The Late Arrival

The coming New Year's been tapping my shoulder, pulling on my blouse and prattling and tattling at me like the people with whom I live as soon as foot number two crosses the threshold of our house. My response to the New Year is much like the one I give to those two people:  I swat and whisper at it Okay, okaaaay...Let me get my feet under me and then I can pay attention to you. I just need one moment. Just one. Please. That was pretty much last year's response to the incoming year too. In all rights, I owe an apology to 2013. Poor thing, it's been waiting for me to get my act together, develop some sense of clarity and attend to its needs like I promised way back in late Aught '12, but that still hasn't happened. I'm sorry, Outgoing Year, I really am. So, to the New Year: I feel you there with your tapping, pulling, prattling, tattling and pushing me to attend to your needs. I understand you think you need some goals or resolutions; and I get

The easy way. The path of least resistance. Admittedly, it's my route of preference. Conflict? Confrontation? Any sense of discomfort, and I'll go over the hills and through the woods and three times around grandmother's house to avoid it. Especially at this time of year, the easy thing is kvetching about the endless running, the needle on the scale that threatens to inch ever forward, the expectations put upon us by our kids, our significant others and ourselves. Not to mention the music. Which I did. Right here . In this post . But sometimes you have to dig and do the hard work. The antithesis of the easy way. I mean get dirt under your fingernails to find the joy -- even in the holiday music, since most of it beckons us to joy, happiness and peace. Peace in the midst of reality. For me, that reality is having terminal illness and death in some shape or form breathing down my back and lurking around every corner. Too many people in my circle will have one less

After Thanksgiving, a birthday party last week, another birthday party this week and Christmas coming up next week, I am officially overwhelmed. It'd take more time than I have to explain what yet needs to be done and if you're like me, you're probably overwhelmed and don't have the time nor inclination to read it all anyway. But even with an overflowing plate, I still love the Christmas season -- from setting up the Christmas tree that we got two weeks ago and decorated only yesterday, to lighting bayberry scented candles, to every Rankin & Bass Christmas Special, and the music. Oh, the music. Songs have a way of putting you in the Christmas spirit, warming your heart and next thing you know, you're hugging a stranger in the elevator. Okay, um...maybe that's just me. But alas, all songs are not created equal; and the following Christmas songs inspire and awaken anything but peace on earth and goodwill to men. 1. Christmas Shoes : This song makes my

The little blue (or was it pink) line inched across the tiny screen on the stick. That stick. The plastic stick sold by the drug store that tells you whether you'll be taking another person home in around nine months to live with you for the next eighteen years or so. I saw the line and walked away. Maybe it was a fluke. Came back in ten minutes. Still there. Yep. I was gonna have a baby. I don't say the politically correct We were gonna have a baby , because while We would be parents, only my part of We would host the cause of the little blue (or pink) line. Feed it. Expand as it expanded and ultimately usher it into this world. The line was a surprise and I sat and thought...and panicked. The reality of knowing that I could barely go through three months straight of not locking myself out of the house, much less be in charge of another human's formative years of emotional, psychological, physical and spiritual welfare hit me. Hard. Fine, I'd have a  vodka

I can't remember it. It's in addition to packing and taking lunch instead of buying the over-priced-over-greasy-over-daily-caloric-intake quick lunch. Which is also in addition to remembering to sign Georgia's homework assignment book before we leave for the morning. And that's on top of remembering to remind her to take the envelope with the signed class trip permission slip inside. Oh, and the bottle of water. I've slacked off in drinking water lately, so I definitely have to remember that. But I can't remember The Other Thing. The Other Thing that doesn't have to be at my fingertips, but it'd be nice if it were at least in reaching distance of my mind's eye. Can you remember it? You know, that Other Thing. Or maybe it was a feeling...or a time. Like the time when you broke out into a run, and I mean a full-fledged-out-and-out Run . Not because you were pushing yourself. Not because you were proving something to anyone. But you ran because

Advertisements would have us believe a lot of things. That potty training will be a fun experience for parents and kids alike if we use technology to do it. If you've potty trained a child -- or even a puppy -- there's no app, tablet, laptop or gadget that can make it fun. Yeah. An iPad on a potty chair. Fun for everyone! That we'll have wrinkle-free radiant faces after a few applications of the right lotions and potions. Listen, you can butter up your face in every kind of oil, spackle and even acid, but wrinkles will forever be there. Don't ask how I know that. Yeah. Not. Of course, there's more. Achieving a lean, hard-bodied physique after just sprinkling magic fairy dust on food without exercise or change in diet. Irresistible magnetism to the opposite sex because of wearing the right scent, driving the right car or even drinking the right top shelf vodka. I've decided that Nutella should be added to the list too. No, not because of clai

