's body, grasping a still warm hand and trying with every fiber of my being to will some life into it. I remember his face, prostrate in death with some sort of resuscitation system protruding from his mouth, but that memory comes and goes. In similar flashes, I always remember his hands, and how large and callous they were, and the fact that they were still warm and pliable, as if he would wake up at anytime to tell me not to change the channel because he was just "resting his eyes."

Since then, it occurred to me that I watch a lot of crime. My husband and friends find this to be morbid, but I spend the majority of my television time watching people who have or will have some direct involvement with the penal system. At first it was Law and Order, but soon the crimes became predictable and boring. I used to watch forensic files but there are only so many paint and fiber samples out there before you realize - OKAY you can't get away with crime. I get it. So now its reality t.v. I will watch ANYTHNG - prison documentaries, court shows, serial killer documentaries, medical examiner specials, you name it. . . And then I found The First 48. For those of you not familiar, its an hour long show that focuses on the first 48 hours after a murder has been committed. It features real footage, real crime, and no fairy tales or reenactments. I mentioned this show to my mother, who whistled in disgust and told me that she couldn't stand to watch anything like that because "it's just too sad."

And at that moment, it occurred to me what that is exactly why I like it.

The flashes of the body always show the hands and the feet, a dramatic piano chord emphasizing the change in camera angles. The officers work so diligently to try to figure out what happened and depending on where they are, Little Haiti or Liberty City or Phoenix, or Memphis, and do their best to catch the killer. I like to think that the officers who were at my grandmother's house spent as much time piecing together a story, but I can only dream right? There are family members who need to be notified. I wait with baited breath as a mother, who looks much like mine, is told that her youngest son has been found dead in the street. She falls to the ground, much like my mother did, and wails. I study this and I wonder how grief became such a universal feeling, and that nothing is more of an assault on the senses than the cries of someone in grief. The stoic are forgotten, as I was, the one who chose not to share with the world that I was in complete misery. Instead I watch the grief of others, unable to outwardly identify and commiserate. Every night I tune into A & E, knowing what every wail, every question, thought, blank stare and fallen tear means.

Its not something that I am proud of. I troll the news reading the most grotesque stories and wait for whatever MOST SHOCKING episode is coming on next to see if there is the opportunity to understand and identify with. Does that make me sick? Iono. Probably. When I'm sad, I listen to sad music. Why? Because whoever wrote or sang the song understands what the hell I'm feeling right now, and that's all i really want - Someone who can say "Hey, I been there, too, and in fact, i wrote a song about it. Like to hear it? Here it go." If I were ever asked why I watch these shows, I would become defensive and deny that there is anything wrong with it, and to me, there isn't. I am surrounded by people who will never know what its like to make funeral arrangements or write an obituary for someone who you just spoke to yesterday, and every day I lead them to believe that I am just like them - that I don't know what's its like to have to keep your composure when your heart is broken. But for an hour every night, and if i'm lucky even two, there is at least someone out there who knows what its like to hear that your world - from this day forward and forever, will be changed and it will TOTALLY SUCK- and I find comfort in that.

Six Glags Over. . . Death . . .

Little Joey, in his newly won Superman cape, thought that if he took off as fast as he could, he would take flight just as Superman would, because apparently, its all in the cape. And for about 10 feet, he built his momentum so much that his mousy brown hair blew back and lifted his tiny little arms, prepared to take off into the atmosphere. But he put his head down, and this mistake almost proved fatal as Joey bounded directly into the belly of a woman approximately eight times his size. She let out a guttural "oomph" and placed her hands on his shoulders, spinning him around and shoving him back in the direction from which he came. Embarassed and very, very angry that his cape appeared to be a dud, he walked back over to his mother and his twin, who was donned in a more sensible Batman cape, red faced and looking for blood. Having witnesses this entire exchange from afar, I attemtped to smile at Little Joey as we walked past, but he was more interested in removing that smug look on his brother's face, ignoring his mother's taunts of, "You didn't really think you could FLY, did you?"

For my son's 10th birthday (that's right. I said TEN) we went to Six Flags Great America. For the record, I fucking HATE amusement parks. ALL of them. As an albatross around the neck of fun, I find amusement parks to be offensive systems designed to prey upon the basic human need to be entertained by presenting such humans with contraptions that can, if inappropriately used, kill your dumb ass dead. One loose screw and that is all she wrote, which is why I choose life over three minutes of feeling like I am going to die, which I would only experience after waiting TWO FUCKING HOURS in a never ending maze of metal bars and pre-teen white girls. . . Shoot me in my head, please and thank you.

