The Late Arrival

The New Year is a few short days away and the "Year in Review" lists are coming fast and furious, as are "The People We Lost" montages. Neither tells us much, really. They serve as much purpose as Chris Farley's in-depth interview with Paul McCartney. We're like Sir Paul: we know what happened this year. We were there . What I wish those lists would relate are the things we've learned from the things that have happened. Seriously, I mean what are the take-aways from the Kardashians' latest breakup, or from reminsicing about the year's bitter bipartisianship, or even from Whitney Houston's untimely death? That we love celebrity soap operas? That we're sick of campaign ads? That drugs are bad? This is all old news. In fact, it shouldn't even be called news, it oughta be called Olds . Granted, there is something fascinating about looking over the year and remembering, but what if we as individuals came up with our own lists? What

In between swallowing back the crying lump and blinking back the tears, I’m fighting back the urge to scoop my daughter up from school. Even as I’m heartsick, nervous and wondering if there’s any place safe or sacred anymore, my kid’s at school . Going about her ten-year-old business. Either chatting when she’s not supposed to be chatting; or most likely, making her dad’s birthday card right now. The last thing on her mind is a lunatic desecrating her school – a place that Jamie and I consider to be a zone of safety – with a loaded gun. I hate that the consideration or threat of it happening even makes it onto my radar screen. I hate that right now, this tragedy is already evolving into battle of special interests. I hate that screaming “Mama!!” or “Daddy!!” isn't enough to scare off the nightmarish bogie men of real life . As hard as it is, I know I can’t let her see me being heartsick and nervous about this crazy, scary world. So until I pick her up, maybe I’ll just let

That smell. That sour-sweet-earthy smell paired with the bite of the mid-fall wind puts me right there on 52nd street on the north side of town. Even as I write this, I can smell it: it's October, and I can almost feel crabapples from the Grady’s tree pop with a thud under my feet. These were all harbingers of winter – the smell, the bite, the pop. It meant things were dying and temporarily ceding their place to make room for blankets of snow. The dying never bothered me. In fact, I looked forward to the smell and this natural cycle that meant backyard igloos, “face washes” (courtesy of my brother) and snow days off school were on the way. Two years after mid-October of 1988, that smell was a punch in the gut. Tears started streaming from some internal well unknown to me up until that point. Evidently, my mom’s diagnosis of liver cancer, her struggling through it for weeks and her death one week before Thanksgiving had tied that smell to that time . That’s when I sta

It’s beginning to become uncomfortably routine: disaster strikes by either an act of God or deranged person, and then we see them: the better angels in all of us. Celebrities hop on fundraising bandwagons for humanitarian organizations, “everyday heroes” do valiant deeds to sustain people in the hour of need and rival politicians beat their swords into plowshares as the rest of us look on and wonder why it takes a tragedy for people to simply. Do. The Right. Thing. At least I do. I mean, why is it so hard to help? To really look someone in the eye who’s in distress – even a little distress – and help? It’s not for lack of people who are hurting, that’s for sure. Just go to the store. Park your car in the first open space. Grumble to yourself that the space is ten miles away from the entrance and that you’re stuck hauling groceries alone. After working all week. Again. You see her, a woman about your age. She’s crying.   Weeping. It’s that familiar cry as if she’s just found o

Facebook rants aren't my style. I mean, after all, Facebook didn't set out to hurt anyone, so why go off in such a public -- Facebookie -- way? I can understand clearing out the cobwebs, getting whatever it is off your chest, out of your head or away from your person in general, but what makes someone type out all that vitriol and then, rather than be all "Ahhh..now it's out of/off of/away from" and move on from there, rather than pressing the "Post" button once it's out of/off of/away from? I think I know now. Perhaps it comes from procrastinating the inevitable until the last minute and you find yourself completing yet, another form for an extra-curricular that you know your fourth-grade daughter is excited about. You realize the only thing standing between her and it is...you completing that form. And so you pull up the PDF form over your lunch hour, dig out your health insurance card because you know  this form is going to ask for the Grou

My mom was from the “Old School” where hair was defined as “Good” and “Bad” and it was no secret that mine was the latter. Now, stop shaking your head and thinking that I should probably seek therapy because of such a sad childhood. The label wasn’t an indictment against my personality or intellect; rather it was an indicator of the amount of work needed to get my nappy hair under control. Sometimes that meant just combing through and detangling, and other times, it meant going to Miss Thelma, the beautician who would “press” my kinks straight with a metal comb that was heated -- the "hot comb." By the time I hit my twenties, I tired of the hot comb routine and decided to chemically straighten out the naps with a “relaxer.”    This process not only changes the molecular structure of hair; but also forces a crazy bi-monthly game of whack-a-mole in an effort to beat the naps out of the nappy growth just as it begins to burst through the scalp. Sometimes,

