This is definitely my favorite day of the year. As you all know, I used to drink to feel pretty and now eat to feel nothing. Thanksgiving Day is a nationally sanctioned day of eating one's feelings under the guise of celebration and gratitude. Clearly this is my time to shine.
See, the key to a successful Thanksgiving is pacing and preparedness. Many people think that starving until meal time is the best way to get the most out of it--rookie mistake. When you don't eat all day, your stomach contracts and your metabolism stays at it's sleeping rate, making mass consumption of delicious foods difficult. You've got to eat little light bits throughout the day leading up to the meal.
Of course, I'm all for cleansing the day before, as it helps the body prepare to take in copious amounts of carbs. Last night, we enjoyed a light dinner of shrimp & avocado over mixed greens--the right amount of roughage and good fats to center the body, but nothing heavy that couldn't be expelled rapidly.
So, here it is, the big day. The time is now 9:48am. Food won't be ready until 3pm at the earliest. I can't sit here all day, smelling the smells and promising myself I'll "go to town on that apple tart" when my stomach is the size of a toddler's fist! I must start off with a simple breakfast, just to get the body ready; Coax it out of slumber and prepare it for domination at the dinner table. I'll start with a fiber-rich cereal and perhaps a yogurt. After watching a motion picture, I'll likely follow up with some squats, push ups, and fruit. By that time, I will be called into the kitchen to prepare the sides that only I know how to make. This is when I'll have to maintain a steely resolve and not waste calories on taste tests.
As you can see, I'm serious about this.
I'm spending the day with mom and her latin lover, then heading to PA tomorrow to visit the Jewboo's fam. Although they invited me for the holiday, I couldn't pass up our Southern-influenced side dishes for who knows what in suburban Pennsylvania. When I tried to explain this to Jewboo, he looked at me like I was crazy. "You think the food won't be good at our family friend's house?"
No, that's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is, I get one day a year to eat stuffing, yams, and macaroni and cheese on the same plate, and I'm not losing it to have some roasted potatoes or green bean casserole. Besides, Jewboo is a vegetarian and really weight-conscious, which not only impairs his judgement but also makes him a real buzz-kill on a day like today (but I still love him!). I need to be able to spend the day in drawstring sweatpants and no shoes, not eating daintily so as not to embarrass myself in front of my potential in-laws. I owe it to us both to show up to Pennsylvania with a full belly and high blood pressure, just so the weekend can be relaxed.
I'm feeling a bit anxious, as I woke up to the sounds of arguing and had flashbacks to my youth. I was already on the brink as of last night, when my mother told me that people would probably think I'm a pedophile if I kept offering to babysit their kids. So, you know, I'm dealing with that.
Hope you're having/had a great Food Day!
xoxo,
blacktress!
Showing posts with label mom time. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mom time. Show all posts
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Blacktresses & The Blues
**I started writing this post on Friday. Today is Tuesday. That should give you a sense of where I'm at.**
Guys, I am so dead tired. Don’t you ever wake up and have one of those days where it’s like, “Yeah, I could totally kill myself right now and it wouldn’t even be a big deal.”?
No? Just me? Well, anyway, that’s where I’m at.
I hung out with my mom last night and, as always, it was a mixed bag—a dash of hope, humbling gratitude, a bit of self-loathing, gut-wrenching frustration, and a feeling of powerlessness that makes a gal eat bread pudding for breakfast—natch. We had dinner with my voice over coach and it was straight out of Waiting to Exhale. They got along swimmingly, which I’d expected, but also banded together to point out several of my shortcomings.
You know, like how I don’t “invest in myself.”
And how I “dress like someone who doesn’t care.”
And how I “don’t focus on what really matters”
Oh yeah—and how I need to purchase some really good wigs and hair pieces if I want to be seen as a professional on stage and in auditions.
I feel like a character in a Carson McCullers novel.
Of course, it always helps to keep it in perspective. After all, I could be little Paisley here:
When questioned, her mother didn’t really get all the hoopla. “Well, at this pageant there was an option to do celebrity-wear,” the mom said. “And we thought about what we could wear with her being a brunette, and Julia Roberts is my favorite actress of all time. I thought it was real cute to do Julia. She’s 3. If she was 10 I never would have considered this. But as young as she is I thought it was very comical.”
With that in mind, I’m trying to shake off mom’s words, but the timing couldn’t really be worse—this Sunday is round 1 of NBC’s StandUp for Diversity auditions, where oppressed comics can finally get their reparations.
Last year, I didn’t even make it past the first round.
I was beaten by an 11-year-old boy with braces and rubber bands who talked about putting vodka in his cereal.
Needless to say, I’m nervous. And I only have 60 seconds to prove myself. If I win them over, I get to go on to the second round, which allows me 2 whole minutes to bring the pain. If I pass that I get to be on the showcase the following night.
I know, I mustn’t count my chickens. But it could be fun.
If only I could find a way to be hilarious in 60 seconds and stop thinking about how my natural hair makes me look like, “Whoopi Goldberg, not caring, wearing a moo-moo.”
Guys, I am so dead tired. Don’t you ever wake up and have one of those days where it’s like, “Yeah, I could totally kill myself right now and it wouldn’t even be a big deal.”?
No? Just me? Well, anyway, that’s where I’m at.
I hung out with my mom last night and, as always, it was a mixed bag—a dash of hope, humbling gratitude, a bit of self-loathing, gut-wrenching frustration, and a feeling of powerlessness that makes a gal eat bread pudding for breakfast—natch. We had dinner with my voice over coach and it was straight out of Waiting to Exhale. They got along swimmingly, which I’d expected, but also banded together to point out several of my shortcomings.
You know, like how I don’t “invest in myself.”
And how I “dress like someone who doesn’t care.”
And how I “don’t focus on what really matters”
Oh yeah—and how I need to purchase some really good wigs and hair pieces if I want to be seen as a professional on stage and in auditions.
I feel like a character in a Carson McCullers novel.
Of course, it always helps to keep it in perspective. After all, I could be little Paisley here:
When questioned, her mother didn’t really get all the hoopla. “Well, at this pageant there was an option to do celebrity-wear,” the mom said. “And we thought about what we could wear with her being a brunette, and Julia Roberts is my favorite actress of all time. I thought it was real cute to do Julia. She’s 3. If she was 10 I never would have considered this. But as young as she is I thought it was very comical.”
With that in mind, I’m trying to shake off mom’s words, but the timing couldn’t really be worse—this Sunday is round 1 of NBC’s StandUp for Diversity auditions, where oppressed comics can finally get their reparations.
Last year, I didn’t even make it past the first round.
I was beaten by an 11-year-old boy with braces and rubber bands who talked about putting vodka in his cereal.
Needless to say, I’m nervous. And I only have 60 seconds to prove myself. If I win them over, I get to go on to the second round, which allows me 2 whole minutes to bring the pain. If I pass that I get to be on the showcase the following night.
