This one is surreal.  I think that it won’t really MEAN anything to me until it means something to Athena.  The real joy in celebrating mother’s day is people who recognize that you’re their mother.  And while I think she thinks I’m a very nice lady that mostly helps her go to sleep, kisses her incessantly, plays with and feeds her – I don’t know if she KNOWS that “Mother” is who I am.

Plus I always had it in my mind that I would somehow be celebrating along side Mom… and maybe even Grandma.  After mom died, Mother’s Day in 2009… i basically went into hiding for the day.  I didn’t want to see any advertisements or specials on TV.  I didn’t want to walk the street to be amongst the throngs of families going to church or brunch with mothers and grandmothers.  I replayed various mother’s days in my head that I’d spent with my two mother figures all my life.  I remembered pinning red carnations on my dad’s lapel for mother’s day all my life, until that one mother’s day that I pinned a white one for him.  And he lamented the loss of his mom…  After that day, I just wrote mother’s day off.  I’d send Tante Sisi some flowers to say Happy Mother’s Day so that she didn’t feel alone.  But personally – i wouldn’t do much else.   The futility behind trekking to the cemetery and staring up at the box with my mom and grandma’s names… is empty to me.  The are NOT there. And that isn’t where I can go to visit them.  But I have no where else.  All the times we celebrated.  All the cards and balloons and gifts we’d given to celebrate who they were in our lives.  Marred with the remembrance of unearthing the HUGE envelope full of cards  — every card – we’d ever given them – after they died.  They kept every one.  And when we wrote them… we NEVER imagined EVER getting them back one day.

So although the first one… it’s bittersweet.  Just in time for mother’s day though, the cherub is practicing how to SAY “Ma”.  And for the haters / rainers on my parade.  No – she isn’t saying “Mama” and maybe it sounds more like “muuuh” than “ma”…  but it is MUSIC to me.  So. Take that.

I’d found a natural hair salon in the general vicinity that was willing to a) take walkins b) not rape my wallet for what I wanted to do and c) was open on that Saturday.  I sat down in the chair in front of what I would learn later was the owner of the establishment and said, “Please cut off all the permed portions.”  She fingered through my hair and examined the strands section by section and then said, “Are you sure?  It’s going to be really short.”  ”I’m fine with that, ” I replied.  She verified my absolute certainty with this decision about 3 more times before she put a scissor to my hair.  2 hours of deep steam heat conditioning, washing, cutting and styling with Kinky Curly… I emerged.  Natural.  Curly.  Short.  and Pretty.  I was pleased.   I had always held on to my long hair because it hid / disguised my waddle and imperfections on my face that I was positive greeted everyone more than my smile and my eyes.  But I exited the salon extremely happy with my decision.  I got looks and winks in the street from my new found swagger.  My coworkers at the time gave me a standing ovation in the morning meeting that following Monday when I walked in.   (Although I think that was moreso because of the braveness to cut my hair so short.  Not the fight-the-power-black-power-struggle represented in my T.W.A. (teenie weenie afro, for the uninitiated).  I felt great about my decision.

The winks and looks in the street died down as I went through “the awkward stage” where I was fro-like… but he length was… well… in between Angela Davis fro and short cropped pretty.  I learned my natural texture was what I’d always wanted.  Tight curls of strong hair that cascaded around my scalp.  I took great glee in spending hours touching and twirling them.  Once past the awkward stage, my hair “fell”  - in a good way – it had weight enough to “hang” so this made my umgawa black powah acceptable for my sisters in the struggle because it was napptural and for the 2520′s because it was “long”.  I was happy.  I could be myself.   Not be a part of the collective race that alters themselves for acceptance.  That totally didn’t sit well with me ever.

When I was pregnant with Athena… between the hormones and a few experimentations with heat to straighten out my follicles my texture just wasn’t what I loved anymore. So right before I gave birth to her – on June 21st 2011, did my 2nd big chop.  This time it wasn’t quite as short because I could actually control how much I wanted to cut this time.  It was all natural – I just wanted rid of the damaged portions.  Holleration in the street had died down significantly but I thought it was due to the weight I’d put on from the baby (even though some cats would holler when I was full on visible preggers).  But I just chalked it up to being fat (but happy) that I didn’t really get noticed.