Did I mention it was hot? Hot and crowded and just chocked full of teenagers. The only thing I hate worse than teenagers is female circumcision. That's right, I said it. If someone said "Be a teenager again or else we'll cut off your labia with a rusty tin can, then sew up your vagina with used dental floss," I would think to myself "Who needs labia ANYWAY?" Fat ones, skinny ones, ones whose shorts were too short, ones whose pants were too big, some matching, some dressed like they didn't have parents. So we had to wade through these musty children in heat through glaring sunlight and humidity to look at other people pretend as if being swung around in a circle at 75mph is one of life's greatest pleasures. . . Clearly, they need to get out more often .

So i brought my partner albatross in crime, BFF Danielle, with me so that I would have someone to complain to as I hold purses and bookbags of the people who choose to risk their lives on these precarious contraptions. Danielle doesn't even get on escalators if she can avoid it so I knew i would have some company as I take advantage of the BEST thing these hell holes have to offer: Carnival food. Turkey legs, corn on the cob, funnel cake, slushies, italian ice, funnel cake, and one more funnel cake. And then we played Dance Dance Revolution. I have never played it before and I can only come to one conclusion:

This is THEE best game EVER MADE. . .

This is the kind of game my fat ass needs to keep the weight off. I havent seen the home version but I can imagine it sucks because you really need to whole contraption to get the real effect. So Danielle and I looked like Oaktown 357 on crack, doing these poorly coordinated dance moves to really really bad Japanese house music. We also played House of the Dead, and if you are ever in a house that has been over run by the living dead, Danielle is who you want to have with you. Not only is she a damn good shot, but you can offer her as a sacrificial distraction so you can run away. . .

Really. Its the most fun I could muster. . .

BUT my son had a great time, and that's all that really matters. . . We make sacrifices for our children . . .

"I like someone."

The best moments are always the small ones, shared while standing barefoot in the kitchen while splitting a turkey bacon sandwich on ciabatta bread.

"Really?" I said. "What's his name?" Yes. I know i said "his" and the reason i said "his" is that i was unprepared for the idea that my son could possibly have romantic intentions towards a girl because, up until this point, he had always considered girls to just be awkwardly shaped boys. So my assumption was that he had found a new friend. . . And he had, but

"Its a her and her name is Katie."

Its at this point I take a look at my son. I think about how it felt 10 years ago, having something kick you in the stomach from the inside, and then what he looked like when her cried at 3 months, and how his eyes would get real big when the camera would flash while he played in his stationary walker. I loved his little fat legs and when i look at those same legs now, they've thinned out, scarred up, and are always covered in a fine layer of ash. On his arms are always the faint stain of water based markers, and under closer scrutiny, i see the faded green stain of "I Love Katie." This makes me smile.

"So tell me about Katie." He takes a bite of the sandwich and chews it thoughtfully, trying to put into words what it is about Katie that makes her so awesome, he can even tell his mom about her. . .

"She's really nice."

This makes me wonder, "What does she look like?" My son could absolutely care less about someone's appearance. If you ever have concerns about your handicapped, retarded, blind, one eyed, overweight deaf child making friends, please, invite us over. I can guarantee that if this kid can move one hand to play a video game, Miles can make this person a friend. Its really one of the things I love about him. Regardless of my biting wit and negativity, he has fought my genetics and was born a wonderfully positive person, seeing the good in damn near everyone. And oh my god what if she's white? I live in Marlborough, so what else COULD she be? Not wanting to let him think it matters, I ask

"So what color is her hair? Is she blonde?"

"Its brown."

"Dark brown? Curly? Light?"

"Not dark, kinda light, really. . . Long."

So i considered this and decided that it didn't matter what Katie looks like. Hell, MY first boyfriend was white. Tom Blalock, I still think about you, even though Michael Shoemaker said our kids would look like zebras. So instead of pursuing that trail, I ask,

"Well, does she know you like her?" I ask so i can start developing the plan to help Miles woo her, but before i can tell him what song to play outside of her window "Say Anything" style, he tells me

"Yes. I'm not shy around her."

Well. . . That's how I know this is real love. But with real love, there comes the chance of heartbreak. As a mother, the last thing I would ever want it my son's heart broken. So i think about that for a second. Miles decides he doesn't like the sandwich, and I thank him for at least trying the food. We talk about mangoes as I have them sitting on our counter, and he tells me that he's never tried one. So i slice one open and offer him a piece. he thinks its sweet, to which i say,

"So, does she like you, too?" This is important. In my head i see him offering her a flower, and her smacking it out of his hand and spitting in his eye. I smile smugly to myself as i think of Miles belting her in the gut after that, but as I cut another slice of mango, he tells me

"Yes she likes me too, but she told me to keep it a secret."

WTF? I think. What is she ASHAMED of you? huh?So I ask, "Why?"