I know, I mustn’t count my chickens. But it could be fun.
If only I could find a way to be hilarious in 60 seconds and stop thinking about how my natural hair makes me look like, “Whoopi Goldberg, not caring, wearing a moo-moo.”
I'm gonna go get a pedicure and re-watch "Good Hair."
Blacktress out!
Friday, June 17, 2011
There Will Be Blood Tests
Hey gang,
Sorry for the lack of posting, but trust me, I've got a good excuse: In the last week, I’ve had 9 vials of blood drawn. The medical mystery continues. I am weary and worried.
On Monday I got a call from the pituitary doctor, and almost lost it.
Because of the other immune-system cell counts, more blood was drawn. The lab technician was a really attractive, hip young dude who wore a flannel shirt and had a forearm tattoo. When he called me into the office, I was really confused and wary. “Um, you called my name? What’s up?”
He explained that he’d be taking the blood, and the first words out of my mouth were, “No you’re not. You’re going to go model for the next Urban Outfitters catalogue.”
I don’t know. It was the fear talking.
Up until now, I’ve kept my mom in the dark because I didn’t want to worry her. But now that it seems we’ve got no answers, I had to let my ICE contact know what’s up. When I told her about the tests, her first response:
“Did you take an HIV test?”
What on earth?! My own mother thinks I have the HIV? What kind of supportive, vote of confidence is that?! The woman hears one joke about wintercourse and suddenly I’m one of the leads in Rent.
When I called her out for her "helpful suggestion," she goes she says, “Well, maybe you just have Epstein-Barr.”
Um, thanks.
“It’s not fatal,” she says defensively.
So, with visions of terminal illness dancing in my head, I’ve been sleepless for days. Add to that the high quanitities of blood being taken, I’m practically a zombie. I’d kept Jewboo in the dark—well, not in the dark—more like, in a naturally lit room with the shades drawn. When I told him last night about my low blood counts, his eyes widened.
“I don’t have HIV.” I said.
He sighed in relief.
WHAT IS WITH EVERYONE CLOSE TO ME THINKING I HAVE HIV???
It’s funny how a near-death experience brings the truth out. Apparently everyone thinks I’m an unprotected-sex-having, intravenous-drug-using hot mess of a blacktress. At best, they’re all dramatic hypochondriacs who I can’t lean on in a time of crisis. Either way, I’m on my own.
*******Holy shit, this just in!!!*******
As I was writing this post, I got an email from the doc with my test results!!!
Your blood count and other tests are within the normal range indicating that there is no laboratory evidence of infection. Your HIV test is negative. When you review the results, you might notice some minor abnormalities that I have not mentioned, but please be assured that they are not clinically significant.
I’m gonna live, y’all!
This is the best day ever! I have a new lease on life! When I told my boss why I’d been all over the place, he goes, “Oh, I’ve been there. I wasn’t do anything those other boys weren’t doing those days. I know this is gross, but you know, I think the only way I beat the epidemic is that I was a top.”
Yes. That was said to me by the man who signs my checks.
Happy Friday, y’all!
Sorry for the lack of posting, but trust me, I've got a good excuse: In the last week, I’ve had 9 vials of blood drawn. The medical mystery continues. I am weary and worried.
On Monday I got a call from the pituitary doctor, and almost lost it.
Yes, a call from the doctor himself. Guys, nothing will make your heart beat faster than an African drum quite like a personal phone call from a medical professional—especially when that professional sounds awkward and tentative.
“Hi Sojourner, it’s Dr. Cira.”
“What’s wrong?”
“So, I got the results of your endocrine bloodwork and your pituitary seems to be fine. That mass of cells isn’t doing anything harmful.”
“Okay….why are you calling me?”
“There were some other results in your tests that we wanted to share with you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your blood counts are very low—and it could be nothing, it does fluctuate from day to day—but I’d like you to go back to your regular doctor for further testing.”
“What about the [mumbling, cause I’m at my desk] test? I checked that box on the form. Did you get those results?”
“What? I’m not clear on what you’re saying.”
[I jump up and walk to the elevator.]
“The HIV test!”
“Oh, I haven’t gotten those results back.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Guys, it’s never good when a doctor says “I don’t know.” Never good at all. Especially when they call you personally to tell you what they don’t know.
I went in to my regular doc the next day (I’m not fucking around, y’all; we gotta get answers ASAP), and she reviewed the results. She’s a really awesome young Asian woman, and since her last name is Cho, I sometimes call her Margaret when she’s being sassy.
I only met her a month ago, but seeing as we’ve been through so much already, I feel we’re at the nickname level.
Margaret informed me that it’s “quite common for African Americans to have lower white counts, and doesn’t mean something’s wrong.”
Wait, so what you’re telling me is that because I’m black I have fewer white blood cells? Is there a “Blacks Only” sign hanging somewhere in my blood vessels?
“Hi Sojourner, it’s Dr. Cira.”
“What’s wrong?”
“So, I got the results of your endocrine bloodwork and your pituitary seems to be fine. That mass of cells isn’t doing anything harmful.”
“Okay….why are you calling me?”
“There were some other results in your tests that we wanted to share with you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your blood counts are very low—and it could be nothing, it does fluctuate from day to day—but I’d like you to go back to your regular doctor for further testing.”
“What about the [mumbling, cause I’m at my desk] test? I checked that box on the form. Did you get those results?”
“What? I’m not clear on what you’re saying.”
[I jump up and walk to the elevator.]
“The HIV test!”
“Oh, I haven’t gotten those results back.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Guys, it’s never good when a doctor says “I don’t know.” Never good at all. Especially when they call you personally to tell you what they don’t know.
I went in to my regular doc the next day (I’m not fucking around, y’all; we gotta get answers ASAP), and she reviewed the results. She’s a really awesome young Asian woman, and since her last name is Cho, I sometimes call her Margaret when she’s being sassy.
I only met her a month ago, but seeing as we’ve been through so much already, I feel we’re at the nickname level.
Margaret informed me that it’s “quite common for African Americans to have lower white counts, and doesn’t mean something’s wrong.”
Wait, so what you’re telling me is that because I’m black I have fewer white blood cells? Is there a “Blacks Only” sign hanging somewhere in my blood vessels?
Because of the other immune-system cell counts, more blood was drawn. The lab technician was a really attractive, hip young dude who wore a flannel shirt and had a forearm tattoo. When he called me into the office, I was really confused and wary. “Um, you called my name? What’s up?”
He explained that he’d be taking the blood, and the first words out of my mouth were, “No you’re not. You’re going to go model for the next Urban Outfitters catalogue.”
I don’t know. It was the fear talking.
Up until now, I’ve kept my mom in the dark because I didn’t want to worry her. But now that it seems we’ve got no answers, I had to let my ICE contact know what’s up. When I told her about the tests, her first response:
“Did you take an HIV test?”
