Anal Glaucoma

I was having lunch at a local restaurant the other day when I overheard the following conversation:

Guy #1:  I'm trying to get some fishing in, but the weather has been sort of crappy.
Guy #2:  Yeah, I know.  It's supposed to rain on and off for the next few days.  The first good day predicted will be Monday.
Guy 1:  Really?  Then, I'll go to work for the rest of the week and call in with anal glaucoma on Monday.
Guy 2:  Say what?
Guy 1:  You've never heard of anal glaucoma?  That means I don't see my ass going in to work on Monday.

As Cindy Adams would say, only in New York, kids.  Only in New York.

Sunshine & Rainbows

Every time I speak with my oldest sister these days, she gets on my back about my "relentlessly negative" posts of the past few months.  So I had every intention today of writing something happy; you know, full of sunshine and rainbows.

Then, I decided not to.

You see, when I first started this blog, I made it clear that I would be writing my truth, no one else's.  And my truth is that sometimes my life is full of sunshine and rainbows, and sometimes, it's not.  Sometimes, I am in the mood for introspection.  Sometimes, I am in the mood for so-called "negativity."  Sometimes, it's about celebrity gossip.

As a child, I used to watch PBS's Electric Company.  There was a little Hispanic girl who was always painting.  When you looked over her shoulder to see what she was painting, it was always polka dots.  One day, one of the other characters asked her why she painted polka dots all the time.  And for the first time, she turned to face the audience and said, "Yo pinto lo que veo."  (I paint what I see.)  As she said that, the viewer noticed that she had spots on her glasses, so all she could see were those dots.

These days, that child is me.  I paint polka dots because that is what I see.  I make no excuses.  I have to say, though, that I haven't gotten any other complaints about my "negativity."  So, Mami-Sis, what is it that you are seeing?  Could you be wearing tainted glasses, too?

Love

I got this e-mail from my little brother, Roy, today and it almost made me cry.  Sometimes, it helps to know that someone, somewhere, is thinking of you and loves you.

Metamorphosis Complete

I have completed my metamorphosis into Soccer Mom.

Relapse and Deprivation :-(

Okay, I have been on Weight Watchers for 3 weeks now.  That means 3 weeks of no ice cream, no fried food, very little rice, no soda, no juice, no pizza, and tiny, tiny -- did I say "tiny"? -- portions.  And I lost a measly 8.9 pounds.

I've been working out 3 or 4 times a week.  AND I LOST A MEASLY 8.9 POUNDS!

With each passing week, it feels harder, not easier to stick with the plan.  I know that I am doing it the proper way -- the internet is replete with reports that optimal weight loss for long term maintenance is 1 to 2 pounds a week.  Lose any more than that, and your body thinks you're starving and slows your metabolism down to a crawl.  Weight Watchers does it the right way.  So why am I so miserable?

Progress is glacial, that's why.  I am the kind of person who needs immediate gratification (hence, my current predicament).  Which is why this past weekend, I forgot about Weight Watchers for a minute and ate an entire fried fish.  And fried plantains.  And drank soda.  And ate a whole hero sandwich -- with mayo!  Then I had some ice cream.  And movie theatre popcorn WITH butter.

Hey, I figured that if it took me 3 weeks to lose a piddly 8.9 pounds, it would take a while for the scale to creep up.  WRONG!  The next day, I hopped on the scale and was shocked to see that I had gained 2 pounds overnight.  So now, I've lost only 6.9 friggin' pounds.  Where is the justice in that???

Oh well, now that I've had my relapse, it's time to go back to the deprivation (sigh).

The Sky is Falling!

I am tired of the proliferation of articles/programs/books about Professional Black Women Not Being Able to Find a Man!  Or as my other professional Black women friends and I call it: The Sky is Falling!

The coverage has ranged from philosophical (there are not enough Black men to go around because all of them are either flocking to white women or they’re in jail) to ridiculous (Black women need to harness their “anger” before they can be good partners).

Pure and simple, professional Black women are not getting married because they CHOOSE not to get married.  Seriously, if a woman – any woman – wants to get married (or “get a man” as ABC puts it), she simply has to settle for someone.  There are enough saggy-pantsed man-boys on the street corners for every Black woman IF she wanted one.  Newsflash:  She doesn’t want one.  There are plenty of Hector Penates and Jon Gosselins to be had.  She doesn’t want those, either.  And if she wanted to be someone’s baby momma, well, P. Diddy and Lil Wayne always have room in their harems.  

The fact is, instead of beating up on Black women for making the valid choice of not getting married, they should be applauded for taking control of their lives.  Every professional Black woman I know leads a full life.  They take multiple vacations every year, own their own homes and cars; and when they need male “companionship,” they get it.  Black women are not “on the shelf,” they are living their lives on their terms.  Why is there suddenly something wrong with that?  

And why aren’t White people being studied?  Someone please tell me why old White men keep marrying much younger women, only to get cuckolded (I’m looking at you, Larry King and Hugh Heffner)?  Can a study be done on how a White wife doesn’t know her husband is cheating until the 13^th mistress or hooker pops up out of the woodwork (yes, that would be you, Elin, Sandra and Mrs. Spitzer)?

From what I see, professional Black women may be making a good choice – you don't see professional Black women being Tiger Woodsed or Jesse Jamesed, do you?

Personal Accountability

I went shopping for jeans the other day.  The only size that fit was a 10.  I stopped for a moment; I did not want to buy jeans in that size.

Now, a size 10 is nothing to run away from.  No one could say that a woman who wears a size 10 is morbidly obese or even seriously overweight.  But there I was, terrified of buying those size 10 jeans.  In a frightening flash-forward, I could see myself buying size 12 next, size 14 and so on.  I could see myself becoming the Honduran Kirstie Alley.