"Her best friend, Courtney? Yeah, she hates me." (Sigh of relief) The ole girlfriend-is-a-hater deal. I know that one all too well, having been the hater and the hated's girlfriend. He goes on to explain that he and Courtney were in the 3rd grade together, and she's hated him since then. I, of course, think Courtney is a racist bitch, but won't say that to Miles. I hope that he will be better than me. As we finish the mango, my husband walk into the kitchen for a piece. I whisper to Miles, "Can I tell him?"

He shakes his head no. . .

He jumps down off of his stool and heads upstairs to take his shower.

Moment over, but I'll never forget it. . .

The 7 Month Itch

So . . .

I've been married six months now. Yep. Officially six months on the 4th of February, so I'm actually closer to the seven month mark. What that means to me is that I can now call myself a relationship expert. That's right, I am going to go on the motivational speaking circuit hawking my knowledge in book and vitamin capsule form (Yes, there is a vitamin supplement for marriage. Its called "semen." It keeps you looking young.) and one day I will even have a 2 hour infomercial at 2 am on what was formerly court tv, now tru tv. I know you're wondering, "What makes you so qualified?" Let me share with you a few things. . .

Remember that philosophy that everything you REALLY needed to learn, you learned in kindergarten? Well thats the basis of my relationship expert credentials. I learned, during my first week of marriage, that the kind of shit that would get you cut from the team when I was single will not only NOT get you cut from the team, but I'm actually supposed to "work through" the shit. Talk about COMMITMENT. For example, during the first week of marriage, I found out my husband had actually spoken to an ex, via text message. Single Me's first reaction was to play it cool and shoot secret text messages to one of my exes, just to prove a point - that point being revenge. But nooooo. I's married now, and as a married woman, you have to WORK THROUGH whatever may be bothering you. So instead of playing it cool over dinner, I TOTALLY spazzed out, and damn near ruined dinner. Then I shut up, and we went home, where I picked right back up again with being angry . . . And again the next night. Which leads me to that whole "Never go to bed angry" thing.

I go to bed angry ALL THE TIME. Chris Rock says that you've never been in love until you have thought about killing the object of your affection. I figure once you decide to marry that person, that triples the number of homicidal thoughts on any given day. Going to bed angry gives you an opportunity to plan the perfect murder, up to and including where to dump the body, and how to explain your beloved's "disappearance." It also gives you the opportunity to think yourself OUT of murder because really, unless you can lift your husband's dead weight alone, I wouldn't bother. Accomplices equal witnesses which equals state's evidence. Snitching is the new black and the whole point is to get AWAY with it, and you can't do that when your best friend's skin cells are under your husband's fingernails and she all in the interrogation room, crying and telling on you. So now that you've talked yourself out of strategically placing a pillow over your spouse's face, you are left to your own devices, laying in the dark, and soon, you begin to contemplate a solution that doesn't include manslaughter. And of course, men have no such problems with falling asleep during a long, drawn out conversation about the lack of romance in the marriage, or the fact that he never says "how was your day?" And since he's sleep, and given you the chance to come up with a solution, why don't you just wait until the morning?

Because I don't want to, dammit.

So now he's more annoyed because you woke him up to share your epiphany, and you don't like his tone, and next thing we know, you're fighting about the bad attitude and say dumb shit like "I don't know why you're made, but whatever it is, you don't have to take it out on ME." Once my husband revealed to me, during one of these late night conversations, that he envisioned himself bludgeoning me with a wine bottle. At that point, I knew he loved me, and while I was still a little miffed because he wouldn't listen to my epiphany, I went to sleep anyway. It was either that or risk being bludgeoned. My point is, if you're tired, take your ass to sleep. The anger can wait until the morning where the chance of conjuring Satan during the witching hour is greatly reduced.

And you want to know what else I've learned in my almost 7 months of marriage? Only people who don't have jobs have a lot of sex. When I get home, I'd like to have 20 minutes of silence and solitude, and sex isn't included in that silence and solitude. In fact, that's almost the opposite. But I have also learned that I need to outsource some shit. In my mind, I have to work, be a mother, teacher, maid, cook, pet sitter, and sex goddess on top of being funny, informed and cute. . . Ummmmm . . . I didn't sign up for all that shit, so it occurred to me after a very random conversation with my husband about maids last week, that hiring a cleaning lady might NOT be such a bad idea. And I'm a mother, not a school teacher, and dammit, I just don't understand why my kid can't understand long division. You just friggin DIVIDE!! So maybe I should hire a tutor too. . . and a dog walker, and maybe someone to cook once a week or so. Then all that leaves me to do is work, be a mom that loves her kid regardless of his long division skills, and still be a funny, informed, and cute sex goddess. I'll let you know how that works out.