What on earth?! My own mother thinks I have the HIV? What kind of supportive, vote of confidence is that?! The woman hears one joke about wintercourse and suddenly I’m one of the leads in Rent.
When I called her out for her "helpful suggestion," she goes she says, “Well, maybe you just have Epstein-Barr.”
Um, thanks.
“It’s not fatal,” she says defensively.
So, with visions of terminal illness dancing in my head, I’ve been sleepless for days. Add to that the high quanitities of blood being taken, I’m practically a zombie. I’d kept Jewboo in the dark—well, not in the dark—more like, in a naturally lit room with the shades drawn. When I told him last night about my low blood counts, his eyes widened.
“I don’t have HIV.” I said.
He sighed in relief.
WHAT IS WITH EVERYONE CLOSE TO ME THINKING I HAVE HIV???
It’s funny how a near-death experience brings the truth out. Apparently everyone thinks I’m an unprotected-sex-having, intravenous-drug-using hot mess of a blacktress. At best, they’re all dramatic hypochondriacs who I can’t lean on in a time of crisis. Either way, I’m on my own.
*******Holy shit, this just in!!!*******
As I was writing this post, I got an email from the doc with my test results!!!
Your blood count and other tests are within the normal range indicating that there is no laboratory evidence of infection. Your HIV test is negative. When you review the results, you might notice some minor abnormalities that I have not mentioned, but please be assured that they are not clinically significant.
I’m gonna live, y’all!
This is the best day ever! I have a new lease on life! When I told my boss why I’d been all over the place, he goes, “Oh, I’ve been there. I wasn’t do anything those other boys weren’t doing those days. I know this is gross, but you know, I think the only way I beat the epidemic is that I was a top.”
Yes. That was said to me by the man who signs my checks.
Happy Friday, y’all!
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Reading Rainbow
I went to stay at my mom’s place last night, because her Latin lover was out of town (they’re married, so it’s not as sordid as I make it sound, but he'll always be a Latin lover to me). It reminded me of coming home from college: I was directed to make myself comfortable but I didn’t have any of my stuff around, I used my mom’s car to purchase bulk items, and I even brought over some laundry (I swear, it was at her insistence!).
The only difference is that now, as I get closer to 30 (gross), I can really see my mother as a person—and boy, is this lady a piece of work. I mean, we all know she loves Luda, but there's more to Mama Truth than I give her credit for. She epitomizes the phrase Strong Black Woman, raising me solo and even sending me to Africa to live with my grandma so she could study and take the bar exam (and passed, obvs). Mama Truth grew up youngest of 7, in a house run by three simple rules:
As I got ready to go to bed last night, I went down to the family room to grab a book. A survey of my mother’s bookshelf provided me with more insight than I’d gotten in the 27 years that I’ve been her child (not including the time en utero). Here’s a sampling of the books that were so important to her that she had them shipped from Manhattan to New Jersey (almost a hundred didn’t make the cut):
Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man, by Steve Harvey
How to Clean Practically Anything
Why We Suck, by Dennis Leary
Black Pain, by Terrie Williams
The entire Cornel West collection
When to Speak Up and When to Shut Up
Dreams of my Father, by Barack Obama
The complete works of Toni Morrison
Rock This, by Chris Rock (This was a birthday present from me in 1998--tenderness!)
The Elements of Grammar
Low-Fat Soul (this book is a contradiction. If it doesn't cause type-2 diabetes, it's not soul!)
The Darwin Awards
Who Moved My Cheese?, by Spencer Johnson, M.D.*
(I didn’t even bother picking this one up. The spine was all I needed to see)
Eat, Pray, Love
The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes
Skinny Bitch
Idiot's Guide to Landscaping
Mama Truth is a real mixed bag, y'all. This would explain why our best times together involve eating and watching "The Colbert Report."
*For those of you who are dying to know (all of you, I'm sure):
The only difference is that now, as I get closer to 30 (gross), I can really see my mother as a person—and boy, is this lady a piece of work. I mean, we all know she loves Luda, but there's more to Mama Truth than I give her credit for. She epitomizes the phrase Strong Black Woman, raising me solo and even sending me to Africa to live with my grandma so she could study and take the bar exam (and passed, obvs). Mama Truth grew up youngest of 7, in a house run by three simple rules:
- We’re not going to the hospital unless you’re holding a body part (yours or someone else's) in your hand.
- If your mother can’t be honest with you, who will be? (i.e. Yes, you do look fat in those jeans.)
- Laugh and the whole world laughs with you. Cry and I’ll give you something to cry about.
As I got ready to go to bed last night, I went down to the family room to grab a book. A survey of my mother’s bookshelf provided me with more insight than I’d gotten in the 27 years that I’ve been her child (not including the time en utero). Here’s a sampling of the books that were so important to her that she had them shipped from Manhattan to New Jersey (almost a hundred didn’t make the cut):
Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man, by Steve Harvey
How to Clean Practically Anything
Why We Suck, by Dennis Leary
Black Pain, by Terrie Williams
The entire Cornel West collection
When to Speak Up and When to Shut Up
Dreams of my Father, by Barack Obama
The complete works of Toni Morrison
Rock This, by Chris Rock (This was a birthday present from me in 1998--tenderness!)
The Elements of Grammar
Low-Fat Soul (this book is a contradiction. If it doesn't cause type-2 diabetes, it's not soul!)
The Darwin Awards
Who Moved My Cheese?, by Spencer Johnson, M.D.*
(I didn’t even bother picking this one up. The spine was all I needed to see)
Eat, Pray, Love
The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes
Skinny Bitch
Idiot's Guide to Landscaping
Mama Truth is a real mixed bag, y'all. This would explain why our best times together involve eating and watching "The Colbert Report."
*For those of you who are dying to know (all of you, I'm sure):
The simple story of Who Moved My Cheese? reveals profound truths about change that give people and organizations a quick and easy way to succeed in changing times.
Who Moved My Cheese? is an enlightening story of four characters who live in a "Maze" and look for "Cheese" to nourish them and make them happy. Two are mice named Sniff and Scurry, and two are mouse-size people named Hem and Haw.
"Cheese" is a metaphor for what you want to have in life - whether it is a good job, a loving relationship, money, a possession, health, or spiritual peace of mind. And "The Maze" is where you look for what you want - the organization you work in, or the family or community you live in.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Guess Who's ENJOYING Dinner?!
Hey Guys,
Sorry for the delay. The slavedriver is cray cray this week, and I've been balls deep in work. For those who want to know, mom liked Jewboo!!
Yes, y'all! He had her cracking up the whole time, but wasn't being showy. He was being his weird, random self--you know, like referring to his delayed reaction to burning his mouth on a scallion pancake as similar to that of a brontosaurus (it takes a long time for signals to travel down its long neck)--and she actually thought he was, "cute, funny, and clearly intelligent, even though he's a bit quirky."
