March 29th

March 29th "Is a date that will truly 'live in infamy,' at least for me!" And We Write... Pg 40.

...but this year, I almost forgot!  I almost forgot that on the 29th of March, exactly 7 years ago, is when I had received the call! If it wasn't for a sibling who was actually one day too early, it wasn't the 28th but the 29th, with the date, I may not not have remembered at all. I did awaken yesterday morning with an all too familiar sadness.  I suppose that my internal alarm clock went off a little later than normal, but my body still innately knew.  And We Write... Pg 40.

I cannot speak for my siblings, mom! But you were an awesome mother and friend whose words of wisdom are greatly missed. You managed to see the bright side of every situation.  I apologize for the oversight. It is horrible that I allowed my own musings to consume my thoughts. It will not happen again, mommy!

I broke a promise, mom, but I always make good on my word! Whenever I set my mind on something, you know that it will be accomplished. The book will reappear with edits, additional entries composed by the Bennetts and one Ms. Wilson, and it will also be available in Kindle format in the coming months! Life threw me a hurtle, but I think that I am bouncing back nicely! You always said that God closes one door so that he can open another or even several; you were right because several opportunities have presented themselves to me. Even a door that I thought was closed for good has reopened. I am truly blessed and grateful. 


Thank you, mom, for being you no matter what and for helping me to grow into the woman who I am. I only had you for 26 years but you did so much within our brief time together and I know you are still with me. I feel your presence everyday...

From Shell Ann to Monk :)

"Fool of Me" by Me'Shell NdegéOcello

As I embark on a New Year, I reflect on 2012, with much sadness and regret. I've overcome so much in my life, and I know that this too shall pass, but damn if it doesn't suck... lol. There is always two sides to every story; there are no victims, but it still hurts and the pain can be un[fucking]bearable.

For every trail, there has always been music; there has always been a song that seemed to speak to the situation and that provided me with solace and the emotional release that creeps upon us behind closed doors... when no one is around to see us weep. 

When I lost my mother, Otis Redding's "A Change is Gonna Come" lolled me to sleep at night. 

At the moment and for the past few months, Me'Shell NdegéOcello's "Fool of Me" has been my solace.  And the song speaks to the situation perfectly...

I remember when you filled my heart with joy
Was I blind to the truth just there to fill the space
'Cause now you have no interest in anything I have to say
And I have allowed you to make me feel dumb
What kind of fool am I that you so easily set me aside 

You made a fool of me
Tell me why
You say that you don't care but we made love
Tell me why
You made a fool of me you made a fool of me 

I want to kiss you
Does she want you with the pain that I do
I smell you in my dreams
But now when we're face to face you won't look me in the eye
No time no friendship no love
Don't say don't touch you I can't touch you no more
Can't touch you any more any more
I don't touch you anymore 

You made a fool of me
Tell me why
You say that you don't care but we made love
Tell me why
You made a fool of me you made a fool of me


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oc5XJTI4LWg

It too shall pass...

Thank You!

I am almost there. It has been five years and the holidays are regaining their gleam. Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years haven’t really been the same. My birthday has, likewise, been a bit lackluster, too! I am a Thanksgiving baby! So the holiday has had the effect of being doubly depressing. Since my mother’s passing, I haven’t wanted to trim a tree or anything of the sort. 

Spending the holidays with family, my siblings and aunt (my mother’s sister), has become my means of coping. One should definitely be with friends and family during the holidays, even more so when a loved one is deceased. This Thanksgiving/birthday, I had the pleasure of dinning with the Archbold clan. It was a wonderful meal with good company for which I am grateful. I owe a lot to the Archbolds, specifically Kenneth Archbold. I can honestly say that I am feeling a bit more enthusiastic about the Christmas season. Time does heal all wounds but the wounds heal with fewer blemishes when one is genuinely loved and supported during those difficult and teary-eyed moments of grief and pain. Thank you Kenneth Archbold for making the holidays a little brighter!

Kinky or Straight?