Then this weekend came.  I needed to travel to Las Vegas for a big radio convention and thought that it was best for my networking purposes to straighten out my tresses.  This time I knew better than to go to the mamis that had administered 14 kinds of heat to my head that time that permanently damaged by texture.  I went to Fatmiot and she hooked me up.  My hair was longer than I thought  it would be and it was thicker than it had been before.  That was the texture change brought on by the pregnancy.  I was happy.  Didn’t care for the burnt hair smell that followed me around, but knew it was temporary.

I walked out into the street and it was like the doors for holleration flew open.  ”Hey mami lookin good!”  ”What you need to day baby what can I do for YOU?”  ”Oooh… I see you girl… them AKAs always FINE”… and I thought to myself… so……. it’s not the weight???? Cause I’m still fat, tho.

So I wonder… I’m here advocating for us to just be ourselves.  Enjoy what grows out of us, JUST the way it grows and not feel beholden to having to alter it in order to be accepted.  And I’m for sending that message by being an example.  But do I have to forsake being admired like a woman so long as I do that?  The rest of the world is so colonialized that they can’t see the beauty in my natural hair?  I’m only pretty permed / straight?    I’m truly confused now.  Even the hubby referred to my hair as “chic” and reached up for a handful of it.  He claims that he touches my natural hair  too, but mostly when I’m asleep (huh?)… but this formation of my hair got that tangible attention  while I was wide awake.

My biggest concern is  how to I tell the most beautiful human being I’ve ever laid eyes on that what is growing out of her head is perfect and beautiful and divinely engineered by God to protect her head and crown her and frame her face – if I go back to straightening it for my own selfish ego?

*

I came up with a theory this past week that in the future we did indeed learn to finally time travel. And you know how in all the sci fi movies they say that you should t change anything when you go back? Leave it as is or you’ll change the future. Well, folks didn’t listen and for every change they made, a new alternate reality was born. Massive amounts of us going back and changing the seemingly pivotal one thing that would have made us….. Different? Better? More successful? More sure? Less fearful…. Peeling onion skins off of time…. Making new strains of reality. Not a complete overhaul of my previous theory that for every choice tree there is a version of us that made the other decisions. The ones our present selves didn’t chose and there spawned a new reality.

But even the one horrid blemish on my past gave me a truth and foundation that is UNSHAKEABLE. God

spoke

to me. Just as plain as day. I needed no middle men or soothsayers. Just HE and I. If I had not had the most challenging dilemma of my life…. would there have been the opportunity for that?

I can’t regret anything. And if I see regret coming in my action (or non action) in the near future, I must act accordingly. No more sitting back and letting life wash past. I can’t feel like I am living my live through a glovebox anymore.

I have to FEEL again.

*

I used to feel it a lot in elementary school. That I wasn’t from this planet. Couldn’t be. The things people did to each other and found acceptable were BEYOND me. I didn’t think I was being idealistic or seeing the world through rose colored glasses. There were some seriously fundamentally backwards things that were passing for normal behavior that I couldn’t bring myself to be down with the group-think on.  But underneath all of that was the longing to find a friend.   Admittedly, I was looking for a particular kind of friend.  The inseparable type.  The ones that you’re always on the phone with or always texting.  The one you automatically think of when you have an opportunity to experience something with a +1.  The one who you’d never miss any big event of theirs to be with them.  The ones who know your family well enough that your parents asked how they were doing because they knew you were joined at the hip.  The one that you didn’t have to catch up on anything because they were 100% “up” on everything going on with you and vice versa.  When given the opportunity, I (think – I have to qualify that all this may be in my mind) that I always try to be that friend in the hopes of some reciprocal action.  But throughout life, I’ve found that the ability to remain consistent really eludes a lot of people that I’ve crossed paths with.  And I can submit that I may have made mountains out of molehills – dubbing “friendships” where there weren’t really any, just to satisfy my need to feel like I did find something along the lines of what I was seeking.  Alas at 37, I still don’t have THAT kind of friend I was looking for.  I have great friends though.  People who really care and I really love and I know they love me.   But weeks can go by in between communique.  Sometimes months.  There’s always catching up to do.  I’m positive I don’t know their favorite artists so when they come by the station or we have access to tickets I know to call on them first as I’m sure they don’t know my favorite color or the name of the town I grew up in.