EXACTLY, MOM!!
When we talked hours later, she was still chuckling to herself thinking of his pun--DILBERT & Sullivan.
I kid you not. He stopped in the middle of dinner to break out his notepad and jot down the gem.
He was funny and nice and interested and managed to avoid political talk, yet openly asked me if I'd go to the comic book store with him after dinner, as though he had no reason to be ashamed of such an endeavor at the age of 31. I think his self-acceptance and honesty makes it so that you sorta have to roll with it, and the neurotic jewyness of it all makes you love it and want to feed a potato latke.
I think my mom is really excited that I have a boyfriend, especially now that he's gainfully employed. I also think she was a little jealous that I'd been to his parents' house twice, but I'd been keeping him away, because at the end of dinner she pulled out a wrapped Hannukah present! Yes, y'all. He unwrapped the blue-and-silver paper (natch) and laughed when he saw this:
"Do you get it?" my mother asked.
Yes, yes he did.
I really was quite impressed, seeing as the humor works on many levels. Former Daily Show correspondent Lewis Black is an angry ranting Jewish comic, much like Jewboo himself. Jewboo also loves The Daily Show, and said he'd never want a Christmas tree in his house (not even if I decorated it with blue and silver ornaments--I asked). He also loves to read because he's all former-adjunct-professor smarty-pants.
At the end of the night, I was so happy, it was Chronicles of Riddickulous! Not only did Andy think my mom was "funny and cool," and she thought he was "a good guy--but I don't know how long you can keep going to the comic store," but I think madukes and I are just a tad closer, now that I've let her in to my interracial love.
Okay, y'all, that's it for now. Gotta go back to pretending like I care about my job.
xoxo,
Blacktress
Sorry for the delay. The slavedriver is cray cray this week, and I've been balls deep in work. For those who want to know, mom liked Jewboo!!
Yes, y'all! He had her cracking up the whole time, but wasn't being showy. He was being his weird, random self--you know, like referring to his delayed reaction to burning his mouth on a scallion pancake as similar to that of a brontosaurus (it takes a long time for signals to travel down its long neck)--and she actually thought he was, "cute, funny, and clearly intelligent, even though he's a bit quirky."
EXACTLY, MOM!!
When we talked hours later, she was still chuckling to herself thinking of his pun--DILBERT & Sullivan.
I kid you not. He stopped in the middle of dinner to break out his notepad and jot down the gem.
He was funny and nice and interested and managed to avoid political talk, yet openly asked me if I'd go to the comic book store with him after dinner, as though he had no reason to be ashamed of such an endeavor at the age of 31. I think his self-acceptance and honesty makes it so that you sorta have to roll with it, and the neurotic jewyness of it all makes you love it and want to feed a potato latke.
I think my mom is really excited that I have a boyfriend, especially now that he's gainfully employed. I also think she was a little jealous that I'd been to his parents' house twice, but I'd been keeping him away, because at the end of dinner she pulled out a wrapped Hannukah present! Yes, y'all. He unwrapped the blue-and-silver paper (natch) and laughed when he saw this:
"Do you get it?" my mother asked.
Yes, yes he did.
I really was quite impressed, seeing as the humor works on many levels. Former Daily Show correspondent Lewis Black is an angry ranting Jewish comic, much like Jewboo himself. Jewboo also loves The Daily Show, and said he'd never want a Christmas tree in his house (not even if I decorated it with blue and silver ornaments--I asked). He also loves to read because he's all former-adjunct-professor smarty-pants.
At the end of the night, I was so happy, it was Chronicles of Riddickulous! Not only did Andy think my mom was "funny and cool," and she thought he was "a good guy--but I don't know how long you can keep going to the comic store," but I think madukes and I are just a tad closer, now that I've let her in to my interracial love.
Okay, y'all, that's it for now. Gotta go back to pretending like I care about my job.
xoxo,
Blacktress
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Dinner for Schmucks
Hey Gang,
My bad for the lag in blog posts. My brain was drowning in gravy, and I could barely string a sentence together—you know, except, “Pass me a crescent roll,” and “Oh god, why did I have apple pie for breakfast?” How was your holiday? I went to my mom’s house in the dirty Jersey, where we hosted 10 people! As you know, my mom has a Latin lover (who’s she’s been married to for 5 years, but I refuse to change his title). He’s got two 30-something year-old daughters, and both are married and have kids. The daughters are pretty chill, but their men are wack as all get out. One is super creepy and has a molestache, and the other supplements his income by driving an ice cream truck and is really competitive with his 7-year-old son. I knew we’d be in for a doozy of a day when my mom told me that they’d be bringing over fish and pork.
Um, this is America. I don’t think that we slaughtered the Indians for their salmon.
Anyhoozle, I cooked my favorite Thanksgiving staples, and proceeded to eat them all by Sunday. I hit a personal low earlier that day when I had not 1, not 2, but 5 crescent rolls with my morning meal. (God, I want to throw up in my mouth just thinking about it)
This, of course, has led to the Juice Fast of 2010.*
Before you get all up in arms and call the eating-disorder police on me, trust me when I say that this is a short-term thing. I honestly want to clean out my body from all the starchy sugary cheesy goodness that tasted great, but is probably lining my colon like a tacky ‘70s shag carpet. Prior to Turkey Day, I had be eating more sugary goodness than an oompa loompa, justifying it by reminding myself that I’ve stopped drinking, and just wouldn’t be human if I didn’t have at least one vice.
Next thing you know, my jeans are a bit too tight, and I start to fear that strangers on the subway, thinking I’m pregnant, will start to offer me their seats.
So far, it’s been rough, and I already cheated (a handful of nuts post “lunch” yesterday, and a small slice of leftover pie and ice cream post “dinner”—I thought it would be un-American to leave the last slice standing). However, even with these cheats, I did way less damage than I normally would.
I am, however, feeling really tired and my stomach hurts. My usual procrastination time has extended from 20 minutes per hour to the entire day. And I almost ripped my coworker’s throat out when he had the audacity to eat delicious-smelling leftovers for lunch yesterday.
Luckily, it won’t last too long. In fact, I will be forced to eat tomorrow night, when I go to dinner with Mom and Jewboo. Yes, y’all. And it’s on the first night of Hannukah, no less!
The time has come for Jewboo to meet my Claire Huxtable-esque Antoine Dodson-Ludacris-loving mom.
This is big.
I haven’t had many boyfriends, and no hot mess of a hook-up was meeting my mom, obvs. Jewboo is the first man worth presenting since Clinton was in office y’all! His parents have been quite welcoming to a blacktress, evening sending him home from Thanksgiving with a souvenir from a recent trip and a birthday present for me! This has been really crucial for the growth of our love, because Jewboo is very attached to his fam.
I, on the other hand, am not so much.