My struggle with my weight began only 3 years ago.  I was not a chubby child -- to the contrary, I was often underweight.  I had to eat constantly to maintain a decent weight.  This went on into my teenage years and then into my twenties.  Everyone said that my metabolism would come to a crawl when I hit thirty, but it didn't.  In fact, when I was 30, I went on a vacation with Big Bren and I was so annoyed because the smallest shorts I could find at the Gap for the trip were a size 4 and they were too big.

The prognostications continued -- I wouldn't be able to lose the weight when I had Brendan.  I hated to disappoint the Negative Nellies, but two weeks after I gave birth, I pulled on my size 4 jeans and zipped it up -- with a few inches to spare.

Then about 3 years ago, the prophesies proved true; I began to pack on the pounds.  So what happened?

For the past three years, I've made every excuse:  everyone my age is this size; everyone in my family is fat, it was a miracle I managed to stay so thin for so long; I have no time to exercise; the foods I eat are not that fattening; etc, etc.

The fact is that I stopped doing all the things that were keeping me thin.  I stopped walking.  I stopped dancing.  I stopped going to the gym.  I stopped noticing when I was full and ate until my plate was empty.  And I eat when I am tired.  I eat when I am depressed.  I eat when I am bored.  I eat when I need to fill in the time.  I eat when I am stressed.  I eat when I am relaxed.  I eat, I eat, I eat.

After deciding that I had to do something about my weight, I hopped on the scale and gasped at the number:  158 lbs.

And that is when it hit me.  That is why I was so reluctant to buy those size 10 jeans.  At my last weigh in before I gave birth to Brendan, I weighed 159 pounds.  And at my baby shower -- when I was 8 months pregnant -- I wore a pair of size 10 jeans from the Gap.  Not maternity jeans; regular size 10 jeans.  I was now wearing the same size jeans that I wore when I was practically in labor.

Talk about a wake-up call.

Last Tuesday, I went to Weight Watchers for the first time.  I have often called out others for their delusions.  Well, today is my day for personal accountability.

Who are they fooling?

From AOL:

If you're trying to sell me a bathing suit that supposedly hides figure "flaws," please don't insult my intelligence by having a model who probably weighs 95 pounds soaking wet model the darned thing.  Give me a real woman, so I can see what the suit actually does.  Geez.

Respite

I took a much needed vacay to recharge my batteries.  Now I'm fully charged and ready to go.  Try to keep up.  :-)

Truer words have never been spoken

I got this in an e-mail today from my friend Laverne:

"Never allow someone to be your Priority, while allowing yourself to be their Option."

Truer words have never been spoken.

Keeping Score

I know few genuinely nice people.  You know, the kind of people who will go out of their way to do something for you and expect nothing in return. My oldest sister, E., is one such person.  Her twin, A., is another.  My cou-sis, T., stands by me, even when I don't feel like I deserve it.  My mother-in-law takes the cake in generosity -- she has been there for me at times when my own parents couldn't be bothered.

But that's it.  Four people out of the hundreds that I know.  I used to be such a person.  Then, last year, it was as if I was jarred awake.

Every Christmas, my mother makes a list of people.  "This person," she'll say, "was nice to me all year.  I have to get her a gift."  Then she'll peer at another name, "I've bought this person a gift three years in a row and he has never once said 'here's a flower for you or $20 to buy yourself something.'  This year, I'm not getting him anything."  

The way my mother did things frustrated me.  I would tell her, "Mother, you don't give someone a gift because you expect one back.  If you like that person or appreciate them, give them a gift, even if 20 years go by and they don't give you anything back."  But she would just shake her head and keep doing her list, as if I had not interrupted.

I began last year the way I always do -- I bankrupted myself to make sure that I got each and every person on my list something that I knew they would love.  The same mentality extended through the beginning of the year:  helping my sister out financially; driving an hour to pick up my mom to take her to the mall, then driving an hour to get to the mall, then driving an hour back to drop her off at home, before driving the final hour back to my own house; picking up my nieces and nephews from the Bronx on the weekends so they could have "a change of scenery"; and sharing any monetary bonuses I received from work with Big Bren.

Then, a few things happened that hurt me so deeply that I couldn't pretend they didn't bother me.

First, on Brendan's birthday last year, I made the rounds and picked up all my nieces and nephews so they could spend Bren's birthday weekend at the house.  I try to make weekends at my house fun: we go out to eat; go to the movies; for Halloween, we go to the haunted houses; in the fall, we go apple and pumpkin picking; in the summer, we do a pool-side barbeque.  That day, before I picked them up, I went to the ATM, so that I'd have enough cash on hand for our activities.  I ordered pizzas and left them -- and my wallet -- in the car, while I went inside to get the pizzas.  

When I returned to the car and opened my wallet to put the change from the pizza back, I noticed that the rest of my money was gone.  I questioned them separately, but each one denied taking the money or knowledge of who took it.  That incident put a damper on the weekend for me.  And that was the last time that I picked them up or invited them to my house.  My niece calls me now and then just to chat, but the rest of them don't bother to pick up the phone to ask how I'm doing or to speak to Brendan.  It shows me that the affection only went one way.

The next incident was when I planned a birthday party for my father and he refused to attend.  His response was that not even if Jesus Christ told him to go to my house would he go.  As with everything else, I had gone out of my way to please my dad; buying him first-class airplane tickets to Honduras; paying his way on a cruise the family took; driving an hour to his auto repair shop to give him the business when it would be cheaper and more convenient to do it around my way.  

Until that birthday incident, I had no idea that my father disliked me so much.  It was a real eye-opener.  And a depressing one at that.

Then, over the summer, I invited my sister on numerous occasions to spend some time with me.  She only accepted when it was convenient for her.  I had to drive to meet her in the Bronx and do the things that she wanted to do.  Whenever I suggested something different, she would decline the invitation.

At work, I would run myself ragged putting on training for the claims people, answering e-mails at all hours of the night and on the weekends, only to have my boss be partial to those who were doing nothing for the betterment of the team.

