Skip to main content

About the Posts

Where I Get This Stuff
What I write comes from my perspective as a [very flawed] Christian, wife and mom. Christian is what I am at my core. I haven't gotten it perfectly right, but I think that's the point of being a Christian. That faith permeates my life, so naturally, some it comes through in my writing. I never want to be "preachy," but you'll hear it come through every now and then.


I'm a native of Milwaukee and came of age during the shoulder-padded, greed-conscious 80's -- back when it was popular to have pancake-booty proportions, penciled lip liner inside your natural lips to make them seem thinner, and of course, feathered hair. Now, look at that picture: none of that stuff was me. So my writing comes from a place of being "ethnic" before that was en vogue.

My writing also reflects the reality of being a black woman with a white husband and biracial child living in one of the nation's most segregated cities. It's no big deal 98.2% of the time...but there's that 1.8% when the racial thing is a big deal. And when it is, it makes for some pretty interesting stories.

The Late Arrival
Here's the bottom line. I'm just trying to figure things out and sometimes it takes awhile for me to do that. I'm a little "late" in catching on.
I love writing and am doing my darndest to get better at it each day. In fact, I'm just realizing how easy it is to set up a personal blog. Yup. Just realized this in 2011. Another "late" revelation.

I'm late with a lot of realizations, far too many to mention here. So if you were wondering why the page name is what it is, now you know.

Popular posts from this blog

What 6 Christmas Songs Got Wrong

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

Racism & Prejudice: Brothas from a Different Mother

Next week I’m attending  a seminar on defining racism. Should be interesting because: 1) I’ve been living in the skin I’m in for nearly 43 years and I’d like to hear about any advancements on the topic; and 2) back in college, some class I took defined racism as movement, advancement or otherwise being prevented and/or restricted based upon race .  Embedded in the definition was that racism took two parties – someone in power (the racist) and someone whose rights were being violated. So according to that definition, racism is an action , not an attitude . One is a disabling trespass while the other is prejudice . I tend to agree. It’s my belief that Martin Luther King and the thousands of civil rights fighters stood up against racism . They stood up against actions that prevented people from the pursuit of happiness – whether that meant voting, drinking from a common bubbler, or not ending up as Strange Fruit on a Poplar tree when all they wanted to do was get from P

The Moments That Are Given

Mom! It’s graffiti! It’s art... on a shoe ! I have to try it on. Please...can I? It was my 12 year old’s first foray into heels. A big moment in our little lives. Working full-time when she was an infant had stolen other big-little moments from my camera’s eye -- the first time she rolled over, the first time she sat up unassisted...the first firsts. Newly, gladly and willfully unemployed for the first time in 15 years, I took a picture. The picture wasn’t as much of an attempt to catch up on lost firsts, but rather a net to capture a butterfly’s moment of the moment; because if history skips a generation and the math holds out, there are more years behind me than ahead. My mom died at 63. Her mom died at 47. I’m 46. I’ve checked all over my person for a stamped expiration date, from the flabby inside parts of my arms, to the backs of my knees and other parts of my anatomy that shall remain nameless here.  There is no such date. Yet, there is a possibil