I mean, it was just me and my mom for most of my life, and I know she’s got my back, but we have really never been close-close in my adulthood. I don’t really tell her my business unless it’s impersonal, like whether or not to apply for a certain job, or if my taxes are done properly. I’d never tell her if I liked someone or if I was stressed or anything.
Which means that any person I present to her is a BIG DEAL. It’s so rare, the dude MUST be special. And, if he is important, ma-dukes is going to “do me the service of scrutinizing him carefully and taking an impartial view that I am not privy to because of my emotions.” In other words, “I’m gonna put him on the stand like I do the drug-addicted parents in my courtroom every day. “
I’m nervous for Jewboo, although much less so now that he’s employed and works under a strong black woman (making him better equipped to deal with mom). I love him dearly, but this is just such foreign territory for me. People often assume that, as the mother of a blacktress, my mother is bubbly and funny and chill—this is not the case. She’s straightforward, and has no patience for “foolishness.” To aid in the interview process, I’ve prepared a list of talking points for both parties:
*hash tag JF2K10
My bad for the lag in blog posts. My brain was drowning in gravy, and I could barely string a sentence together—you know, except, “Pass me a crescent roll,” and “Oh god, why did I have apple pie for breakfast?” How was your holiday? I went to my mom’s house in the dirty Jersey, where we hosted 10 people! As you know, my mom has a Latin lover (who’s she’s been married to for 5 years, but I refuse to change his title). He’s got two 30-something year-old daughters, and both are married and have kids. The daughters are pretty chill, but their men are wack as all get out. One is super creepy and has a molestache, and the other supplements his income by driving an ice cream truck and is really competitive with his 7-year-old son. I knew we’d be in for a doozy of a day when my mom told me that they’d be bringing over fish and pork.
Um, this is America. I don’t think that we slaughtered the Indians for their salmon.
Anyhoozle, I cooked my favorite Thanksgiving staples, and proceeded to eat them all by Sunday. I hit a personal low earlier that day when I had not 1, not 2, but 5 crescent rolls with my morning meal. (God, I want to throw up in my mouth just thinking about it)
This, of course, has led to the Juice Fast of 2010.*
Before you get all up in arms and call the eating-disorder police on me, trust me when I say that this is a short-term thing. I honestly want to clean out my body from all the starchy sugary cheesy goodness that tasted great, but is probably lining my colon like a tacky ‘70s shag carpet. Prior to Turkey Day, I had be eating more sugary goodness than an oompa loompa, justifying it by reminding myself that I’ve stopped drinking, and just wouldn’t be human if I didn’t have at least one vice.
Next thing you know, my jeans are a bit too tight, and I start to fear that strangers on the subway, thinking I’m pregnant, will start to offer me their seats.
So far, it’s been rough, and I already cheated (a handful of nuts post “lunch” yesterday, and a small slice of leftover pie and ice cream post “dinner”—I thought it would be un-American to leave the last slice standing). However, even with these cheats, I did way less damage than I normally would.
I am, however, feeling really tired and my stomach hurts. My usual procrastination time has extended from 20 minutes per hour to the entire day. And I almost ripped my coworker’s throat out when he had the audacity to eat delicious-smelling leftovers for lunch yesterday.
Luckily, it won’t last too long. In fact, I will be forced to eat tomorrow night, when I go to dinner with Mom and Jewboo. Yes, y’all. And it’s on the first night of Hannukah, no less!
The time has come for Jewboo to meet my Claire Huxtable-esque Antoine Dodson-Ludacris-loving mom.
This is big.
I haven’t had many boyfriends, and no hot mess of a hook-up was meeting my mom, obvs. Jewboo is the first man worth presenting since Clinton was in office y’all! His parents have been quite welcoming to a blacktress, evening sending him home from Thanksgiving with a souvenir from a recent trip and a birthday present for me! This has been really crucial for the growth of our love, because Jewboo is very attached to his fam.
I, on the other hand, am not so much.
I mean, it was just me and my mom for most of my life, and I know she’s got my back, but we have really never been close-close in my adulthood. I don’t really tell her my business unless it’s impersonal, like whether or not to apply for a certain job, or if my taxes are done properly. I’d never tell her if I liked someone or if I was stressed or anything.
Which means that any person I present to her is a BIG DEAL. It’s so rare, the dude MUST be special. And, if he is important, ma-dukes is going to “do me the service of scrutinizing him carefully and taking an impartial view that I am not privy to because of my emotions.” In other words, “I’m gonna put him on the stand like I do the drug-addicted parents in my courtroom every day. “
I’m nervous for Jewboo, although much less so now that he’s employed and works under a strong black woman (making him better equipped to deal with mom). I love him dearly, but this is just such foreign territory for me. People often assume that, as the mother of a blacktress, my mother is bubbly and funny and chill—this is not the case. She’s straightforward, and has no patience for “foolishness.” To aid in the interview process, I’ve prepared a list of talking points for both parties:
- Barack Obama—is he a mensch or what? (cross-cultural appeal!)
- Kwanzaa—the black people’s Hannukah?
- “You ain’t no Challah back girl!” aka “I see where Naomi gets her good looks and brains.” (flattery will get him everywhere).
- “So, you’re a lawyer for the city, huh? I bet there’s a lot of baby mama drama going on there!”
- “What do your parents do, where did you go to school, and what are your intentions for my daughter?”
*hash tag JF2K10
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Move Over Dr. Seuss...
Y'all, I am on struggle street. I have an uninvited houseguest, and he won't leave.
It has 4 legs, weighs about 10 ounces, and has beady eyes and a little tail. It is grey and sinewy, and it's pooping everywhere.
Yes, gentle readers--I have a mouse.
As you know, the blacktress doesn't do manual labor or nature in any form. This would include all of nature's inhabitants--especially rodents and insects. Now, don’t get me wrong—I think animals are cute and lovable and all part of the ecosystem and whatnot. I would never condone killing an animal for sport.
HOW.EV.ER—once you come into my house, you’re on my turf, and I will pull a George W. Bush and “smoke you out of your holes.”
(Well, actually, I’m putting steel wool in their holes, but you get my point.)
I do not fuck around when it comes to rodents and insects—anything that small doesn’t need all those legs unless it’s doing evil. Mice carried the plague, and who knows what they’re bringing in to my house.
I first found out about this mouse a couple weeks ago, when I came home and turned on the kitchen light to find it scampering across the back of the sink. I immediately flipped out, and bought some glue traps. A few days later, I opened the pantry to get baking ingredients (you know the blacktress likes to wifey it up from time to time) and found the little fucker perched on top of my bag of flour, having himself a grand old time. I immediately closed the door and went out for new supplies.