"I'm Black, He's White - Who Cares" so goes the title of an excellent piece featured on Literally, Darling . But the point the writer makes is that the Who in the title is acutally Her. She cares. More specifically, she's scared. Primarily for her future children - whether they be bi-racial or black. In a way, her fear is justified based on her past experiences -- not being "black enough" for black folk, or confusing to white folk, or having her coupledom visually and verbally demeaned -- none of which is out of the ordinary for any black or brown person or mismatched couple in our pre and even post racial society. Listen, Jazmine (that's her name): I feel your pain, Girly. But allow this black wife who's married to a white guy and who's also a mom to a biracial kid, and most importantly who's twenty-plus-years your senior, to pass on some unsolicited words of wisdom. It's in the rear-view mirror, and you're not backing u

Iron sharpens iron. Or rather, good writers make the rest of us better. In that vein, the following is written in response to the Trifecta Writing Challenge for a 33-word piece inspired by the Rolling Stone's "Sympathy for the Devil." Related: thanks, Red's Wrap for being the iron that sharpens iron.

It’s 6:00am and I’m awake. The sun and moon are in a battle to see whose light will win the morning. Through slats in the bedroom blinds, I peer out to see the cold, navy hue the battle has cast over our tiny yard. It’s the same every morning when I should be up, not just awake. The sun and moon battling. The sun always winning out in the end. Me being awake, but not up; knowing the extra thirty minutes means the difference between leaving with or without makeup, stress versus ease in wrangling my daughter out the door and on the road to school. Still, I stay awake, but not up. A half hour later, I’m up…and like someone fired a starter pistol near my ear, I’m washing myself, double-checking with her about lunch, knee pads, gym clothes, does the dog have fresh water – and where is the dog anyway? Then we’re leaving and I remember my rings – the one of promise, the one that sealed the deal and the one that reminds me that I’m a mom. Where are they? The starter pistol rings in

There’s a reason this blog is called The Late Arrival. A few weeks back, my daughter and I went to church. We were a few minutes, well…late. I felt weird stares; and indignantly, hurriedly, I plopped down anyway. Five minutes later, the pastor asked the congregation to rise for the prayer and dismissal. See what I mean? One late night, the call for writing submissions for the Type-A Parenting Conference’s We Still Blog Awards appeared on my Facebook feed. I clicked the link, read the prestigious bios of the people judging the pieces and figured Yeah right, like this’ll happen. Meh…what have I got to lose. At least I can say I tried.  I pressed “Submit” and forgot about it. Until nearly a month later on another late night. An email congratulated me on being one of ten finalists selected. Oh no. Really? This is all kinds of wrong. This can’t be right. Could it? It was. Then later I perused the blogs of the other finalists…and FREAKED. Their websites were beautifu

Our five-minute-won’t-be-late-for-school-just-yet window was fast closing while I scrambled around the kitchen trying to remember whatever it was that I’d be sure to forget once we were on the road. Soon, we were on the road. Or at least in the alley on our way to the road when I realized the road was being tarred. Tarred to the right. Road tarred to the left. I couldn’t take the turn I wanted in either direction, so we coasted down one alley and then the next and then the next looking for an open, untarred road. Finally we made it to the thoroughfare and it was all smooth sailing until… …the railroad crossing . More precisely, the railroad crossing being crossed by a train two intersections ahead. I panicked slightly and dimmed the dashboard lights so Georgia couldn’t obsess about the clock ticking down the minutes to her being tardy. Traffic had backed up from the railroad crossing intersection to ours, but I could see far enough ahead to tell that the train had passed thr

A bird's-eye view of the ocean, a blanket of blues and violet. Could be dawn, it could be sunset. There are no undertows, no threat of menacing aquatic life and tidal waves look like silent ripples in a pond. In the middle of it all is a tiny speck of white -- or maybe yellow. It's Diana Nyad somewhere in the in the sojourn of an over fifty-eight hour swim toward the Florida Keys.   Now zoom in. Further into the journey as she reaches her destination greeted by wading well wishers and you see her emerge from the waters swollen and dazed. This scene isn't as serene as the imagined one. In fact, there's even a trace of ugliness and gritty reality there, but within that scene, we're able to hear Diana reminding us to "Never give up" and that "You're never alone." That's something that can't be heard in the idyllic birds-eye view. Everything's prettier from a distance, don't you think? Doesn't mean that the zoomed-in gr

You ever read a headline even though you know the news is going to be bad? I did. The headline was “Many Americans Have No Friends Outside Their Race” based on results from an online poll administered in the wake of the Zimmerman verdict. Here’s the Reader’s Digest version: non-white people have a low percentage of close friends who are white, and white people have an even lower percentage of close friends who are non-white. The west coast is a little better in this regard than the rest of the country and the southern part of the country is worse. DUH. I think the knee-jerk reaction to this is for people to mentally shuffle through their racial rolodex and start ticking off friends who don’t look like them. Heck, I did until I remembered that I’m married to a white guy. (he’s my husband so I guess he counts as a friend, right?) But throw race out of the equation entirely, and you end up with a much bigger question: Of the people we consider friends, do we consider any