Another thing that I have learned about this whole marriage thing is that you really have to behave yourself. My husband is kinda cute, and really nice, and other women notice that too. When I was single, I considered the idea of cutting a bitch to be beneath me. Why bother? Men are like buses - another will be along in 10 minutes and if you're in Chicago, they line up behind each other. But now that I am married, if I even THINK i see you flirting with my properly tagged husband (He's wearing a RING, bitch!) you just might be risking your life. I got a lot invested in this relationship, and all i need is some skank to come along and cause Hillary Clintonesque problems. I ain't Hillary. I WILL cutta bitch. And the men who flirt with me get treated so wrong. I know you might not have seen my enormous ring from across the room, but once you got closer you should have, so WHY are we STILL talking? I once pointed at my ring to inform a man that I was taken, and his response was "So what? I got one of them too." Word!? Now I'm DEFINITELY interested. In fact, let's continue talking until one of Moses' tablets falls on your head from Heaven - the one with "Thou shalt not be a cheating asshole" chiseled on the front. You know, when I first got married, I received a congratulatory email from a friend who was also recently married. In that email, he called himself imparting words of wisdom which included me "staying on top of my game" so that no other woman would have the opportunity to "take my place." My initial response to that was to tell old friend to kiss my ass. In fact, that's my present response. (Old Friend, Kiss my ass!) I took offense to this because it implies that my husband finding my replacement could possibly be MY fault. Not to say that I'm perfect, but if you think I'm not sucking it enough, why can't you just SAY that versus finding you a hot, young, fashion-challenged intern to suck it? That says a lot about the spouse's character, not mine, so I can't appreciate the unsolicited advice. . . In fact, do i EVER?

And another part of this whole "behaving yourself" thing is the way you talk to your spouse. There are plenty of days where my husband looks at my annoyed face, and asks "What's wrong?" If I don't want to talk about it, I can't just say "I don't want to talk about it" because that will only further peak his curiosity. I usually deny there is a problem. He will continue to ask, I will continue to deny and i finally want to say "Please, go fuck yourself. " BUT, I am his wife, and saying "go fuck yourself" to someone you married might be a clear indication of the fact that you shouldn't have gotten married. *Like, tell us how you really feel.* So every communication that I have is a carefully crafted message that consists of a subject, a predicate, a term of endearment, and a peck on the cheek. THIS TAKES WORK, especially when you're on the rag.

Still on the subject of being nice: I am a junky person by nature. I tend to just have a lot of things, and not a lot of places to put those things, nor a lot of inclination to do so, therfore those things seem to accumulate and eventaully refuse to be tamed. My son is the same way. Its in his genetic code to be junky. To the contrary, my husband would live like he was in a college dorm room if I let him, meaning that he has a few things that mean a lot to him - like gaming consoles and a flat screen tv and wouldnt have sheets on his bed. He's neat, and what i mean by "neat" is that he can be anal. Not chronically anal, just anal enough to get on my nerves which leads me to something else I have learned about being married: Living with other people sucks ass. Period. People have to eat (which means dishes) and poop (sharing the bathroom). They read and watch TV (electric bills) and are alway hot or cold (higher electric bills). But when you're married, you don't have the option of NOT living together. Okay well you DO but then it would be clear that you got married just to get your green card. This person is not just some roomate who covers half the bills and isnt really around too much. This person LIVES here. They not only use the bathroom and eat and breath YOUR air, they also sleep in your bed and wear your clothes when you're not around. Yes, you LOVE that person, which is why you would rather see them dead then up and walking around, eating the LAST KLONDIKE BAR (Oh no, he didn't!).

Oh yes, he did. . .

It's called COMMITMENT, and if you mix the letters around, it spells, I'M A GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT and if you add an E, it says, "I HAVE KILLED PEOPLE FOR LESS." Basically, nothing will prepare you for the task set before you - Nothing that is, but ME, your relationship guru, sensei, and dean of romantic affairs. I KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT. I've been married for almost 7 months!

So for my break-out session entitled "I'm Too Cute for Frogs" (as part of my awesome lecture series), I will focus on the one thing I know for sure - You have to kiss a lot of frogs to realize that you are in fact, kissing frogs. You're not only gross for kissing amphibians, but you're crazy. Get some help. Set your sights a little higher. I'm not kissing frogs to find a prince. Kiss some princes to find a prince. Make your list of demands clear, and don't compromise. A deal breaker is a deal breaker. If he likes for you to rub him down with crisco and chase him around the house like a pig, and you're not into that kinky shit, you need to determine if this IS a deal breaker. If its not, then add that to your freaky list of shit to try. If it is, then run, bitch, he crazy! All I'm saying is don't settle. I have dated a man too immature to realize that he didn't have to lie to kick it, a perpetual dreamer with the habit of just NOT being there when I needed him, and a bi-polar alcoholic. But I liked the strong sense of family, the creative genius, and someone who knew how to have fun, and neglected to stick to my deal breakers (emotional neglect, verbal abuse, etc). Had I stuck to my guns and drawn the line at the foolishness, I could have saved a total of 5 years, a kid and 2 abortions. . . Listen to your instincts, ESPECIALLY when they say "Run, bitch! He crazy!" This applies to marriage too. Don't ever think murd- I mean divorce is not an option.