My mom came over the next day and together we tackled the pantry. This mouse sonofabitch had chewed a hole in the bag of flour, leaving the floor covered in a pile of white powder and mouse poop—it smelled like the dance floor at my favorite gay bar after they turned the house lights on at 4am. Madukes and I filled the two holes with steel wool, and put glue traps in the closet. The next day, sounds of an escape attempt convinced us that we’d gotten the little sucker. Later that night, my mother and I (yes, together—she has raised me to be unable to face any sort of rodent without backup) opened the closet to find….NO MOUSE.
The steel wool was across the floor, and there were tufts of fur on one of the glue traps.
This motherfucker is resourceful as hell.
I feel like, if this smart-ass mouse is gonna be up in my home, all strong and wily enough to extricate himself from the trap, he may as well be put to work. I’ve seen Cinderella. I know what these fuckers can do if they put their minds to it. Make me a fucking ball gown and take over my chores if you’re gonna live rent-free, rodents!!!!
It’s gotten to the point where I’m scared to go in the kitchen when I get home. Last night I tossed and turned, having dreams of Jewboo’s cats living in my house and trying to kill the mice for me. In my nightmare, the cats were ineffective, and I ended up with both mice AND cats running around everywhere. I cannot live like this!!!
Of course, everytime I say to someone “there’s a mouse in my house” they chuckle and make a Dr. Seuss reference. But there’s nothing funny about this situation, people. It’s like this:
There's a mouse in my house.
And it needs to know I'm not fucking around.
There's mouse poop by the can of soup
And I jump every time I hear a sound.
It ate the flour and made my mood sour
I’m going to have to cut this bitch
I can’t make food in the kitchen, this mouse must be trippin
I’m gonna have to turn into the wicked witch.
Snap traps are inhumane, but glue traps are insane
I wonder if God is putting my “strong black woman” label to the test
I’m about to borrow my man’s cats just so they’ll kill these rats
But getting them from Brooklyn to Harlem will be a hot mess.
(h/t to This Guy)
So, yeah, anyway, that’s what’s going on with the blacktress today. I am way behind on “Sister Wives” as it comes on the same time as Mad Men, and I must forgo reality trash for classy television from time to time. Don’t worry, though—that’s what the internet is for. I’ll be live-blogging soon.
It has 4 legs, weighs about 10 ounces, and has beady eyes and a little tail. It is grey and sinewy, and it's pooping everywhere.
Yes, gentle readers--I have a mouse.
As you know, the blacktress doesn't do manual labor or nature in any form. This would include all of nature's inhabitants--especially rodents and insects. Now, don’t get me wrong—I think animals are cute and lovable and all part of the ecosystem and whatnot. I would never condone killing an animal for sport.
HOW.EV.ER—once you come into my house, you’re on my turf, and I will pull a George W. Bush and “smoke you out of your holes.”
(Well, actually, I’m putting steel wool in their holes, but you get my point.)
I do not fuck around when it comes to rodents and insects—anything that small doesn’t need all those legs unless it’s doing evil. Mice carried the plague, and who knows what they’re bringing in to my house.
I first found out about this mouse a couple weeks ago, when I came home and turned on the kitchen light to find it scampering across the back of the sink. I immediately flipped out, and bought some glue traps. A few days later, I opened the pantry to get baking ingredients (you know the blacktress likes to wifey it up from time to time) and found the little fucker perched on top of my bag of flour, having himself a grand old time. I immediately closed the door and went out for new supplies.
My mom came over the next day and together we tackled the pantry. This mouse sonofabitch had chewed a hole in the bag of flour, leaving the floor covered in a pile of white powder and mouse poop—it smelled like the dance floor at my favorite gay bar after they turned the house lights on at 4am. Madukes and I filled the two holes with steel wool, and put glue traps in the closet. The next day, sounds of an escape attempt convinced us that we’d gotten the little sucker. Later that night, my mother and I (yes, together—she has raised me to be unable to face any sort of rodent without backup) opened the closet to find….NO MOUSE.
The steel wool was across the floor, and there were tufts of fur on one of the glue traps.
This motherfucker is resourceful as hell.
I feel like, if this smart-ass mouse is gonna be up in my home, all strong and wily enough to extricate himself from the trap, he may as well be put to work. I’ve seen Cinderella. I know what these fuckers can do if they put their minds to it. Make me a fucking ball gown and take over my chores if you’re gonna live rent-free, rodents!!!!
It’s gotten to the point where I’m scared to go in the kitchen when I get home. Last night I tossed and turned, having dreams of Jewboo’s cats living in my house and trying to kill the mice for me. In my nightmare, the cats were ineffective, and I ended up with both mice AND cats running around everywhere. I cannot live like this!!!
Of course, everytime I say to someone “there’s a mouse in my house” they chuckle and make a Dr. Seuss reference. But there’s nothing funny about this situation, people. It’s like this:
There's a mouse in my house.
And it needs to know I'm not fucking around.
There's mouse poop by the can of soup
And I jump every time I hear a sound.
It ate the flour and made my mood sour
I’m going to have to cut this bitch
I can’t make food in the kitchen, this mouse must be trippin
I’m gonna have to turn into the wicked witch.
Snap traps are inhumane, but glue traps are insane
I wonder if God is putting my “strong black woman” label to the test
I’m about to borrow my man’s cats just so they’ll kill these rats
But getting them from Brooklyn to Harlem will be a hot mess.
(h/t to This Guy)
So, yeah, anyway, that’s what’s going on with the blacktress today. I am way behind on “Sister Wives” as it comes on the same time as Mad Men, and I must forgo reality trash for classy television from time to time. Don’t worry, though—that’s what the internet is for. I’ll be live-blogging soon.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
My mother loves Antoine more than me.
So you know how my mom is gangsta, right?
(If you don't, check out the post on her love of Ludacris)
Well, clearly I thought Antoine Dodson (my gay icon) would appeal to her greatly, and when she came over Tuesday and told me she'd never heard of it, I rushed to bring my laptop to her. By the end of the night, she was walking up to bed singing "run and tell dat, run and tell dat, homeboy...."
She was hooked on the Dodson!
I've never thought my mother and I had much in common, but it would seem the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. This morning, I was awoken by a phone call from madukes. I was still groggy and didn't pick up, but she's not a quitter--her missed call was quickly followed by a text message. It read:
"Turn 2 channel 4 run tell dat"
Oh god, did my mother learn how to text from one of her teen-mom clients in the family court? Of course, much in the way she can decipher my grandmother's ramblings, I knew immediately what she meant--Antoine Dodson was on The Today Show.
I laughed and rolled over, marveling at how quickly I created a monster.