So, one day, I sat down and looked at all the stuff I was doing for people and all the things I was paying for and realized that perhaps my mother was right:  you can do as much as you want for someone, and you can love and appreciate someone, but that won't change the way they feel about you.  

So I stopped doing and being all things to all people.  It gets tough sometimes, because I am a doer.  But I stop myself.  Sometimes, someone will say something about how I've made myself scarce, and my standard response has gotten to be, "you know where I live; you have my telephone number.  My door is always open."  Funny how no one has gotten off his/her butt to take me up on the offer.  People will take whatever you give them, so I've learned the hard way to hold on to some things a little more tightly.

Are you kidding me?

"Eliot Spitzer:  Why I liked ho's."  No, this headline is not from Bossip.com; it's from the New York Post. There are so many things wrong with this, that I don't know where to begin. 

First, isn't the Post supposed to be a reputable newspaper?  So, could someone explain to me why they are resorting to vulgar urban slang to make a point?  And in a headline, no less.

Second, what is this alleged "ho" in possession of?  Correct me if I'm wrong, but a plural of something has no apostrophe.  I guess they feel there is no need to check the grammar on their vulgar urban slang.

Don't get me wrong, my ire is not directed at the Post because I support Spitzer and his hooker habit.  I think he got everything he deserved.  In fact, he didn't get enough.  Here he was, the top politician in the State and fresh off the job of being the top law enforcer in the State, and he was patronizing prostitutes.  Why isn't he in jail?  Worse yet, why is his idiot wife staying with him?  Especially after it became common knowledge that he prefered to savor his whores au natural?

The point is that there is a place for irreverence and slang; the supposedly serious newspaper is not it.  I guess I'll be sticking to the Times from here on in.

Who Would've Thunk It?

As I've written, Brendan had his birthday last week.  Because we live so far away from the rest of the family, when we invite people over, we get a trickle of family members for almost a week.  People just show up when it's most convenient for them; and our door is always open.

One of the people who showed up to celebrate my sonny-boy's life thus far was his aunt, my sister-in-law.  My sister-in-law, E., is fiercely protective of "her" family -- be it her parents, her brother, Big Bren's children and even my Brendan.  For some reason, though, she seems to think that I am someone to protect them from.  No matter how nice I am and have been, she's always asking questions about me.  How do I treat the kids?  Do I treat them well?  Am I too strict?  Am I nice to her parents when they come to visit?

Last week was no exception.  She took her grandson to Brendan's birthday party and then asked whether she could take my step-daughter with her to the store.  I thought nothing of it; that's her niece, so I figured she wanted to spend some alone time with her since she rarely sees her.

When she got back with my stepdaughter, N., a few hours later, she was in an exceptionally good mood.  She said that she'd had a frank discussion with N. about me and N. had only good things to say.  She told her how I always bought her nice things, because I said that women should always dress nicely and take care of their appearance.  How I had bought N. her first Coach bag and explained that a nice bag always makes a young lady's outfit.  As she was telling me this, I inwardly rolled my eyes, figuring that she would think I was trying buy the child's affection.  We all know how materialistic teenagers can be.  But she went on.  She said that N. also told her how I tried to teach her how to cook and how I made all types of cakes and pies from scratch.  And how I did everything I did with care and love, making home-cooked meals for the family on the weekends and even taking time to arrange my salads just right, so that everything looked pretty before we ate dinner.

I didn't know what to say.  I just stood there.  To be honest, I never realized that N. noticed the things I did.  This is the child who called me "her" and "she" for the first 10 years of my 11-year relationship with her father.  Her mother still refers to me as "the Slut" even though Big Bren and I have been married for 7 years.

I have a friend who always talks about her stepmother and how she (the stepmother) had a positive influence on her life.  I always told Big Bren how sad it made me feel that I did not have that sort of relationship with his children.  Imagine my surprise to find out that -- in fact -- I actually do.  :-)

Trust

"I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it."  Mark 10:15

I went to Catholic school as a child, and this was a Bible passage that was often quoted and taught by the nuns in Religion class.  This passage has been used to make many arguments; among them that people should be baptized as children in order to "guarantee" their entry into the "kingdom of God"; that children should be revered, because Jesus loved them so; and that children should be allowed to preserve their innocence as long as possible in order to remain in that "God-like" state.

Truth be told, I have never understood this quotation.  I'm not a lover of children (other than my own); they are loud and annoying.  Their "innocence" often makes them rude and tactless.  Yet, this oft-written about passage in the New Testament spoke to me today for some reason.

Brendan's sixth birthday is tomorrow.  In anticipation of it, he has very specific demands:  he wants to bring cupcakes to school for snack time; instead of cake toppers, he wants a small toy to decorate each cupcake, as a "gift" to each of his classmates; he wants his birthday celebration to take place in the morning, before recess, not in the afternoon, as I have done it for the past few years; for his birthday party on Saturday, he wants it to be at Chuck E. Cheese's, but he wants to have a dinosaur or Power Ranger motiff, not the Chuck E. Cheese mouse; and he wants a pinata.

He related all of this calmly.  He said it once and has not repeated it again (except to remind me to buy the little dinosaurs to put on the cupcakes).  He had absolute trust that I would not only hear his request, but that I would grant it.

Today, at lunch time, I went out and bought all his stuff.  I zipped to the bakery and got the cupcakes.  I went to Party City and bought dinosaur stuff, including the toys to decorate the cupcakes.   

As I put all the stuff away, it came to me that it had never occurred to me to say "no, I won't do this for you" or "you don't deserve this."  Of course, his request had to be proper.  If he had asked me for a boa constrictor, I would have absolutely said no.  And it had to be timely; if he'd asked for a party "just because," that likely would have garned another no (Mama don't have it like that). 

As I pondered the matter, this Bible passage flitted across my mind.  After many years of not understanding, it suddenly dawned on me that it simply means that we should trust God.  We say our prayers, declare our wants and we should trust God enough to know that (1) S/He has heard us and (2) our requests will be granted at the right time.