A simple double-click of the mouse would open an email from a complete stranger in another state who I cyber stalked in hopes that he could tell me about my relatives.   Highly improbable.  But I double clicked anyway. It wasn’t as improbable as I thought.   Turns out that Murray – that’s his name – was more than willing to help me.   He’s done extensive research that included my family for a yet-to-be-published book because they were at the center of an incident in Pierce City, Missouri that changed the town forever. While I was very interested in the incident, I was more interested at the time in knowing what he knew about my family.   He understood and immediately filled me in on information about my great-grandfather: “Wiley worked at the lime kiln, where lime was dug up…He was a hardworking man.” Out of all the stones on ancestry.com and the myriad of rocks on Google, it seemed like I had found a gem. We’ve communicated since that time, and he’s been emailing me his no

Can you find the raw ruby in this picture?   Take a look; it’s right there.   Still don’t see it? It’s the one with the roundish, but jagged sort of edges. Maximize the photo if you still don’t see it.   Go ahead.   I’ll wait here.   Did you find it? Look again. It’ll be the one with rich-red hues. Okay, I lied: there’s no ruby - raw or cooked - in that picture. But searching for a gem in a sea of stones is kind of what it’s been like piecing my family tree together .   I knew my maternal ancestors were from a small Missouri town, and I even have a rough idea of their ages.   I used that information to conduct my search…and generated records for about eight billion people with the same last name from that same small town. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But there were a lot more than one or two. One of the records belonged to a person with a name that I had heard my mom and aunt mention numerous times while they were having conversations that kids are too bored to be

“I just love your gap!” A well-meaning person to whom I had just been introduced gushed the compliment. I was around twenty-three, and to tell you the truth, wasn’t even aware of this much-loved gap.   A nervous giggle escaped as I politely said “thank you.” Later on after dinner, I pulled out my mirrored compact to reapply my lipstick, but that was a ruse.   I was really checking to see if I indeed had a gap.   I did. I do .   In fact, just about everyone on mom’s side of the family has one.   It’s hereditary. Several years later, Jamie and I were a doting-dating-childless couple, strolling through the mall hand-in-hand. I tried on some jeans at a department store, and (quite uncharacteristically for me) did a little sexy model walk for him.   I posed, expecting a wolf-whistle or a “how you doin?’” Instead I got: Are you knock-kneed ?” Yes. Yes I am knock-kneed. First time I noticed it was in ballet class: the teacher told us to stand with our feet parallel, knees facing frontw

Instead of the “usual” status updates (e.g. Look at the mac-n-cheese I made, or We're at the Jelly Belly factory, etc.), a Facebook friend of mine posts a Question of the Day.  I love the idea because not only is it a way to get to know each other better, but because it’s less Let me tell you about me and more I want to know more about you .   My friend’s question can be silly or serious, but it never fails to get my mind percolating.  Today’s question was: What was the best advice your mom ever gave you? ” Maybe its my way of keeping her alive, but I jump at any chance to talk about my mom, so the question was right up my alley. But she passed on so much wisdom in the 19 years I had with her, it was hard to decide. After a quick comb-through, it came to me: Tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone. Simple translation: Don’t drag your feet about finishing that project or your degree, or traveling if it’s your heart’s desire, or saying “I’m sorry” or “Thank you” or “I love you.”

Once upon a time, long ago, I tried to be the Cool Chick. The unfortunate incident occurred during my mid-twenties, years before I had embraced my current Square Peg status. Here's what happened: As I was perched railside at my favorite watering hole gabbing with my bartender friend, a tall, handsome stranger sauntered in. Our eyes met. Locked. I swear angels were singing. Instead of following my usual Square Peg M.O. of giggling like a schoolgirl because a cute guy was actually checking me out, I decided to become: the Cool Chick. I coquettishly raised my drink in slo-mo, never breaking my bewitching gaze (I thought it was bewitching anyway) with this debonair stranger and proceeded to sip it. From the straw….because that’s what cool chicks do. I tilted my head ever so slightly to greet the teeny tiny cocktail straw, eyes still locked with his and… ...missed my mouth completely and instead poked the teeny tiny straw halfway up my right nostril. Needless to say, The Cool