So of course, in analyzing all of this I realized that the issue HAS to be me.  I have to be the piece that doesn’t fit if I’ve not fit for so long with so many.  Tonight on the drive home after being hurt… again… by more people I let believe were friends (and actually, I blur the line between co-worker and friend way too often and it has ALWAYS gotten me in to trouble like this) I realized that it is because I hurt too deeply.   I invest so much emotion into people who come in to my life in the hopes that maybe they’re “the one” that I leave myself completely wide open to whatever hurt they may purposefully or inadvertently inflict.  And from past experience… I don’t LIKE hurt.  I don’t really appreciate it when it happens… and I close myself off to it.  So if you’ve hurt me… your opportunities to hurt me again will become very few and extremely far between.  But maybe everything hurts me that isn’t what I expect.  Maybe that’s unfair.  There are some things that I can’t look past.   You ALWAYS help your friend… no matter what.  That’s what  friend is.  You NEVER betray your friends and tell their business to people who are strangers to them.  You don’t impose that your friend does more for you than you’d do for them unless you’re willing to step up and meet them at their actions.  If you go so far as to accept an apology from a friend – then you HAVE to actually forgive – don’t keep treating them like a felon in your life boxed off in a corner for you to choose when to and when not to deal with them.  That isn’t real forgiveness.  You DO extend common courtesies to friends the same way you would appreciate them in similar situations.  It just takes a second to think “hmm… I wonder if ______ would want ________ to happen” or “I think I’ll give ______ a call and let them know about ________.  They may want to know.”  Your friends who have passed on from this world should NOT hold more importance than the ones that are right here with you still.  It sends the message that they need to be dead to be appreciated.  But more and more, I see folks kind of caught up in their own thing.  Not really thinking about anyone but themselves and the things that directly affect them.  This society is allowing for that more and more.  And I’m still of the mindset that the person on the train with me may have had an excruciating day so maybe I don’t need to play my video games with sfx blaring or shouting at my friend in the next seat.  I’ll let this person cut in front of me because they have to drive somewhere just like I do.  I will move out of the path of the escalator when I get off because I’m cognizant that there are people behind me that need the path to be clear.

Maybe I just need to be more selfish.  But I would have to train up to that point.  I am truly NOT there…  But it seems to be required for emotional survival here.  The more I think about turning inward… the more I see images of my mom… alone.  Letting the TV watch her.  Never going anywhere, while dad went everywhere.  No friends.  No confidants (besides my godmother … well… maybe that was her inseparable friend).  And again the path I chose in order to avoid a destiny is the one leading me to it…

I should probably just accept it and stop crying already.

*

I usually ride down Park Avenue, blasting the Breakfast Club because they’re playing all the celebrate Friday songs.  I’m usually done up something fierce waiting to take over the world or at least make folks think that I already own it all when I strut myself down the street.  I get to work and there’s an air of excitement for the weekend… a little “fuck it” in everyone’s system… a little more cash in everyone’s wallet… It’s usually good.

But….

For no reason I can really point… I am truly sad today.  About everything.  I’ve had tears welled up in my eyes all morning.  I’ve been staring off into nothingness if I’m allowed to do so for minutes at a time.  I am so displeased with this life right now.  The “how did I get here” and “what happened to my youth” and “I’m so lonely” are ganging up in my head to torture me to death today.  It’s a death I’d welcome – if it would just mean the end of feeling like THIS.  This lack of fervor.  This absent feeling.  This passionless void.  Once you’ve had a life full of passion… it’s extremely hard to adjust to one without.  I dare say impossible because I haven’t found a way to make it fit yet.  I need to find some.  This is my addiction.  A project to consume my every thought.  Someone to kiss me on my neck.  A cause I would die for.

My daughter? While I love and would do anything for her that she needs… can’t be that.  I’ve seen what that does to mothers and then in turn to the baby.  There needs to be something to diversify it all.  Plus, it’s different.  I wish I could explain.

I just hope to stop crying soon.   A word or two from mom would have done it.   Because I knew she felt like me and it gave me hope that she lasted as long.   Makes me wonder about growing old, then…. are they all just numb?

I just want to feel something.

It’ll pass.