Love is a beautiful thing. I know it is. I love my husband with every inch of my being, even though he is the person MOST likely to get on my VERY LAST DAMN NERVE. But we're married and in LOVE. I also know that love is an emaciated, hairy, toothless harpy that will rip out your heart and consume it with a side of sardines and chocolate shake. Yet this is the risk we must take to enjoy the five moments of happiness that will be for naught when the one moment of negativity makes itself known. A second's hesitation when answering the question, "Honey, do i look fat/stupid/like an oompa loompa?" and the roses you bought last night might as well be flushed down the toilet with our fragile emotions. Its really a gamble out here in these mean love streets. Hell, match.com AND eharmony told me I was too weird for human companionship. AND they wanted me to pay 19.99 for that bullshit. . . Point - you gotta take some chances. A myspace profile and 2 and a half years later, I'm sitting here giving YOU love advice from the lofty perch of the pedestal of the recently married because I know everything there is to know about LOVE. . .

So all I need now is a title to my awesome lecture series/motivational speaking/life coaching. I was thinking I would call it "All i need to know about marriage i learned in the first almost 7 months" but that seems a little wordy. I think I'll just settle with "A Guide to Recognizing Your Stalkers: Pimpin' Ain't Easy."

See you on the speaking circuit!

Deepak Chopra Ain't Got Nothin' On Me . . .

Let's talk about God . . .
Or as I like to call him, Sammy. Sammy and I have always had a somewhat tenuous relationship. Well, I won't say tenuous, like he's an absentee father or something. I'd describe it more as "non-existent." . . . Like an absentee father. I was not raised in anyone's church, so when we moved to Chicago at age 13, I resented the fact that my presence was required in church as a condition of my family being allowed to live in my grandmother's dark, cold and cramped basement. St. Mark United Methodist Church is a pretentious brick and mortar building filled with all of the guilt of Catholocism, and none of the joy and reverence of a black church. The twenty foot pipe organ would belt out the classical versions of "His Eye is on the Sparrow" and "Oh Happy Day" and I would writhe in agony as Mrs. Slaughter would belt out the lead in a horribly immitated operatic rendition of "Swing low, sweet chariot." But i attended faithfully throughout high school, having found a reasonably entertaining social outlet in the Youth Choir . . . and my first legitimate boyfriend, Sean. Every Tuesday we would meet and catch up on high school drama and even start a little of our own because as teenagers, all we knew was drama. In retrospet, I feel sorry for Sean who dealt with every blow of my pendulimic, neurotic, and irrational emotions. When I left for school, Sean intact, I returned pregnant (sans Sean) and was asked not to return. Not by the mothers of the church or the pastor, but by my own grandmother, who was ashamed of my big belly and naked ring finger. . . When I returned home with a big big pretty baby, her sentiment changed, but the damage was done. I refused to go to church and in doing so, placed Sammy on the back burner.

Not to say that Sammy was on the forefront of my mind while I was in church. . .

In fact, I never really gave Sammy too much thought. I spent all my time thinking about how to make life miserable for Sean. I wasn't happy unless he was miserable. Call it teenage love. So while I spent all my time sabotaging anything Sean had going, I really neglected Sammy. It was like hanging out at a friend's house. You never really thought much about their parents being there. You just liked hanging out with your friend. You don't really take the opportunity to get to know your friend's parents, even though they are RIGHT THERE, almost waiting for you to ask them for words of wisdom. But you don't ask. You look at them like they're old and gross and out of touch. And not to say that Sammy is old and gross, but he might as well have been because I ignored him like a homeless man in the street beggin for change. . .


So in college, got knocked up, banished and then I finally found the relationship I was looking for. I found true love, and like any fool for love, i did exactly what I thought that true love wanted me to do: I went to church. Mount Zion Missionary Baptist church started out as a modest, delapidated black church right on Jefferson street (aka Da Hood) in Nashville, run by a charismatic young pastor named Bishop Joseph Warren Walker (Jay Dub Dub as we call him in da streets). But by the time I got around to going to Mt. Zion, it was being held in TSU's basketball stadium as the meager church could no longer contain the massive congregation comprised mostly of black college students. Soon we moved into a massive megastructure built into the side of a mountain, and JWW would remind us at every tithing that the light bill to this place was 32k a month. . . He would also remind us about how awesome his car was (escalade) and would mention that he didn't need our time, he needed our money. Really, JWW? I'm trying to listen to "Holy Ground" and you're making me feel bad about some lights to a place in which I do NOT live? . . I thought this guy was a big fat joke, but would keep going because I liked the singing, and getting dressed up, showing up, hand in hand with the man i loved. . . Its just too bad he didnt love me. Wait, I'll strike that. Maybe he DID, but as much as someone who was being crushed under the weight of my undying affection, and wanted to know what it was like to breathe could muster. . . We broke up on a saturday and the next day i took the liberty of sleeping in. He called me later that day and told me that he had hoped I would go to church despite what had happened. I told him that he, Jay Dub, and God could all line up, in that order, to kiss my ass. . . He has always known I was a skeptic, distrusting of all "men of God" and this confirmed it for him. Just as he wasnt ready for my love, I wasnt ready for Sammy. . .