When I rolled in to work at 9:05 (child, I am so done with this place) my phone was already ringing--it was madukes! I had to at least try to look productive, so I let it go to voicemail. Later, I heard the following message:
"Hey, it's me. Did you get my text this morning? Antoine was on the Today Show this morning, and he was looking good. I guess he was just caught out on a bad hair day when they tried to rape his sister, cause he had his blow out working and, like, a two-layer shag happening. And he was very articulate. He's gonna have a reality show in a minute, I swear... So, okay, that's all. I just wanted to run tell dat [laughs]. Love you. Bye." *click*
I swear to god, this woman never ceases to surprise me. She loves Luda, she's down with Antoine, and she totally said he was articulate in a really shocked tone of voice. Working with abused and neglected kids in family court, madukes knows her own personal Antoines, and I think his story's touched her, like it's touched so many others--including this fool:
THIS HAS GONE TOO FAR!!!
Antoine is taking over people's minds! He's acting as a totem--he's reminding us all to hide yo' husbands, cause they rapin' e'erybody out there!!
I wonder if this is my mom's arm. I wouldnt' put it past her, seeing as I came home from a college visit my junior year of high school to find that she shaved her head, and came home during winter break my sophomore year to see she'd gotten a tattoo on her shoulder. Homegirl is super random.
No, that forearm's not hers--it's way too beefy and light. Whew!
(If you don't, check out the post on her love of Ludacris)
Well, clearly I thought Antoine Dodson (my gay icon) would appeal to her greatly, and when she came over Tuesday and told me she'd never heard of it, I rushed to bring my laptop to her. By the end of the night, she was walking up to bed singing "run and tell dat, run and tell dat, homeboy...."
She was hooked on the Dodson!
I've never thought my mother and I had much in common, but it would seem the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. This morning, I was awoken by a phone call from madukes. I was still groggy and didn't pick up, but she's not a quitter--her missed call was quickly followed by a text message. It read:
"Turn 2 channel 4 run tell dat"
Oh god, did my mother learn how to text from one of her teen-mom clients in the family court? Of course, much in the way she can decipher my grandmother's ramblings, I knew immediately what she meant--Antoine Dodson was on The Today Show.
I laughed and rolled over, marveling at how quickly I created a monster.
When I rolled in to work at 9:05 (child, I am so done with this place) my phone was already ringing--it was madukes! I had to at least try to look productive, so I let it go to voicemail. Later, I heard the following message:
"Hey, it's me. Did you get my text this morning? Antoine was on the Today Show this morning, and he was looking good. I guess he was just caught out on a bad hair day when they tried to rape his sister, cause he had his blow out working and, like, a two-layer shag happening. And he was very articulate. He's gonna have a reality show in a minute, I swear... So, okay, that's all. I just wanted to run tell dat [laughs]. Love you. Bye." *click*
I swear to god, this woman never ceases to surprise me. She loves Luda, she's down with Antoine, and she totally said he was articulate in a really shocked tone of voice. Working with abused and neglected kids in family court, madukes knows her own personal Antoines, and I think his story's touched her, like it's touched so many others--including this fool:
THIS HAS GONE TOO FAR!!!
Antoine is taking over people's minds! He's acting as a totem--he's reminding us all to hide yo' husbands, cause they rapin' e'erybody out there!!
I wonder if this is my mom's arm. I wouldnt' put it past her, seeing as I came home from a college visit my junior year of high school to find that she shaved her head, and came home during winter break my sophomore year to see she'd gotten a tattoo on her shoulder. Homegirl is super random.
No, that forearm's not hers--it's way too beefy and light. Whew!
Thursday, March 25, 2010
My Mom is Apparently Gangsta
Hey gang,
Sorry I’ve been MIA – I spent much of last week in Austin, Texas, enjoying the musical stylings and breakfast burritos of the South by Southwest Music Festival (SXSW). While that’s ripe for bloggery, I’m just getting back to the plantation and should keep my blatant procrastination to a minimum (details on Texan hipsters to come). However, I must share with you the conversation I had with madukes this morning:
It’s 8:15am. As I eat my oatmeal, I’m flipping through the channels. A music video comes on, and it’s featuring Ludacris. I mute it, because it’s too early for loudness. Just then, my mother emerges from her office…
Mom: That’s Ludacris? Turn it up.
Me: What?
Mom: I love Ludacris.
[I oblige. After all, she birthed me and lets me live rent free. I am shocked to find that she is staring at the tv screen.]
Me: It’s just featuring him, though.
Mom: He’s so good. Do you remember when he came on the rap scene. He had that big afro, and he was doing something different. Plus, he’s a good actor.
Me: What?
[mother does not respond, as she is entranced by Luda. We proceed to watch the video. The lead singer is some dude named “Taio,” and he basically sounds like an Akon wannabe. Ludacris proceeds to do his mid-song rap. It’s not particularly good, which does not surprise me.]
Mom: No, this is beneath Ludacris.
Me: What?
[I am still so baffled and confused by this. My mother is an attorney. She owns a Michael Buble CD. She loves Sarah Vaughn. I know a person can have layers, but damn.]
Mom: I thought he disappeared. He just left the rap game.
Me: I guess he’s got his money from his acting now.
[I don’t know how to keep up this conversation]
Mom: He was in Guy Ritchie’s “Rocknrolla.”
Me: I know, mom. You made me watch it.
Mom: It’s just like Ja Rule.
Me: What?
[WHO IS SHE??? HOW COULD THIS WOMAN HAVE BIRTHED ME???]
Mom: He just fell off, too.
Me: Okay.
The video is over. I finish my oatmeal and get ready to leave. As I head out the door, I tell her to have a nice day.
I don’t even know who she is anymore.
Sorry I’ve been MIA – I spent much of last week in Austin, Texas, enjoying the musical stylings and breakfast burritos of the South by Southwest Music Festival (SXSW). While that’s ripe for bloggery, I’m just getting back to the plantation and should keep my blatant procrastination to a minimum (details on Texan hipsters to come). However, I must share with you the conversation I had with madukes this morning:
It’s 8:15am. As I eat my oatmeal, I’m flipping through the channels. A music video comes on, and it’s featuring Ludacris. I mute it, because it’s too early for loudness. Just then, my mother emerges from her office…
Mom: That’s Ludacris? Turn it up.
Me: What?
Mom: I love Ludacris.
[I oblige. After all, she birthed me and lets me live rent free. I am shocked to find that she is staring at the tv screen.]
Me: It’s just featuring him, though.
Mom: He’s so good. Do you remember when he came on the rap scene. He had that big afro, and he was doing something different. Plus, he’s a good actor.
Me: What?
[mother does not respond, as she is entranced by Luda. We proceed to watch the video. The lead singer is some dude named “Taio,” and he basically sounds like an Akon wannabe. Ludacris proceeds to do his mid-song rap. It’s not particularly good, which does not surprise me.]
Mom: No, this is beneath Ludacris.
Me: What?
[I am still so baffled and confused by this. My mother is an attorney. She owns a Michael Buble CD. She loves Sarah Vaughn. I know a person can have layers, but damn.]
Mom: I thought he disappeared. He just left the rap game.
Me: I guess he’s got his money from his acting now.