Oh, I’ve done a couple of 5Ks and a mud run or two, but honestly: I don’t like running. What I do like is the feeling of “Wow I really can do this” when I run for a longer distance with each workout, and the sense of accomplishment that comes with finishing a race. By now you’ve heard about the marine who fell back during a race to help a little boy who was struggling to finish running that same 5K. Just imagine it: the finish line tape in sight, sensing that you’re beating last year’s time, pulling ahead of the pack with your running buddies when you hear someone ask “Sir, would you please run with me?” It’s the right thing to do so you do it. And the marine did. The story’s blown up on social media channels and nationwide newscasts, and the marine has received well deserved recognition for doing the right thing. But what about the boy? This kid could’ve asked the marine to carry him --  after all, marines are tough guys. That scene alone: the kid on the marine’s shoulders

Part of me has wanted to shut down all news over the past week and shield my ten-year-old from the coverage, while the other part wanted her to at least have a consciousness about it. Today, she asked about the verdict -- rather, she commented on what her understanding of all this has been. “So…a lot of people are mad because they think Zimmerman killed Trayvon Martin because Trayvon is black.” In that moment, I had to boil down, cut through the outrage, demonstrations, talking heads, blaming, claiming and tell her what I believed: “Yeah. That’s true. But here’s what we have to remember: we can’t mind-read or heart-read. Only George knows why he did what he did and…” She interrupted me “…and God. God knows why he did it.” “Exactly.” I was frank with her “…but I just can’t imagine how Trayvon’s mom and dad feel. What a nightmare. I mean, their son is gone – he’s dead, honey. And George’s mom? To know that her son took someone else’s life …” ...and I trailed off thinking

It was the shot heard round the bundt pan : Paula Deen admitted to uttering the n-word...repeatedly. In the past. She issued one pathetic video recant (or so I've heard because it was taken down as quickly as it was posted), then was scheduled to issue another wanna-be mea culpa on The Today Show, but instead settled for a new  Please-I-Got-Butter-In-My-Recipes-Don't-Y'all-Remember-How-Much-Y'all-Love-Butter apology video. None worked and the Food Network summarily dismissed her and her buttery goodness by not renewing her contract. Sorry, Paula. Yes, I said it: Sorry. What hapeend to you is because you reflected your upbringing in the south during the days when people living south of the Mason Dixon Line regularly referred to the Civil War as the War of Northern Aggression . Trouble is, somehow, someway, you just couldn't keep those words, that history and that slant from bubbling up out of you and into conversation. Truthfully Paula, I'm not worried

Her head spun around once, then twice and upon the third rotation, she levitated. Her eyes, now radioactive green, met mine and she hissed “I already washed my hands for dinner!” With that, she began to happily chirp away about something funny that happened at school. It was as if the levitating, the hissing had never happened. My daughter -- my sweet, happy-go-lucky baby girl was possessed. By hormones. As frustrating as it is for me, I’m careful not to give her the kookoo-for-cocoa-puffs side-eye, or be dismissive of the venom that might escape her lips because all too often, hormonal blame is the eraser of valid thoughts and feelings. You know the excuses: “Oh, she’s just PMS-ing" or it’s “That Time of the Month” or " She’s Menopausal" or "She’s Perimenopausal.” Wink-wink, nudge-nudge. It's a diagnosis that negates whatever your complaint is no matter how valid. Which is even more frustrating, because nine times out of ten you’re having an out-o

It was too early to head home on a much-too-rare date night when I espyed the bar a few blocks from our house that I had long been curious about. From the outside, you could tell the seating capacity inside was fifty at most, and the name spelled out in glowing blue and pink neon letters was one I couldn't pronounce. The most I knew was that it was a few blocks from the Serbian orthodox church and the Serbian meeting hall so it must have been Serbian. Didn't matter. It seemed like the kind of place where you walk in a stranger, but quickly make friends with the nieghborhood regulars and the friendly bartender who'd never forget your name or your drink after a first meeting. No frills, cheap drinks and probably a great jukebox with Patsy Cline and the Eagles in rotation. I convinced Jamie as much. We parked and went in. As expected, it was dark and cozy, and I immediately liked the place. Also as expected, it was a Serbian hangout. Handsome, dark swarthy people in soccer

In the few years under my belt as a hack writer, I’ve read a lot of posts from a lot of other bloggers, hoping to pick up on the things that make a piece great or gripping. This nonprofessional research has turned up one thing: honesty. Honesty, as in Are-you-sure-you-wanna-say-that-out-loud honesty. Yeah. That. The great pieces have always been from writers who speak from their hearts and say things that are ironically funny, sometimes painful, but always glaringly, transparently, and sometimes embarrassingly, true.   Bare. Truth. Transparency. That takes courage akin to walking on a frozen pond during the spring thaw.  Think about it: we’ve all got stories that could make us great writers – even the hacks like me, but it’s all a question of courage: what are we willing to share? Are we willing to bare some uncomfortable things?   In my case, it’s missing my mom. Oh, the coward in me will casually refer to losing her at a young age and wax philosophic about, or bring out