I generally do not spend a lot of time entertaining coversation about my spiritual preferences because, frankly my dear, its none of your damn business.Its like asking me if I'm menstruating. You're really pushing it. But lately, I've been thinking about Sammy a lot. . .

Allow me to quote the serenity prayer:

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

As a control freak, I am generally not one to who does well with the idea that i don't have some control over something, so as far as I'm concerned, there is no "acceptance of the things I cannot change" because I should be able to change all things. For example, when my father died, i spent months thinking there was something i could have or should have done to prevent his death, as he demonstrated signs of heart disease for months leading up to his death. One particular instance, about 6 weeks before he died, he had blacked out while driving. He went to the hospital and the doctor asked him to stay for testing. He didnt have insurance, and because of that, he chose not to. He asked me what I thought, and I said "I think you should stay, but its up to you." I know that if i had emphatically insisted that he stay for tests, he would have as he did everything I said, and they might have found the blockage that killed him before it did. . . In my thinking, that is something I could have controlled. . . At least it was until I started thinking about Sammy again . . .

So I am in transition. I am realizing that at some point, you have to let go of the things you don't have control over. What are these things, you ask? Damn near everything. I only have marginal control over my car, my kid, my dog, even myself as I damn near dislocated my shoulder by walking too close to the wall when turning a corner. Damn walls . . . So now that I have acknowledged the lack of control in my life, i now must acknowledge the fact that something guides us. Some small pilot light within us ignites the machine that is our bodies and guides us through our lives. It lead Jesse Cooper to sit on that bike that eventually threw him into a pole and split his body in half. I can't help but think in some twisted way that, that was supposed to happen. . . For every freak accident, there are a dozen freak accident near misses which again provides the proof that i need to let me know that I'm not in control of the situation. . . ANY situation. . . Which brings me to faith . . .

The substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen (thanks Am) implies that I should just believe all willy nilly about something I can't see. . . like the trust test, i should allow myself to fall into the potentially incompetent arms of my idiot coworkers. See the cynicism there? Sammy isn't incompetetn, and I know this, but I'm still coming to terms with the fact that I should close my eyes and just fall . . . fall into what? Sanctimonious bible thumpers who will cast me into hell because of my pierced ears and tattoos? Judgemental hypocrites who have one eye on the sparrow and have the other firmly planted on my husband? And what about the Jay Dub Dubs of the world, who don't want my time, but my money?

Religion gets in the way of Sammy. . . I don't want religion. I want Sammy and I to come to an understanding. . . a relationship. . . a conclusion. . . I like all the good things that church has to offer, but like a job you like, the good things rarely outweight the bad. I see the advantages of church. I see how people walk in in a bad way and leave with their spirit lifted and a whole new focus and while that new focus only lasts a week, hell next Sunday, you're back again, getting all that unfocusness straightened out and that's all I'm really looking for - a little focus. . . Hell, alot of focus. . .

I didnt pen this blog to ask for advice as to how to find a church home or how to study a book about Sammy but to allow myself the opportunity to kind of let Sammy know that he's on my mind, and somewhere in my heart. . .

Don't You Believe It . . .

There is a myth being perpetuated by the media. On every show, from Oprah to Good Morning America, MTV and any show on Oxygen, you will see formerly sexy yet still somewhat attractive women encouraging you, Average American Woman, to try something that has long been considered taboo: stripping. Its been tamed down to nice words like "stripper aerobics" or "fit to strip" but they're all just whore-in-training classes. They stand there in their provocative workout gear topped with clear heels, smiling and claiming that not only will you be in shape, but your man will be happy. And how do they know what will make your man happy? They're strippers! If anyone knows how to make a man happy, its someone who takes their clothes off for men. . . and lesbians. They KNOW what men like because if they didn't, they would have gone to college like the rest of us non-sexy hag bags. They glide effortlessly around the pole like sexy little fairies, smiling and making you believe that you, too, can be the world's sexiest, most confident woman. That's right, Average, Working, Haven't-Had- Sex-in-Weeks, Have-You-Let-Yourself-Go American Woman, bring sexy back into your home. "You, too, can look like ME. . .(gliding around the pole, clear heels gleaming in the spotlight). "

Well hell, I want to look like you . . . I want my man to be pleased. I want to be more sexy, and fun and confident. . . I want to bring sexy back (damn you Justin Timberlake).