*

I have many friends that have… I have friends that have trusted salons where they KNOW them like a regular a la “Norm” from Cheers that have repeatedly recommended where they frequent in order to get me to take the plunge.   But when I get my eyebrows waxed… and thusly tweased for the hairs that were missed… I cannot FATHOM what kind of tear jerking pain would emerge from a) a total stranger (most likely a woman) at close proximity to my lady parts b) HOT sticky wax being applied to said lady biology c) vigorous rubbing of a cloth strip against the hot sticky wax that is now slathered on to lady business by the hands of previously mentioned total stranger and d) la pièce de résistance – the quick, aggressive YANK of the cloth strip, with the hot sticky wax adhered thusly dispatching HUNDREDS of hairs in unison out of what is pretty much THE most sensitive part of me ever.  For years this scenario played out in my mind and ultimately I said -ummmmm no thanks.   But everyone raves about the results.  Smoothness, no snagginess, ease of … many functions… and of course the most powerful reason – the menfolk LOVE it.  Normally the last reason would have sufficed but with the regard I hold THAT part of me… i’d need more justification.

And then I didn’t.  I was tired of waiting for the right time (because I was told there was a specific time of month that you’re less susceptible to pain than others) or to find the right salon (I’d heard about a salon that used cold wax and instead of stripping it away they cracked it and it would miraculously and painlessly take away all your hairs  – yeah right).  So as I was sitting at my desk on Monday I said… you know what?  fuck it.  I stood up, put on my coat, grabbed my phone and announced to my girls that I had an appointment to attend.  All the while in my head there’s a grand debate going on “wait… is she really going to do it?”  “Um…  yeah… it looks like… it… has she lost her mind?”  “Have you really considered the consequences?  the repercussions?  the PAIN?”  I shook my head and cleared the thoughts like an etch-a-sketch and marched to the salon where I normally get my manicures and pedicures.   It’s as good a place as any.  They advertise Brazilians…  they make you pay for it…. they MUST know what they’re doing.  Plus… like… how many surgeries have I had?  And managed all of them w/o the use of morphine, Vicodin or Percoset?  And also too?  I pledged.   I can do this.

I walked into the boutique and they all greeted me and started out saying “spa pedicure”?  I looked the woman dead in the eye and said, “No… I? am here today for a Brazilian.”  *cue the tumbleweed and “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly” Theme song.*  “A Brazilian?”, they echoed.  And I straightened up and said “yes.”  (all the while re thinking it like…. maybe this is my chance to say – noooooo… no really?  a spa pedicure is fine…”)  A shorter Latina woman emerged and said, “come with me” and I walked boldly to the back of the salon where the waxing rooms were.  I expected it to be this huge room (to allow for the spreading of longer legs and stirrups and well… I guess I was expecting a hospital operating room.  I mean… they’d need that much light and space and time and attention for something so critical…. right?  Nope.  It was a closet with a cot and a few accoutrements that they’d need to get the waxing done.  The same room they’d put me in to do the eyebrow waxing.  “Get undressed from the waist down,” she instructed me and left the room.  I figured… there is no going back now…

Naked from the waist down, she knocked on the door and asked if I was ready.  I said yes.  She reemerged and I immediately told her, “This is my first time….”  she smiled and said, “Okay, lay down…let’s see.”  I laid back and she propped my right leg to the side to spread the way and said… “Oh… this is your first time….?”  Um…  I thought I just said that.  I seem to have this problem with everyone.  For someone who HATES repeating her self and in this instance least of all.   “Yep… Never waxed before… shaved… but no wax.”   She nodded and smiled at me and said, “It’s only really painful here and here” as she touched the top portion where the “landing strip” would go and the sides where the meeting between my thighs and that area crease.  I thought to myself… you mean… like… the LIPS aren’t the most sensitive portion?  Yeah right.  You gotta be kidding me…