It was nine years and a few months ago, but I clearly remember telling my OB that we didn’t want to find out the sex of prenatal Georgia. We said that we didn’t have a preference. All we wanted was a healthy baby, and that was true.  But not completely. Deep down, I wanted a boy. Not because I envisioned a star athlete, but because girls are talkers.  Sometimes even lippy.  I just didn’t think I was up for the task.  Didn’t think I had the chops for it.  More than that, I had reflected on my experience as a boy-crazy black teen in a predominately white school:  I was “too black” for some white kids and “too white” for some of the black kids.  So, there was no dating in high school.  None . It did wonders for my self-esteem. Then I remembered being on the karaoke circuit back in the day (when I could stay awake past 10:00p) and having to tell deejays that, while I liked Aretha Franklin, my style was more Patsy Cline or Grace Slick. None of this bruised me for life, but I didn’t

I often joke about looking forward to my senior years because when you're a senior, you can get away with everything because: "you're old."  Like my dad. He was driving someplace and just decided to turn left. Out of the blue. No blinker. No courtesy "Sorry-I-forgot-to-blinker" wave to the poor soul behind us. Nothing. He just up and turned left. I said "Um...you really oughta use your blinker." And in that old southern man tone of his, he fanned me off and said "Girl, I'M OLD !" Evidently old people don't have to blinker. Guess I missed that lesson in driver's ed. Then there was the gentleman with whom I chatted on a cruise. He mentioned being a WWII vet and I told that him my dad was also a WWII vet. He started reminiscing about the segregated troops, and offered an apology for using the term "black." He said he preferred saying "colored" because it doesn't sound bad like black does. Don't crin

I go to church because I want something. I want to feel “full” by the time the hour’s over and I want to exit those doors with something I can chomp on throughout the week. Something to carry me through the weirdo challenges that life throws at me during Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,  Friday and Saturday. And of course, to tell, sing and meditate my thank you to God for getting me through the previous week. So, like any other Sunday, I went. And I got fed. But I didn’t think the food would have me praying a schizophrenic prayer. The topic was “Forgiveness” and how forgiveness and forgiving is our most critical need as humans.  The Mayo Clinic even has studies to prove it.  As the pastor talked about how when we hold on to old hurts, old words and deeds, they take root and rupture the foundation of our lives I sat. Ears pricked, but I was, admittedly, a tad smug. Seriously...I’ve let old hurts go and my life is pretty peachy. But then he said something tha

Sometimes I don’t understand Jamie, and sometimes he doesn’t understand me.   It’s not an indictment of our marriage, it’s more of a man/woman thing.   The two sexes are wired so differently that it’s been said men are from Mars and women are from Venus. I think the game of Football proves it. Mental Wiring Remember playing with the neighbor kids and there was always one kid who made additional rules up as they went along and by the end of the game, no one understood anything except the kid who made up the rules? Wasn’t the Rule-Maker-Upper usually a Martian? I think that most Rule-Maker-Uppers grow up to be this guy: Martians are wired to not only be this guy; but they’re also wired to listen to and understand guys like this.   A Venusian, on the other hand, can’t get through this twenty-seven second clip without banging her head on a table.   (At least this Venusian can’t) They can, however, remember a pediatrician’s phone number, office hours and when a

February's here. It's the shortest month of the year and it's designated to recognize all of black people's contributions to America. Shortest month of the year. All of black people's contributions . Ummmm...How do the historical contributions of an entire people get crammed into 28 days? (or 29 days, since this is a Leap Year) Is it obsolete? Granted, Black History Month came about because of Carter Woodson's desire to see recognition of what black people had done to build the country and build pride in a discriminated people group. But that was way back before voting rights, desegregation and all of the other civil rights stuff.  It made sense. For that time. Given the fact that so many boundaries have been crossed, is a singular month still needed to highlight one group? And what about the other people groups that have a made an historical impact on America? I don't know...maybe we still need it.  At the risk of outing my ignorance a

The television's volume was at Old Man Levels all the while I made dinner, which shouldn't be a big deal; but it is when you live in a small house whose living room is in close proximity to the kitchen.  And when making dinner is the first thing you do upon crossing the threshold after an eight-hour day, it's really a big deal. An even bigger deal when two people are talking to you over the television, which is now screaming, about two different topics. At the same time. While you make dinner. But I pushed through it because I'm a trooper. Who am I kidding; I pushed through the screaming television, the chorus of conversation and even occasional dog barking and got dinner simmering/baking or however I was cooking whatever I was cooking because I had to potty. And I also had to free myself from the man made constraint that we women call a bra. Finally I was freed, unencumbered and in comfy clothes (go ahead & call me George Costanza ). The momentary relief was en