I have always been interested in strippers. I have never considered stripping for myself as I don't like strangers trying to touch me, but one way I get acclimated to a new place is to check out the strip clubs. You can always tell the quality of the town by the quality of their strippers and whores. . . and drug dealers but thats another blog. There aren't any strip clubs in my town, which mean my town SUCKS, but I have been to every strip club in chicago, a few in vegas, nashville, champaign, etc, etc, etc. I think its interesting, and my husband likes that I think its interesting so I get little, if any, objection when I say, "Let's go look at some vaginas."

So now its time to find someplace where I can learn to be sexy. As I don't have any local friends, I don't have anyone's opinion to follow so I looked online. I couldn't exactly find a stripper aerobics/fit to strip class, so I settled for a purely exotic dancing class at a place called Gypsy Rose. So lemme tell you about Wendy, the CEHo of Gypsy Rose (Her words, not mine!) Wendy is a mildly attractive middle aged whore who stripped her way to a master's in Medieval history, which would explain why she currently teaches stripping because you can't get a real job with a masters in Medieval history. Another interesting thing about Wendy is that she has been on The Montell Williams Show because her dance studio is inhabited by otherworldly beings. I kid you not, when she dances, she is surrounded by orbs and ribbons one can only be seen on camera. . . Of course, this was tremendously comforting to someone as high anxiety as me (What if i trip over your orbs? I'm not signing anything!). She'll be going back to Montell to talk to my favorite psychic, Sylvia Brown, to find out what about her dancing attracts heavenly bodies. . . I'm sure when I dance there are little demons dancing around, laughing and pointing, but you can only see them when you're tripping on acid. . .

So on with the class. . .

I arrive, wearing shorts and a I LOVE MY HUBBY t-shirt, and knee high tube socks. NOTHING says sexy like knee high tube socks. I brought heels, but they weren't trampy enough, so she asked me to wear a pair of calf-length patent leather boots with a buckle on them and. . . you guessed it, clear heels. What's a whore without clear heels? We had to sign a waiver that she seems to think will cover her ass in the case of an accident (little does she know, that if she's been negligent, waivers mean jack shit) and got to listen to her talk about her experience, which includes stripping in LA and London, and authoring two books: The Idiot's Guide to Pole Dancing and The Deaths of the Popes. . . Yes, she wrote a book about all the deaths of all of the popes. . . I know. You're impressed. In fact, she aspires to travel to the Vatican and explore the catacombs of the Vatican City. Clearly she has missed her calling so after all that Pope talk, she proceeded to give us a sample of what we will do in the class.

*que the gay, house version of Rick James' "Superfreak"*

It was at this point that I realized that I was in the wrong class. . . Not only did she do alot of self touching, but she tried to dominate me. (Not that self touching is wrong, but I don't think its interesting or sexy. Where's the class where I can learn how to make my booty clap? How about shaking my pasties so that they spin like little helicopter propellers?) Now it has been my experience that women who work in the sex industry hate men. Yes, they will have sex with them, but asking them to love, appreciate, and respect them is like asking them to stop stripping (What?!? Why the hell would I want to do that?). Because the man hate is so strong in this crowd, they tend to treat men like shit, including slapping them around and trying to injure them with their breasts. Well, Wendy, lemme tell you something - I'm not a man, and if you slam your whore boot into the wall next to my head again, I'll be sure to return the favor. . . with your face. But I will say she is qualified. She's been stripping longer than I've been alive. She climbed up the pole, flipped upside down, and then demonstrated her awesome skill by falling on her neck in a bonecrushing *thud* to the floor. . . Yep. . . Very encouraging. She played it off but it confirmed another suspicion - alot of strippers have some sort of substance issue. . .

So let's start with the walk. *que "Free Your Mind" by En Vogue*

She had an exaggerated sexy walk. I attempted an exaggerated sexy walk too, to which she said "that's a little too exaggerated." So i walked like I normally do, with a long stride and my low gelatinous ass shaking in tow, and that was "perfect." Oh! I forgot about my classmates. Allow me to introduce Holly: a hot 21 year old Asian girl who really didn't need the class. Not to say she was an A-plus stripper, but she was cute enough to not really have to shake it. But then again, I make enough money to not have to shake it either so maybe she was there for shits and giggles, too. And then there was Catherine. . . Poor, poor Catherine. She was a plain, broad and flat, very very pale white woman with a band aid on her ankle as she cut herself shaving. I thought it was strange that her band-aid was a very dark brown. When asked about it, she said, "Oh its for bla- (looking nervously at me) people who have a darker skin tone." She claims she had done burlesque before, but I didn't believe her, she needs more people. In fact, I will never believe her, even with a lot of people. In fact, I bet the orbs were hovering around her, saying to one another "Yeah. She sucks."