My mother had a thing about hair. Every Sunday, Dax and a sizzling hot comb attacked my unruly tresses. I still recall the stench of burning hair and cringe at the site of a hot comb.

Needless to say, my mother didn’t believe in the natural look; yet, after it was straightened, my mother would proceed to cornrow my hair.  I had straight cornrows, zigzag cornrows, and even half moon shaped cornrows. You’d think that given the natural hairstyle choice, my mother would opt to leave my hair in its natural state, but no. In my mother’s opinion, my natural hair was unruly and unattractive.  She bought into the notion along with thousands of other women of color: kinky is ugly and straight is great!

This fallacy includes the idea that straight flowing locks are sexier and more alluring than natural kinky tresses. I’m not suggesting a preference here. Currently, I rock a natural fade, which I believe both suits and saves me a lot of money on a monthly basis. 

Just as it is my preference to wear my hair naturally, I would never question one’s desire to chemically straighten his or her hair or add tracks. I have rocked my fair share of relaxed styles and have also worn my fair share of weaves. I will, however, readily admit that chemically treating one’s mane isn’t healthy and does cause damage and wearing weaves also often causes damage.  Chemical straightening breaks the hairs’ natural bond, allowing it to relax and uncoil to the degree that it becomes straight.  Gluing and sewing in one’s tracks, like wise, causes damage in the form of premature bolding and thinning of one’s hair.  Given the risks and maintenance that both weaves and relaxed styles require, I just prefer to remain natural. Also, a weave can cost dang near as much as half of one’s rent. I would spend about $100 on human hair and $200 on a weave, and I would also have to get my hair relaxed, which upped the cost of service. I spent anywhere from $350 to $400 on a weave, which is considered reasonable for a good one. I actually know of some places that charge $500 and up for weaving services. Mind you, a good weave will last about two months before needing to be redone.

If you have the disposable income that would permit you to afford the regular maintenance, and aren’t afraid of the potential risks, then by all means get your hair done in any manner that tickles your fancy.  What I cannot condone are those females who will forego their rent (My barber and I spoke of a customer or two who actually use their rent money) to pay for their hair. I’m appalled by the measures that some women will take to live up to some predetermined notion of beauty. But hey, when they’re out on the street without the comforts of warmth and security, at least their hair will be tight!

Additionally, some of the things that we females do to achieve our desired looks are oxymoronic. Case in point, while waiting for my barber at Khamit Kinks, I met a young attractive African American woman.  As we were both sitting in the waiting area, I couldn’t help but overhear her phone conversation,  “Yeah, I Just got here. It’s not that far in Brooklyn. No, I’m not getting my hair done. I am waiting to get a consultation.”  She was anxious and assumed that the stylist who walked toward the leather sofa upon which we sat was the person with whom she would speak.  When the stylist smiled and proceeded to retrieve a cup of water from the cooler to the right of the sofa, her anxiety grew. I could feel her staring at me before she finally asked, “Are you a regular here?”

I turned to face her, smiling and explained that I was and that I was very satisfied with the service. She mentioned the name of the individual she was scheduled to have her consultation with and asked me if I knew who the person was. Unfortunately, I did not. I proceeded to ask what she wanted to get done.  Apparently, she had just taken out her weave and had straightened the front of her hair, lifting her knitted cap to expose slightly straightened and twisted tresses as evidence. She wanted to get another weave, a natural weave using natural kinky hair styled into chubby twists. Furthermore, the weave had to be on point and as close to natural as possible so as to pass for her real hair. I assured her that I’ve seen stylists at the shop doing weaves, braids and an array of ethnic styles and that I thought they would be able to achieve the look that she wanted and added that she should ask to see photos of the style. We chatted a bit more about the quality of the shop (topnotch) and then the stylist she was waiting for approached and whisked her away.