Laying there spread eagle after she shook a generous amount of baby powder all over the area her next interaction was with the hot wax on the little tongue depressor…  WHOA – I didn’t even see it coming.  It didn’t hurt but I was shocked by the warmth.  Then she laid the cloth strip down, rubbed her fingers hard against it and then reached for the loose end.  I knew what was next… the rip.  I tensed up a little bracing for what I knew would be the worst pain I’d ever felt. ZIP!…….  oh…  that wasn’t so bad.  I mean.  It hurt.  But it wasn’t white hot lingering pain.  More like… scraped my arm initial pain gone, now just the warmth of all the blood rushing there is present.   And according to her, she started with the more painful portion she pointed out so the rest might be cakewalky in comparison.  I mean… it was all sting inducing but nothing that made me think that I might bleed or suffer beyond the initial rip.  She chatted with me about Theeny – it was obvious that I’d had a child – but she thought the lateral incision was why – but I had to point out the bikini cut (which must have healed wonderfully because she didn’t even SEE it).  Then the question about why the lateral cut…  And we chatted through the rest.  It was relatively easy.  I did feel like she went over a few parts WAY m ore than she needed to.  But the end result… was one with which I was pleased.    Aside from being told not to use soap on the area for the next two days (that’s a big hell no – she doesn’t know me at all)  the only other little hangup was the sensation that all the wax wasn’t gone.  But that happens when I get my eyebrows done.  There’s something that stops them from getting it ALL off for some reason.

So there.  I did it.  Now if I find one of these other mythical places that do Brazilians, it might be a step up in experience… or not.  But I’ve done it at all.  Checking it off on my list of things to do in life!

*

They’re great for nostalgia’s sake.  But they serve a few purposes for me.  One is in the same vein as what this blog does.  My memory fades.  I want to keep close the memoires that mean something.  So I write them down and I go back one day and read through and USUALLY say to myself “OH MAN!! I’d forgotten about that day!  Or hey… I’m not a half bad writer when I want to be.”

The second purpose is to help me corroborate what I DO remember.  And to qualify that I’m not all the way crazy.  That sometimes… it IS how I remember it… and I have notes from YOU to prove it.  That once upon a time you did fill my mind with thoughts that I have not been able to let go of since.  Thoughts of our friendship.  Thoughts of our dedication.  Thoughts of the fun we had.  Thoughts of the love we shared.  Thoughts that you considered me the tops and you thought I felt the same.   Thoughts of the family moments we shared.  Thoughts that we shared a LOT of the same principles.  Thoughts of us being drastically different but enhancing each other.   Not just loves and lovers, but friends, acquaintances, family…  Because it all changes so quickly.  At the drop of a hat it becomes something altogether different and I never can explain THAT part.  There really isn’t  a documentation of the change, necessarily.  Just only when it’s good.  And then again when it’s terrible and all the damage is done…

I just keep them to remind myself that I’m NOT crazy about it having been a good thing once no matter where it stands today.

*

There were some people i could pin point as having been the ringleaders of my embarrassing days and moments of my youth. I remember wishing HORRID things upon them for the pain they were inflicting. My imagination would run wild with the mean things that I would carry out on them in this make-believe world. Not death ever – but just vices to them. It never occurred to me that I could or should enact any of that stuff on them. It was a release enough to use my imagination. Fast forward to adulthood – most of the people from elementary school who were these antagonists that I hated have friended me on FB and have met up with me for reunions and have gone on and on about how beautiful and successful they observe me to be. And that is enough for me. To have ascended above and beyond where they limited me in their limited minds as kids and fueled me to get to the highest heights I could reach. This was the ultimate pay back to me. And it is lasting. And comforting.

The lack of backbone / self love / vision / insight / imagination that has permeated this generation that makes them regularly plot and devise to pack up a gun, bring it to school and shoot into the crowd of their peers because they feel ostracized then potentially kill themselves or suffer imprisonment for the rest of their days is something I am really struggling to wrap my mind around. It is limited revenge. It is wrought with consequence. It is not actually satisfying because the punishment would take the sweetness away from it all (unless these kids are sociopaths – which I cant imagine that they are because if they were, kids razzing them wouldn’t make a difference at all). The skin these kids are being raised up in is so painfully thin….it is truly frightening.