Sexy walk led to floor time. *Que Toxic by Brittany Spears*
In case you hadn't noticed, the music sucked. Where's "Let Me See It" by UGK? Can I get a little "Where Dem Dollas At?" by Gangsta Boo? At least a little "Make It Rain" by Everybody and They Mama. . . No? Okay.

So, just to give you an idea of how labor intensive writhing around on the floor is, we were given knee pads. I bet you've never seen a stripper in knee pads but I tell you, the floor + my knees banging into the floor = me needind knee pads. Do you know that broad had me humping the floor? Thats right. Humping. the. damn. floor . . . Yet another reminder that I was in the wrong class. I knew you would like some notes so I took some. Here's my floor routine:

Crawl crawl crawl, sit back on your knees, touch yourself, roll over on your stomach, hump the ground, crawl crawl crawl, sit back on your knees, touch your self, wash, rinse and repeat. . .

Yeah. . . Good times.

So now we move to the pole. I don't remember what music went here because I was too scared to notice anything else going on. But this is the cool part, right? WRONG bitch! Horribly horribly wrong. . . First, there was a chalk circle drawn about 6 inches around the base of the pole. This circle was called "The Circle of Death." If you step into this circle , you will be assaulted by the pole. Like literally, the pole will reach out, grab you by the back of the head, and smash your face into it. Well, just don't step into the circle, right? Sounds easy, but its not. . . especially when you're only 5 feet tall. Basically, I had to stand in the circle to assume the start position that would launch me around the pole. And believe me, that launch was not easy. Not only do you have to pivot off the toe of your inside leg, but at that exact moment of pivot, you must pull your weight up, wrap the outside leg while posing the inside leg, and attempt to keep the facial expression of someone who is not exerting a tremendous amount of effort (a grimace).Well good luck with that. As a result of having to stand in the Circle of Death, I was assaulted EVERY SINGLE TIME. And let's not mention the pole burn you get on your hands. In fact, I'm still suffering from stripper elbow and pole dancer shoulder.

On to the chair, bitches! Chair dancing is not like lap dancing where there is an object to your affection. Its like trying to be sexy on a wobbly kitchen tile perched on top of a flag pole. One false move and your ass is on the floor. Broken coccyx and everything. So we have these flimsy fourth grade chairs to sit on, and you are supposed to touch yourself and swing your hair as frequently as possible, which makes you dizzy. . . Yep. Dizzy. . . Dizzy while trying to be sexy on a kitchen tile on top of a flag pole. Mmmm Hmmm. . . So you scoot up as far as you can so you can, lean back and do a leg spread, and if you do this right, you get to sit back up and be sexy again. If you don't scoot up enough, you will hit the ground, back first, smashing your head into the ground, and to add insult to injury, the chair will fall unceremoniously in your crotch, and Wendy will talk shit about you. And your classmates will look away so they won't laugh in your face. . Ask Catherine. . .

Finally, I did a performance for the class. Very much like Flash Dance, but to Paula Cole's "Feeling Love." I just might be awesome.

Anyway, the myth is that you will feel sexy. You will, in one hour and a half session, learn to love your cellulite and hell, men will love it simply because you do. Know why? Because they're stupid men, and men are stupid. And i spit on their stupid heads. In one bumbling flight around the pole, you will be transported into another dimension where you're the sexiest woman in the room. You'll be as sexy as any one of these man-hating, clear heeled whores.

But, I didn't feel sexy. I felt like every move I made in my clear heels could potentially cause my untimely and embarrassing demise. Headline:

WOMAN STRANGLES SELF ON BRASS POLE: Strippin' Ain't Easy.

But you never know until you try, right? So what I know for sure: Clear heels and pole swinging don't make you sexy. This class isn't going to make you sexy. In fact, it just might emphasize just how sexy you are NOT. Ask Catherine. It's an issue of confidence, and swinging on a pole or humping the damn floor isn't going to build confidence (I still can't believe I humped the floor. . . I disgust myself). Instead of trying to live up to the fictitious facade of the sexy stripper, I should spend more time honing the skills I am already good at, like scrapbooking or oral sex. My husband thinks I am sexy when I talk psycho-babble which says to me that its my brains he thinks are sexy and my jiggly ass is just a bonus. (I know, how cliched.)

Hell, he hasn't even asked for a dance

And what does THAT tell you? Nooo, he's not gay. it SHOULD tell you that while impossibly sexual sexy strippers are appealing to LOOK at, his wife is clearly his preference, pole swinging or not. . .

And how awesome is that?