[I don’t know how to keep up this conversation]
Mom: He was in Guy Ritchie’s “Rocknrolla.”
Me: I know, mom. You made me watch it.
Mom: It’s just like Ja Rule.
Me: What?
[WHO IS SHE??? HOW COULD THIS WOMAN HAVE BIRTHED ME???]
Mom: He just fell off, too.
Me: Okay.
The video is over. I finish my oatmeal and get ready to leave. As I head out the door, I tell her to have a nice day.
I don’t even know who she is anymore.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Black History MOTHERS!
This BHM just keeps getting better and better, guys. Tonight after work I’m heading uptown to an awards ceremony. The recipient – MY MOTHER!!
Holla at madukes making it happen!
As you all know, I still live with madukes and her latin lover (ok, they’ve been married for 4 years, so I guess I should stop describing him as though he’s some scantily clad pool boy, but I can’t help myself).
I’m sure many of my blog posts have touched on the topic of Black mama drama in all its ferocity. You see, my mother’s a lawyer:
Yes, like Claire Huxtable.
She argues for a living -- so, growing up, you know a young Sojo could never be right! Madukes could catch me in a lie before I even knew I was telling it.
Mom: “Sojo, did you finish your homework?”
Young Sojo: “Yes, ma.”
[She looks at me square in the eye as I speak.]
Mom: “Go back up to your room.”
Me: “What?! Why?!”
Mom: “You didn’t finish your homework, your eyes shifted to the left, you’re lying.”
As I stomped upstairs, wondering how on earth she knew I’d already decided mathematics wasn’t worth my time, I vowed never to be caught in a lie again.
This, of course, wasn’t so hard seeing as I was the most boring teen ever. When you’re a chubby little brown child at a high school that’s fresh out of an episode of Gossip Girl, you’re not popular enough to get into any actual trouble. As I got older, I combated her ability to see through me by omitting information altogether—I can’t get caught in a lie if I’m not actually telling one, see?
To really make childhood matters worse, my mother is a lawyer for abused and neglected children. She deals with foster homes, custody battles, and has tales that are straight up out of an episode of “Law and Order: SVU.” (Seriously, I’ve got some spec scripts in the works.) This means that growing up, none of that only-child bratty whining was gonna fly. When mom turned off the TV and said it was time for bed, there was no fucking around. If we had to leave the birthday party, a standard, “Ma, you’re so mean, this is not fair,” was usually met with: “I’m so mean?! Mean?! At least I didn’t trade you for 50 grams of crack like my client last month! You just be glad you’re enrolled in school and can expect three meals a day!”
Srsly, madukes helped a young blacktress keep it in perspective.
This is to be expected from a woman who, after giving birth to a child mere months before the end of law school, sent said child (me) to Africa to live with my grandmother. Mom ain't letting a baby stop her from living her dreams (take note, all you 16-and-pregnant chicks)!
Ever since I’ve been gainfully employed and her New Jersey house is finally at the end of renovations, mama bear and I have been getting along smashingly—I even got her to watch Drag Race! I can’t tell you how much it warmed my heart to wake up Sunday morning and see her watching a rerun while tucked in bed…under an electric blanket!!!
Tonight’s award is from the office of the borough president for her work on a child abuse/neglect case. I’m smartly dressed, cause you know I can’t rock up looking casual on madukes’ big night. I’m definitely more of a Denise, but tonight I’ll be embodying put-together Vanessa Huxtable.
Remember the look? I would have compared myself to Sondra, with her put-together looks and secretly-gay husband, but she never got enough screen time.
Holla at madukes making it happen!
As you all know, I still live with madukes and her latin lover (ok, they’ve been married for 4 years, so I guess I should stop describing him as though he’s some scantily clad pool boy, but I can’t help myself).
I’m sure many of my blog posts have touched on the topic of Black mama drama in all its ferocity. You see, my mother’s a lawyer:
Yes, like Claire Huxtable.She argues for a living -- so, growing up, you know a young Sojo could never be right! Madukes could catch me in a lie before I even knew I was telling it.
Mom: “Sojo, did you finish your homework?”
Young Sojo: “Yes, ma.”
[She looks at me square in the eye as I speak.]
Mom: “Go back up to your room.”
Me: “What?! Why?!”
Mom: “You didn’t finish your homework, your eyes shifted to the left, you’re lying.”
As I stomped upstairs, wondering how on earth she knew I’d already decided mathematics wasn’t worth my time, I vowed never to be caught in a lie again.
This, of course, wasn’t so hard seeing as I was the most boring teen ever. When you’re a chubby little brown child at a high school that’s fresh out of an episode of Gossip Girl, you’re not popular enough to get into any actual trouble. As I got older, I combated her ability to see through me by omitting information altogether—I can’t get caught in a lie if I’m not actually telling one, see?
To really make childhood matters worse, my mother is a lawyer for abused and neglected children. She deals with foster homes, custody battles, and has tales that are straight up out of an episode of “Law and Order: SVU.” (Seriously, I’ve got some spec scripts in the works.) This means that growing up, none of that only-child bratty whining was gonna fly. When mom turned off the TV and said it was time for bed, there was no fucking around. If we had to leave the birthday party, a standard, “Ma, you’re so mean, this is not fair,” was usually met with: “I’m so mean?! Mean?! At least I didn’t trade you for 50 grams of crack like my client last month! You just be glad you’re enrolled in school and can expect three meals a day!”
Srsly, madukes helped a young blacktress keep it in perspective.
This is to be expected from a woman who, after giving birth to a child mere months before the end of law school, sent said child (me) to Africa to live with my grandmother. Mom ain't letting a baby stop her from living her dreams (take note, all you 16-and-pregnant chicks)!
Ever since I’ve been gainfully employed and her New Jersey house is finally at the end of renovations, mama bear and I have been getting along smashingly—I even got her to watch Drag Race! I can’t tell you how much it warmed my heart to wake up Sunday morning and see her watching a rerun while tucked in bed…under an electric blanket!!!
Tonight’s award is from the office of the borough president for her work on a child abuse/neglect case. I’m smartly dressed, cause you know I can’t rock up looking casual on madukes’ big night. I’m definitely more of a Denise, but tonight I’ll be embodying put-together Vanessa Huxtable.
Remember the look? I would have compared myself to Sondra, with her put-together looks and secretly-gay husband, but she never got enough screen time.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Cookie's Fortune
I went out to dinner with mamadukes tonight since we haven't had one-on-one time since I've been home and I head off for a week starting tomorrow. It went pretty well, as I have discovered how to get her to direct her anger and criticism towards other members of our dysfunctional family instead of asking me about my life. After our lovely Chinese food, we were given fortune cookies. Mine said:
I don't know what this means for my life. As if starting 2009 in an ambulance wasn't enough, now I can't even rely on Asian sweets to provide me with solace or advice.
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