Broken Wings

I finished my book.  Yup.  Completely finished.  After two years of sitting on the idea.  After a two-year long writing block, the plot finally came to me and it gushed out on paper over a span of 6 weeks.  It felt like labor; like giving birth to something beautiful, something beyond me.

I thought I was done.  But, like giving birth, it was just the beginning.  When you're done giving birth, you think you've completed the hard work.  "Wow, that's a relief," you think.  No more carrying this extra weight around.  No more swollen ankles and feet.  No more heartburn and nausea.  Chile, I'm done.  But, of course, you are not.  Because now begins the work of tending to your bundle of joy.  And as any new mother will tell you, there is nothing joyful about a bundle that cries and poops 24 hours a day.  Sure, you adore that child, but when you're sleep deprived and losing your sense of hearing from the screeching, you think, "I didn't know it would be so hard."

And so, here I am -- weeks after I completed my book -- and I haven't found a home for it.  The inquiries, the query letters, the "help a sista out" e-mails to all my friends are wearing down my optimism.  I can see the beauty in my book -- just like you feel that overwhelming love for your sleeping child -- but now I don't know where to go or what to do to get to the next step.  I know about John Grisham and his fifty rejections; and how JK Rowling's "Harry Potter" got turned down more times than she could recall.  I don't want that.  I don't want to be the woman talking about "it took me 75 tries before I sold my book."  I want to be the exception to the rule.  I want to be the heifer you love to hate who's like, "girl, please, I sent my book out and it got snatched up immediately."  :-)

I was speaking to one of the defense attorneys that my company employs a few days ago.  He's a frustrated rocker.  He is in a rock band and they play at attorney parties.  The thing is that he is really good; I would even say he's excellent.  But he cannot expand his view beyond the limits of what he currently has.  When I told him about my book, he offered to get me in touch with an attorney friend of his who has contacts in the Publishing industry.  As he imparted this wonderful bit of news, however, he warns me not to get my hopes up.  In fact, he tells me a story about how, 20 years ago, he wrote a song and played it in a singing contest.  A well-known actor/singer happened to be in the audience and asked him for permission to sing his song at an entertainment industry event.  He granted the permission, but -- for whatever reason -- the actor/singer never sang the song and the attorney's dreams crashed and burned.  The last thing he told me was, "there are no happy endings, so better not get your hopes up."

I got what he was telling me, but I felt compelled to ask, "did you ever try again?"  "Did you join other contests?"  "Did you approach other people?"  The answers were "no," "no" and "no."

It occurs to me that there are so many people out there with broken wings.  They dreamed a dream many years ago, nothing happened, so they are afraid to dream anymore. 

The thing is that there ARE happy endings.  John Grisham DID get published.  JK Rowling was able to sell "Harry Potter."  Even Jennifer Lopez is no longer Jenny from the Block; she is now Jenny from Beverly Hills and Star Island and Long Island.

I don't want to have a broken wing anymore.  And my crying, pooping baby?  He is going to be six in 10 days and is the calmest child I have yet to lay eyes on.  So, no matter how bad things seem at the outset, nothing lasts forever.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

HOPE YOU HAD A SAFE AND HAPPY ONE.

Sisyphus

In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was condemned to an eternity of rolling a boulder up a mountain, only to have it roll back down again as soon it reached the cusp.  There are times when my life feels positively Sisyphean; when I feel like I have been condemned to an eternity of early risings, endless meal making, mountains of laundry and ceaseless dirty dishes.  As soon as I finish one task, it is time to start on another.  And when that task is done, it is time to get up and do it all again.

The sun rose this morning and -- like an alarm clock -- Brendan was on my side of the bed, chattering away.  As I dragged myself out of bed and saw Big Bren's dirty socks and clothes on his side of the bed, I actually muttered, "Please, God, tell me this is not all there is to life."  Needless to say, I am cranky today.

It is but 12:30 p.m., and I have already:  taken Brendan outside to play in the snow, made pancakes for breakfast, washed a sink full of dishes, sorted the laundry and washed two loads.  But, as I was finishing up with the cleaning after breakfast, Big Bren bounded into the kitchen -- hands full of dirty dishes that he thoughtfully brought downstairs from our family room, where he had been collecting them for a few days -- and asked if we were doing anything "fun" today.  If looks could kill, I'd be dragging his body from my kitchen right now.  "Geez, you complain a lot," he said, as he backed away from my killer look.

Yeah, I complain a lot.  I really have nothing to complain about.  I got up yesterday, took Brendan to karate, went grocery shopping, put the groceries away, cooked a meal that Big Bren requested (fried chicken with rice and peas and cornbread), cleaned up after the cooking (it is too much to ask anyone else in this house to wash a dish), gave Brendan a bath and got him dressed, put away the laundry that I washed and folded several days ago (it is also too much to ask anyone else in this house to put away clean laundry, too), collected dirty clothes from the floor in various rooms in the house, seasoned meat for cooking the next day, read a book with Brendan, purchased a part for my father's generator from the internet, made another meal for Brendan to eat and put him to bed.  All this, while Big Bren lay in the bed in the guest room and watched television or slept.  Then just as I got ready to relax a little, Big Bren threw himself down on the bed next to me and said, "can you scratch my head, then give me a massage?"  If looks could kill, I would've had to drag his body from my bed yesterday.

I look down at my feet and they look like claws -- that's how long it's been since I got a pedicure.  I feel like I get no breathing room, no time to do anything for me.  It is all about everyone else.  I feel like I've done something wrong; set the wrong precedent along the way.  And as I do more and more and get back less and less, I get increasingly more disgruntled.

As I am writing this, Big Bren inquires what time lunch will be ready.  If looks could kill, I'd be scraping his carcass off my computer right now....

Saving Worms

Brendan's school bus has an erratic schedule.  It is supposed to arrive at 8:01 a.m., but it gets to our house anywhere from 8:02 to 8:12, depending on who is driving it.  So, I always let Bren play outside in the morning, while I cower away from the cold by a window inside.