My initial thought after hearing what the young lady wanted was, what the hell? She wants a “believable” weave with Afro kinky hair styled in chubby twists? It seemed silly to me, considering she wanted to get a weave in a very Afro centric style, a look that her natural hair was capable of achieving. One could take this to mean that her natural kinky hair wasn’t good enough to achieve a style that’s typically associated with her culture.  The whole thing was very oxymoronic in nature.  Her natural hair was perfectly kinky and long enough to pull off the style but she opted to add tracks to really make the look work, and the tracks needed to be as close as possible to her own hair texture.

At least she believes that her hair texture is beautiful! It’s a shame, though, that it needs a little enhancement before it can be perfect.

Book Signing Pictures. Long Over Due...

Bob Johnson! His entry reading was highly entertaining.  

Cetin! He moved audience members to tears.

The above are a few of the writers whose stories are in the compilation

Which One is It?

I’m long over due for a new post, so rather than sit on my coach while the idiot box watches me (I really should just cancel my cable service), I figured I’d write about work, a job or career—if the word “career” applies.  I would think that by the time one reaches the ripe old age of 30, he or she would be employed in a “career” of choice but this is far from the truth.

I am employed and relatively content.  I have my complaints just like the next person (or coworker), and I have noticed that it is highly uncommon to find individuals, at least within my circle of friends, who are truly satisfied with their jobs or who admit to having careers. Ironically, I would actually call some friends’ jobs careers if it weren’t for their utter disenchantment with their positions.

So how does one differentiate between a job and a career?

When I was younger my understanding of both terms was very clear-cut, like black and white and night and day.  I believed that a job merely paid the bills and wasn’t something that one went to school for or particularly cared to do but did it to survive; a career was something that I believed required one to go to school to become proficient in a particular area.  Since schooling was required to procure a career, I logically considered a career to be something that folks wanted and were happy to perform the daily tasks associated with that career.  Furthermore, I assumed that with a career came economic stability.

I have plenty of friends who have degrees but are not working in their area of study or have decided to switch from a “career” to a job.  I also have friends who have “careers” that barely afford them life’s necessities.  I also have friends who have jobs (according to my youthful perception of the term) and are doing quite well for themselves and are quite content.  

Do you think that it is merely a matter of perception?  Is there really a difference between “having a job” and “having a career”?  I mean, if I were rich, I would opt to have neither a job nor a career.  I would just have a hobby that I performed on a daily basis …LMAO! So talk to me folks; what do you think?

Which Do You Have: A Job Or A Career?

I’m long over due for a new post, so rather than sit on my coach while the idiot box watches me (I really should just cancel my cable service), I figured I’d write. 

It was either write or exercise, so I opted to write about work, a job or career—if the word “career” applies.  I would think that by the time one reaches the ripe old age of 30, he or she would be employed in a “career” of choice but this is far from the truth.

I am employed and relatively content.  I have my complaints just like the next person (or coworker), and I have noticed that it is highly uncommon to find individuals, at least within my circle of friends, who are truly satisfied with their jobs or who admit to having careers. Ironically, I would actually call some friends’ jobs careers if it weren’t for their utter disenchantment with their positions.

So how does one differentiate between a job and a career?

When I was younger my understanding of both terms was very clear-cut, like black and white and night and day.  I believed that a job merely paid the bills and wasn’t something that one went to school for or particularly cared to do but did it to survive; a career was something that I believed required one to go to school to become proficient in a particular area.  Since schooling was required to procure a career, I logically considered a career to be something that folks wanted and that they were happy to perform the daily tasks associated with that career.  Furthermore, I assumed that with a career came economic stability.

I have plenty of friends who have degrees but are not working in their area of study or have decided to switch from a “career” to a job.  I also have friends who have “careers” that barely afford them life’s necessities.  I also have friends who have jobs (according to my youthful perception of the term) and are doing quite well for themselves and are quite content.  

Do you think that it is merely a matter of perception?  Is there really a difference between “having a job” and “having a career”?  I mean, if I were rich I would opt to have neither a job nor a career.  I would just have a hobby that I performed on a daily basis.  So talk to me folks; what do you think?

Book Signing and Q & A for "And We Write"

Book Signing!