I remarked to the hubby this morning that for a generation of kids raised in this whole “oh.. don’t hit your kids to discipline them” “corporal punishment is wrong” “put them in time out” frame of mind – two things have taken place in the fiber of these kids’ personalities: 1) they have this crazy thin skin 2) they only respect violence. So if you come at them with reason and rationalization they blow you off. They don’t have any real respect for authority or structure. But threaten to beat their asses or yoke them up and suddenly there is a glimmer of deference that surges up in their eyes. It is a total contradiction. I consistently think on the verse from the bible…. “Spare the rod and spoil the child”. Of course I don’t believe that they mean to brain the kid or lock them up in damp cellars for weeks at a time… which makes this the issue. It is all up to interpretation. And some people based on their experiences are horribly skewed to the extremes. But treating babies and kids like adults and trying to reason with them for everything removes the instillation of humility and respect for authority that used to be a backbone of society.

As I take this painstaking care to raise my daughter in such a way that would make my elders proud, news of kids whose parents didn’t care enough to do the same for running into an place of education and shoot just anyone makes me want to home school my baby. I think sometimes that I did a very terrible thing to her by bringing her into such a backwards place and hope that she makes it. We will give the foundation to her. But… regardless of foundation – how did that protect the innocents that were just in the wrong place at the wrong time?

We are all entwined in this. My thoughts and prayers go out to the families of the children affected, hurt and murdered in the Chardon High School massacre.

*

Going to do it again for lent.  40 more days… in tandem with exercise… who knows what it could mean.

Night before daddy’s birthday.  Feeling a certain kind of way about he and mom and grandma being extremely distant memories that I only have flashes of.  half eaten memories to share with my cherub who will only think I’m telling stories about how  wonderous they really were in my mind.

I won’t say much….

Happy Birthday, Papy.  I miss you.  Kiss Mommy for me.  And hug Granny.  I know y’all get along now….

*

Seems like the only thing I quit was blogging for a second.  But here I am.  Done with the initial Clean Start Program (14 days of raw fruits and veggies and supplements)  Now I’m on day 5 of the Paracleanse (parasite cleanse) which is pretty brutal.  I’ve been reading on Curezone how folks on parasite cleanses really examine their stool.  I’m not about that life.  Sorry.  I’ll just need to trust that something is coming out because regular is just not the right word to describe how thorough everything has been.  I feel great though.  I’m down by 20lbs, so it’s like a pound a day which is alright by me.  Like I said, I know a LOT of it was water weight, but I’m glad it’s off of me.  I feel amazing internally and I think it’s starting to show on the outside.

Food cravings have scaled back a bit.  As I’ve gotten more adept to putting the right things in my salads and seasoning them just so, I want a deep batter fried cheesy burger less and less.  I had a salad yesterday that made me wanna slap myself.  It was GOOD.  Not an ounce of animal protein.  Just veggies and a ROCKIN’ dressing.  More and more I’m thinking about what I’ll do when the program is over.  How I don’t WANT to go back to my old friends Wendy and the Colonel and the like.  So I’ve decided that during the weekdays I’ll keep everything as I’ve been doing it.  More fruits and veggies than anything.  Maybe the occasional lean meat (preferrably fish, chicken and turkey; no reds) and I’ll leave Saturdays and Sundays to be my “cheat” days with one allowable cheat meal per day.  So that can allow for a brunch to be in there or a diner burger with some fries.  I think if I continue on that path, it can be a healthier life in general.

Went to the doctor and all my labs came back fine which made me feel great.  Of course my iron was on the low side of normal so I gotta get more iron into the supplements somehow.  But it’s refreshing to hear that despite how bad I felt and worried I am to make sure I extend this life, this amazing machine is chugging along.  I just am trying to get myself to a more attractive looking machine so Theeny has a mommy she’s proud to walk down the street with.

More change to come… more progress… I’m proud of me.  A lot of times I thought I might fold, but Earl helped me hold steady.  Bless him.  Cause I sure nuff chewed him out on some bs sometimes on GP that I was REALLY hungry and wanted BADNESS.  But he helped to see me this far.  Hopefully I can make it all the way out.   I had to stop by the Trini women at Greenleaf today to show that I’m still alive.  I used to get my “regular” breakfast from them every morning – 2 eggs, bacon & cheese on a toasted roll with butter and a large hazelnut coffee with milk.  So since fasting I had to cut them cold turkey.  They asked one of my co-workers yesterday if I’d been fired.  LOL  I felt so bad that I stopped by this morning to show them I was still around and not dead or unemployed.  They were genuinely happy to see me.  It made me feel so good.

Lots of good feelings!

*