This morning, I saw him bending over in the driveway, standing up and walking over to the grass; bending over, standing up and walking.  He kept doing that over and over again.  Finally, I put on my hat and ventured outside.

"What're you doing?"  I asked in my best "Mommy" voice.  You know, the voice designed not to scare him out of doing whatever it was that he was doing, that he was not supposed to be doing.

He looked up startled, then turned to face me.  My stomach heaved -- in one hand was a dangling, writhing worm.  "I'm saving the worms," he said, surprised that I would even need to ask.

"From what?"

"My brother.  D hates worms and insects.  Every time he sees them, he squishes them.  I don't want these worms to die, so I'm putting them back on the grass so they can go home."

It rained heavily last night and the driveway was littered with wriggling worms of all sizes.  There was no way he was going to save all those worms, but my heart warmed thinking that he was the kind of kid who would try.  When the bus finally came, he looked at the remaining worms and gave a little shrug.  As he was getting on the bus, he said to me, "Mommy, be careful when you drive out.  Please don't run over any worms."  And with a wave of his little hand, he was gone.

I remember when he was about a year old; he was a very calm, happy child.  One of my aunts who had observed him on numerous occasions came over to me and said, "tell me your secret; what do you do that your child seems so happy all the time?"  I was taken aback by the question, so I told her the truth:  "I've done nothing; he came to me that way."

Bren isn't a perfect child, but he is a caring, loving, and genuinely happy, person.  What more can a mother ask for?

You Will See It When You Believe It

I have been on the self-improvement path since 1995.  That was the year that one of my friends gave me Dr. Wayne Dyer’s book, You Will See It When You Believe It.  Until that book, I had never ventured down the Self-Help aisle at the bookstore.  That book literally changed my life.  Well, for six weeks anyway.

You Will See It When You Believe It blew my mind.  What do you mean, we can change the trajectory of our lives with a single thought?  What do you mean that everything we are seeing in our lives right now is a consequence of what we have thought?  Suddenly, I knew my life could be better.  And knowing is a powerful thing.  I knew I could banish the seborrhea that had plagued me my whole life.  And, just like that, it was gone.  I knew I could find a wonderful boyfriend to keep me company in Buffalo.  The next day, I went to a doctor’s appointment and met the man I swore would be my future husband.  I knew I could find a job in New York City even though everyone claimed the job market was bad.  Within days, I met someone at the Minority Bar Association who liked me enough to forward my resume to a guy he went to school with, who just happened to be the Attorney General at the time.  

Life was peachy for six weeks.  Then, my chronic negative thinking kicked into overdrive.  I fell into fear.  “Yes, things are wonderful now, but how long can they last?  Girl, you know you’ve had a hard life; do you really think things are going to get easy for you now all of a sudden?  The seborrhea isn’t really gone, you know.  You probably just tried a shampoo that somehow put it into remission.  Do you honestly think an accomplished, rich, handsome, British guy is going to fall in love with you?? You’re poor.  And from Honduras.  You grew up in the projects.  Really?? “

And, just like that, the magic stopped.  My seborrhea reappeared.  That was my first indication that I had broken the chain of positive thought.  I tried desperately to mend it, but, that was just it – desperation – and desperation is a form of negativity, so the downward spiral continued.  Thankfully, I had already landed the job in New York City, so I was able to move.  But the job proved to be menial and boring.  The guy I met in Buffalo had also landed a gig as a medical intern in New York City, but he had decided (shortly after visiting me at my family home in the Bronx) that we were from different socioeconomic levels (no shit, Sherlock) and that it would never work out between us.

Since that book in 1995, I have had moments of pure magic; times when I can bypass my programming and create something amazing.  Those times are usually accompanied by the advent of another self-help book.  Somehow, reading another person’s journey and how they overcame adversity and negativity to put the Law of Attraction into motion motivates me enough to get me to the next level.  

In 1998, Iyanla Vanzant’s One Day My Soul Just Opened Up catapulted me out of the Attorney General’s office where I was fighting prisoners’ habeas corpus petitions for a pittance, to a law firm where I earned more money than both of my parents (and maybe a sister or two) combined.

In 2001, Deepak Chopra’s The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success convinced me that I could follow my dreams into the world of publishing.

In 2003, after I had slunk back to practicing law because I just couldn’t sustain the belief that I could be successful at writing and publishing, Dr. Dyer reappeared in my life withTen Secrets for Success and Inner Peace and I was able to leave litigation behind once and for all for the easier pace of insurance.  

In 2006, Rhonda Byrne’s The Secret got me out of Manhattan into my current gig closer to home in the suburbs.  I read it again in 2008, when my immune system turned against me and I was chronically ill for 8 straight months.  Simply chanting “I feel great.  I feel amazing.  My body is working exactly as it should,” was enough to make it so for a few hours at a time.

Just recently, I read Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen’s The Aladdin Factor.  It is less about the “magic” of manifestation, and more about getting focused on what you want – it’s surprising how many people don’t know what their heart’s desire is – and asking for it, sometimes over and over again, until you ask the right person.  The book utilizes sales principles – the power of numbers – to focus you on getting what you want.  If you ask 100 people, even if 99 say “no,” if you get that one person to say “yes,” you’ve attained nirvana.  It is such a simple proposition, but one that most people cannot master.  At one point, Canfield and Hansen say that people are crippled by the prospect of being embarrassed – of someone saying “no” to them, when the proper response to a “no” should be a loud internal “SO WHAT?  NEXT!”  

I have always known what God put me here to do.  I write.  I have a children’s book on my computer – all ready to go.  I have essays that could be published in magazines.  I have started to write a sci-fi book that everyone I’ve given the first chapters to loves.  I have at least five viable ideas for television shows.  Ask me how many of these writings I had sent out …  None.  The prospect of being rejected reduced me to a puddle of fear.  That fear had always kept me from asking even one person.  Suddenly, I realized that it didn’t matter if that person said no, someone would say yes.  And now I feel like I have been freed from my self-created prison.