Hello ladies and gents.

And We Write: Surviving Cancer will be available for purchase early in the New Year.  

I will be holding a book signing at Every Thing Goes Book Cafe in Staten Island on Saturday, February 5th 2011 from 3 pm to 6 pm.  

The cafe is within walking distance from the Staten Island ferry.  

More info to come soon!!!!

Minutia!

Isn't it funny the random things that we remember from our childhood? Isn't even funnier how the memories pop into our minds at the most unusual or inopportune times?

I few days ago I was making my way to Manhattan. I cannot, ironically, remember where I was headed. When I  was on the 1 train, sitting down, minding my own business, this image of my grandmother (God rest her soul), popped into my head.  It was a long forgotten memory in which I wasn't any older than 10.  My mother, father, and I believe my siblings were there, too, standing on my grandmother's front porch, waiting for her to come outside. We were all heading out for the evening. 

We heard the doorknob turn and saw my grandmother standing behind the screen door.  It was August in South Carolina and the sun was especially brutal that day. The sunlight hit the screen in such a way that my grandmother's silhouette beamed with sporadic hues of red and black.  I noticed that my grandmother's  face, obscured by the translucent screen, seemed abnormal. It was a bit elongated and contorted. 

When she pushed open the screen door, my grandmother stood adorned in a red blazer, red pencil skirt, a white ruffle blouse and black patent leather pumps. She finished off the look with a textured gold broach that was pinned to the lapel of her blazer. My grandmother was old but had an implacable sense of style. 

When I looked at her face, though, I gasped.  She had dentures that where at least 2 sizes too big. Despite her best efforts, my grandmother couldn't keep her mouth shut. 

My smirk turned into a chuckle that crescendoed into a deep and hearty laugh. I laughed so hard that tears wailed in my eyes.  I almost had an accident ...

Funny Folks ...

People are real funny. 

You'd think that your friends would be happy for you when you're productive, that they'd be supportive and encouraging when your productivity proves to be fruitful.

I have never attempted to discourage any of my friends from pursuing their dreams or have frowned upon their pursuits. If I ever have, then please forgive me. With both drive and determination, there isn't anything that you cannot accomplish. You just have to be smart about it and do your research so that you can truly reap the rewards of your work.

Whether they be friends, acquaintances, or family, you will have some haters. You'll have folks who will try their best to poison your mind with words of discouragement, while mimicking your actions for their personal gain. It's really amazing to observe, really.

But, like my mother always told me, if you have a devoted band of dismissive copycats, then you're doing something right!

A Lifetime of Healthy Breasts

A Lifetime of Healthy Breasts

15 Cancer Symptoms Women Ignore

15 Cancer Symptoms Women Ignore

Daddy's Weakness Continued: The “Daddy” Trilogy

The doctor’s comment cracked open my father’s tough exterior, exposing the fear that hid inside...

Slowly, my father's layers began to unravel.  He was handicapped in more ways than one.  My father merely brought home the bacon. My mother did everything else.  She wrote the money orders and checks, she withdrew the money from the bank, she prepared all the meals, she washed the clothes for the entire household, she was the true backbone of the family. 

My father was handicapped without my mother.  She was still alive but visibly weak and incapable of carrying out her daily routine.  On several occasions, she asked me to tend to my father.  He wasn’t the type who would willingly turn to his children for aid (though he believed that his kids were obligated by blood to be of assistance). 

As I walked into the apartment, I saw my father sitting at the dinning room table with a frustrated look on his face.  The cause of his frustration lay in front of him.  I asked what he was filling out and if he needed help.  He barked at the gesture, so I kept it moving and proceeded to walk toward the bedroom where my mother rested.  After confirming that she didn’t need anything, I informed her about what dad was doing.  She asked me to go look over his shoulder to make sure that he was filling out the paperwork accurately, and I did.