Since reading the Aladdin Factor, I have let all my friends know about my writing projects.  I have asked for leads on getting my books published and getting my show ideas into the right hands.  Some friends have been extremely helpful, even directing me to their friends who may be able to help me.  Hallelujah!  Others have been apathetic.  SO WHAT? NEXT!  I obtained the contact information for two people in the television writing industry.  One woman responded to my e-mail requesting more information.  Yes!  The other ignored me altogether.  SO WHAT?  NEXT!  What matters is that I believe it now.  I truly do.  So I know that I will see it soon.  And knowing is a beautiful thing. 

To Poot, or Not to Poot: That Is The Question

Brendan had karate class yesterday.  After he got on the mat, I sat in the waiting room with a few other parents who opted to stay to watch the lesson.  Minutes later, a woman sitting a few seats next to me let out a soft fart.  I tried not to look in her direction and I could see the other parents attempting the same.  Unfortunately for her, though, she had another daughter with her, who was not in karate class, and as kids are likely to do, she put her mother on blast:  "MOMMY!  EEWWWW!!!  YOU JUST FARTED!!!"  The woman turned crimson, as the rest of us tried desperately to keep a straight face.  "No, I didn't!" She finally barked at the offending child.  Then, for good measure, "I don't find that funny, young lady."  Her daughter was properly chastised, but she wasn't ready to go down without a fight, "What's that smell then, huh, huh??"

I sprang out of my chair and hurried outside to laugh in peace.

When I was done chuckling, I began to think about the situation a little more.  Really, what was the big deal?  It is a perfectly normal bodily function, yet, we here in America make a big deal about everything.  Big Bren -- like most men -- asks what's the hold-up in the ladies room when we go out.  Most times, I shrug and mumble something about women primping in front of the mirror, so you can't wash your hands without a wait or that there was a line to get to a stall.  But, 9 times out of 10, the cause of the "hold-up" are the women in the stalls, sitting on the toilets, with their intestines seizing because they don't want to let out an "embarrassing" sound.  I have heard (and done) everything to mask the tell-tale pooting or pooping sounds -- continuously unspooling toilet paper, unwrapping sanitary napkins, constant flushing of the toilet, singing, etc.  The list goes on and on.  It's something that we have been conditioned to do here in the States.  Go anywhere else, and it's not an issue.  In fact, I remember going to a store bathroom with an aunt who had recently arrived from Honduras.  As she took the stall next to me, she let out a huge fart.  "Tia!" I whisper-shouted (I didn't want to be acquainted with her).  She responded calmly in her normal voice, "Child, please.  Everyone knows that where there is rain, there is usually thunder."  I ran out of the bathroom and pretended not to know her.

Another fart story and I promise to be done.  When I first started dating Big Bren seriously, he sat me down and gave me his "rules."  One of them was that I should never, ever, fart in his presence.  And I should wait until he left the apartment before I took a dump.  If I couldn't wait, I should make up an excuse to go elsewhere to take care of that "disgusting" business.  I thought he was joking and flippantly said that I expected him to do the same then.  He rolled his eyes at me and life went on.

Fast forward six months into our courtship and we are sitting on the couch in his living room watching a movie.  As I settled into a comfortable position, a small fart escaped my butt.  He sat up, eyes flashing.  "What was that?"  Me, sarcastically, "I think it's called a fart.  In Spanish, it's 'pedo.'  In Garifuna, it would be 'punguo'."  With nostrils flaring (no pun intended), he got up, walked to the hall closet and got my coat.  "I think you should go now."  I just sat there thinking, "this mother*****r is crazy."  I took my coat and left.  He called me repeatedly on my way home -- likely so that I could show some contrition for my wayward innards, but I was through.  We broke up for two weeks that time.  Over some bodily gas.  When we got back together, neither one of use mentioned the "incident" again.

The point of this scatological post is that people treat their psychological dysfunction the same way they do their gastric byproducts.  We can all hear, see and smell the crap they are emitting, but they won't lay claim to it.  Or, if they are ready, willing and able to do so, those near and dear to them won't allow them to do it (because of their own issues).  Until they do, however, their innards, relationships and lives will keep seizing, trying to discharge the stuff they longer need.  So let it go.  Release it and sigh in relief.

Cringe

     To my Faithful Followers:  I apologize for my absence.  I have been in a funk. 

     You see, a few weeks ago, I was on the phone with my cou-sis (that’s not a typo – it’s my word for a cousin who is more like a sister to me) chatting about all sorts of things.  As we were about to hang up, she casually asked if I was still “doing the blog thing.”  I was a little taken aback; I had assumed that she was a loyal reader.  After an awkward pause, I answered – probably a bit snippily – that, of course, I was still posting on my blog. Why?  Another awkward silence, then she cautiously answered that she had stopped reading after the first few posts because each entry made her “cringe.” 

     “Is my writing that bad?” I asked, only half-jokingly.

     “No, no, no!  It’s not that at all.  It’s just that your disclosures make me uncomfortable.  I know what you went through; heck, I went through most of it with you.  And what I didn’t experience in your house, I underwent at my own house.  But I don’t think we need to yell those things from a rooftop. It’s not stuff I am proud of.  So when I read your blog, I imagine what other people will think and I fear that they will judge you and the family because of it.”

     I thought carefully about what my response would be.  I could see her point, but, to be honest, I didn’t care.  This was my life and my truth.

     “T.,” I started slowly.  “You are entitled to your own opinion.  When I started the blog, I said that I longed to live a life of transparency and that I would no longer be cowed by fear or shame or guilt.  I realize that people may judge me because of the life I have led or the things that I have done.  That is their prerogative, but I choose to no longer judge myself, and I choose to move past the limitations of my background.  The past is over and done with.”

     I could tell she was still unconvinced.  And it was not my job to convince her.  Still, the conversation bothered me.  Under the guise of concern about the judgment of others, I felt her judgment.  Despite my defiance on the phone, I found myself retreating, doubting, getting depressed.  And I did what I said I wouldn’t do – I stopped writing.

     Then something jarred me back to the keyboard – Tyler Perry’s disclosure of the abuse that he suffered as a child.  I, obviously, don’t know Tyler Perry, so what I’m about to say is going to sound quite silly:  I am very proud of him for coming forward like that.  Here is a person who acknowledges that he didn’t spring fully grown into the success he has.   

He had his trials, tribulations and events that others told him should remain hidden.  But he stepped into the light; even knowing that he would probably be ridiculed by some of the Black bloggers.  (One site insinuated that he was gay because he admitted to being sexually abused by a man as a child.  Frankly, it makes no difference to me whether he is gay or not.  I think it’s more contemptible to worship rappers who unabashedly call women “bitches” and “hos” than to love someone of the same sex.  But that’s just me.  And it’s probably a rant best reserved for another post.)

     In any event, I am back.  And I promise not to hold back -- even if it makes some people cringe.

The Grateful Mind

My house looks like a war zone.

In the middle of renovating the bathroom, Big Bren decided that he positively couldn't stand the front door and ripped out the old one, along with the walls surrounding it.  In the meantime, the main bathroom is still gutted and out of commission, which means that I am stuck with two little boys making a mess in my shower and peeing all over the bathroom in my room.  (That's as disgusting as it sounds.  How boys cannot aim their penises into a hole as wide as a toilet is beyond me.  I can take cleaning their bathroom once or twice a week, but I cannot stand going to the bathroom and -- if I happen not to look down first -- sitting in a puddle of someone else's urine.)

I was (and am) tempted to nag.  It was driving me crazy to walk through (the now gorgeous) front door and see a toilet in my foyer.  There is a thick layer of dust on everything; as soon as I wipe it off, more comes down from all the sanding and scraping that Big Bren is doing.  And I was losing my mind over the fact that he didn't finish one task before beginning the other, so that now both are in limbo -- the door is unpainted and the walls around it are just sheetrock, while the bathroom is still not complete.

Sitting in the living room, looking at the mess, I felt a sense of despair.  I felt like this was all there was ever going to be.  I was never going to be able to clean all this up.  The bathroom was never going to be finished.  I would be stuck in this dusty purgatory forever!  (Cue novela music for the drama queen.)

Then, suddenly, I was standing outside of myself, seeing how positively ridiculous I was being.  Here Big Bren was, trying to make our home nicer and better, and I wanted to cry over dust!  A few months from now, I will be entertaining in my new and improved home, the dust will be long gone and I won't even remember how uncomfortable the renovation period was.  Big Bren has done other work in the house -- he put in new floors, gutted and renovated another bathroom, he changed the stairs, remodeled the kitchen and designed a new fireplace. And he did it a little at a time over the past five years.  Ask me today and I cannot remember the details of any of the times he did the work.

Sometimes we need to step back and look at the bigger picture.  If you take one moment at a time, taking time to be here -- in this moment -- now, things feel so much easier.  Half of the time, our fears run away with us and we start projecting all this nonsense that has no basis in reality.

What alarmed me most about my despair was the absolute lack of gratitude with which I was seeing everything.  I should have been grateful that Big Bren was doing all this work.  I should have the foresight, the imagination, to envision what the "mess" would become.  It brought to mind a quote by Wallace D. Wattles:  "The grateful mind is constantlly fixed upon the best.  Therefore, it tends to become the best.  It takes the form or character of the best, and will receive the best."

I have to wonder whether my lack of gratitude, my lack of vision, my lack of discernment, is keeping me from moving forward in my life ...

Despojo

My closet was a mess.  I hadn’t cleaned it for almost a year.  I still had clothes in a size 4; I now wear a size 10.  (I should probably grapple with my weight issue – sooner, rather than later – but it simply is not a priority right now.)  

I’ve read the books.  I know that by holding on to things that no longer fit (my body or my life), I am creating a bottle-neck so that things that do fit cannot make it in.

At the point that I started to clean my closet, I didn’t know why the task was creating so much resistance in me.  I am not a hoarder; the rest of my home would probably be considered sparse.  My mother-in-law and mother come to my house, see designer bags they like and take them; I don’t mind.  So why my closet was in such disarray was beyond me.

I took everything out and threw it on the floor.  Now my closet and my bedroom were a mess.  Then I walked away from it all and attended to more “urgent” matters:  I went to the post office; I went to the grocery store; I took Brendan shopping for sneakers; I checked my e-mail; I read celebrity gossip on-line.  When I could no longer avoid the mess in my room, I headed back to it with a scowl on my face.

The part of me that believes in scarcity demanded that I keep my stuff; the part of me that knows there’s abundance urged me to get rid of as much as possible  -- much more would come in its stead.  As I started throwing things out, I found that my mood lightened.  I threw out everything that I hadn’t worn for more than two years.  I threw out everything that had seen better days.  I threw out anything whose fabric had pilled or that had seams that were coming loose.  My closet and my room started looking better and better.

Then came the impossible:  my journals.  Where to begin?  I had years and years of journals.  I picked one up and encountered my 20 year old self whining about my father’s indifference and emotional abuse.  The 23 year old me was obsessing about law school grades and finances.  My 25 year old self was pining away for some fool who clearly had no interest in me.  My 28 year old self was crying over some ass who’d stood me up.  From 29 to 38, I was busy cataloguing every infraction committed by Big Bren.  I found a few episodes of fun:  my friend Mindy’s bachelorette weekend in Miami; my trip to Jamaica with co-workers; my first trip to Europe with my friend, Nycol; my second trip to Europe with my mother; and hanging out with my law school buddy, Cora.  But, in between those bursts of sunshine, were long stretches of clouds and rain, usually because of some man.  Where had my life gone?  Had I really spent almost 39 years being miserable?  

I went back to my earliest journals and found that most of them were filled with longing.  Aching to be loved by my dad; yearning to have some sort of meaningful relationship with the man.  So cliché, right?  Brace yourself for more:  all of my relationships with men had been patterned on that all-encompassing need to please my dad.  I was in serial re-enactments of that love/rejection dance.  

When I thought I couldn’t possibly feel any worse about myself, it finally seeped into my consciousness that my dad simply did not like me.  He probably loved me, but he didn’t like me as a person.  Much like the person I wrote about in my previous post, I grated on his nerves.  And it was his right not to like me.  There is no rule that says you have to like your children.  Of course, the child me didn’t know any of this and each grunt he gave instead of responding to my attempts at conversation felt like a physical blow.  Every time he directed a look or a question to one of my siblings, while pretending I didn’t exist, broke my heart.  Even as a grown up, when I drove an hour out of my way to patronize his auto repair shop, only to have him charge me more than I would’ve paid had I not tried to give him the business, it hurt.  He drove a knife into my very soul when I proudly gave him a copy of the magazine that had published my first article and he – without so much as glancing at it – threw it on the table and re-focused his attention on the t.v., as if I hadn’t even spoken.

Sitting in my closet, with the chaos surrounding me, I finally released everything.  More importantly, I released him and I released that little girl inside who loved him and needed him so much.  Many years ago, I forgave him for all the ills of my childhood; for the absolute fear I felt when he drank; and for the fact that the smell of liquor can send me reeling, even today.  Although I had forgiven him, I had never released him.  I was still holding on to that need, that longing.  But when I dragged the garbage bags full of clothes, bags and books to the drop-off, I felt light.  Like a new woman.  It was a despojo – the sloughing off of the old and being renewed again. 

I Just Don't Like You

I wrote before about the constant admonitions we make to our children to "be nice."  My parents were no different.  Whenever I would express dislike for someone, my mother would say, "no sea odiosa; Dios te va castigar."  "Don't be hateful; God is going to punish you."  And I would immediately plaster a smile on my face and pretend all was well.

My mother can no longer tell me what to feel about whom, so now, I do it to myself.  I beat myself up mentally because I simply do not like everyone.  There is one particular person in my immediate circle who grates on my nerves just by existing.  Even when this person does absolutely nothing, I cannot stand to be around them.  I ask myself, "am I a bad person?"  Then I think, "Lightning is going to strike me for  my hateful ways!"

I am a month away from my 39th birthday and as a gift to myself, I have decided to no longer beat myself up over this issue.  I know for a fact that sometimes I am the person who grates on another's nerves just by breathing the same air.  There are times when no matter how hard I try, I still face rejection/disdain from another.  So why should I be wracked by guilt over my feelings?  I resolve to observe my feelings when I am around this person and try to find the origin of my dislike for them. If I cannot, I will allow myself to feel what I feel without judgment.

Time Marches On

I feel like it was just yesterday that I brought Brendan home from the hospital.  Today, he started kindergarten.  I get why people get all nostalgic at this milestone in their children's lives.

No tears for me, but it got me reminiscing about his first five years.  Of course, it wouldn't be ruMIRNAtions if I didn't drag you down memory lane with me.  :-)

I don't know where the time went ...

One day he was my baby; next thing you know, he's a boy.

Do As I Say, Not As I Do

Brendan has developed the most annoying habit -- he expects equality in all things.  He doesn't get the concept that he is not a grown-up or that children and grown-ups have different rights or capabilities.  I'll be  ordering at a drive-through and he will suddenly shout out his order, throwing me off-track and confusing the person on the other end.  Or I'll take him to the store for shoes and, instead of waiting for me to tell the sales clerk that the shoe is too small or too big, he will holler directly to the clerk.  When I tell him that he has to wait for me to do certain things, he responds with "why?  It's my food/shoes, etc."  In those instances, if looks were electricity, his little butt would get a serious shock.

I have tried everything: speaking, scolding, not speaking, time-outs, to no avail; he insists on doing it and questioning everything.  If I tell him it's time to go to bed, he responds with, "you're not going to bed, why should I?"  If I tell him to brush his teeth, his response is typically, "are you going to brush yours?"  It is infuriating, to say the least.  Yet, Brendan is not a disrespectful or defiant child; he usually asks with wide-eyed innocence.  He just genuinely expects the rules to apply to everyone equally.

Growing up, our household was one where children were seen and not heard.  As a result, my siblings and I have tried to give our children voices.  My mother says that we "spoil" our children by allowing them to speak so freely.

In pondering the issue this morning after yet another bout of verbal sparring with my child, I finally realized what was irking me so much about Brendan's constant questioning of everything.  It was that by doing so, he called to light the hypocrisy in so many of the rules.  The "clean your room, or you get no allowance," where our room is in constant disarray.  The "no cursing" rule, where the first thing that comes out of Big Bren's mouth at the slightest annoyance is an expletive.   Ordering him to "be nice," when we often aren't nice ourselves.

And society isn't any different.  We have our elected leaders telling us how to live our lives, while the government is falling apart at the seams.  The countless governors espousing "family values," while their underage children are having kids out of wedlock or when they, themselves, are having affairs.  The governor who was a former Attorney General getting caught patronizing a prostitution ring.  The CEOs of companies allegedly "tightening the belt" by cutting workers' expenses and taking away perks, but they travel by corporate jet and give themselves exorbitant bonuses.  The prosecutors sending people to jail for perjury, but the government lying -- with no repercussions -- about the reasons for going to war with another country.

The fact of the matter is that we live in a "do as I say and not as I do" world.  The sad thing is that despite telling myself that I am giving Brendan a "voice," by scolding him when he exercises that voice, I am slowly muzzling him.  He may ask 20 questions today; tomorrow, it will be 10; the day after, it will be 5.  It would be easier to have a child who simply does as he is told, but I think I kind of like the fact that my child challenges the status quo.  Just as long as he doesn't question me too much.