My father was sitting at the head of the dinning room table.  I figured that he had already made a mistake.  I spotted a bottle of whiteout near him.  It wasn’t on the table when I had entered the apartment.  The microwave was on top of the cart behind my father, so I proceeded to heat up some leftovers while glancing over my father’s shoulder.  He noticed that I was looking and asked what I wanted.  I replied by shacking my head to say nothing and then ate my dinner in my room. 

When my mother was hospitalized, my father had no choice but to ask for help.  I do recall a degree of reluctance at first, but eventually he was able to ask without hesitation.  He needed help using the microwave and the washing machine.  He didn’t know how to use either one.  He really didn’t. 

During that time, my father made a point of expressing his affection for my mother at every opportunity.  I wasn’t accustomed to these displays of love.  My father was never an emotional person, especially not emotional toward my mother.  As he did with most things, my father took my mother for granted, but once her illness began to take a toil on her physically, my father’s perception changed.  He actually saw my mother.  He knew that she was there all before but he never really saw her! It took cancer to open his eyes, if only slightly, to the fact that life is fleeting and that no person or moment should be taken granted.

Do not get me wrong.  I’m in no way denying the fact that my father loved my mother.  After all, love is only as good as the lover.  I strongly believe that a person can deeply love someone yet betray the subject of his or her affection.  The greater the person, the greater is the quality of his or her love and the greater is the manifestation of that love. 

My father’s only remaining layer unraveled right before my mother died.  The rock, the alpha-male who ruled his brood with an iron fist, broke down on his recliner as reality engulfed him.  He was losing his wife of 44 years, losing the mother of his four children, losing the person who had fulfilled his every whim without question, losing the subject of his innumerous insults, losing the only woman who would be able to bear his demeanor.  He was losing and because of that acknowledgment of loss all that remained was regret. 

The Daddy' Trilogy 

Daddy's Weakness: The “Daddy” Trilogy

A heated argument ensued; the exact details of the tirade have since slipped my memory, but I do recall my father saying that he didn’t want to catch me watching his television and that I had, “better just watch that sh@t back there in my room.”  He was referring to my computer.  I found his “logic” amusing since I had actually bought the television that he was referring to and that he sat daily on the couch that I had bought for my mother and ate at the dinning room table that I had also bought for my mother. 
   
Again, I saw my father’s insecurity, in addition to his selfishness.  Not once had he even asked if my mother was okay or if she needed medical assistance.  Granted her bruises were minimal but I would still have expected some degree of concern.  My father was concerned but about himself.
                                              
   
Daddy’s Weakness

My father is several different entities wrapped up into a compact package.  I thought that he had hit an all-time low when he told me that my mother wanted to abort me.  The fact that my father had made it seem the way he did, like my mother wanted the abortion, is what really upset me.   He knew that my mother was no longer alive to explain herself. Little did he know, my mother had already told me the story.  The fact that I was expected to be “a little person” who was def and mute. She explained to me that the doctors mentioned abortion as an option.  My mother and I were very close.  She didn’t withhold much from me.  

I spoke to my sister about what my father had said and she wasn’t remotely offended.  She was actually indifferent.  “Well, he once told me that he should have just jerked off,” she responded.  What he said to me paled in comparison to what he had said to my sister.  Despite the circumstances, I actually felt better after speaking to my sister.

Though his tongue could pierce like a knife, he sometimes used it in the most approving manor. His accolades were rampant when things went his way.  They were grand and pedestal boosting, so much so that the subject of my father’s momentary affections naively assumed that the praises would usurp all perceived injustices.   I cannot speak for my other siblings; we all grew to know our father, and mother for that matter, differently.  Our experiences are not the same, but my experience/observation has proven that his praises can be and are often short lived. Granted when a child disappoints his parents, that child should expect that the disappointment will be expressed.  However, the articulation of that disappointment shouldn’t serve as a catalyst for future letdowns.  I have watched as my eldest brother, for example, has attempted to live up to some standard that he hasn’t yet been able to achieve, primarily due to my father’s continuous expression of sheer disappointment.

Despite it all, I do believe that neither myself nor my siblings ever perceived our father as weak.  He always embodied the alpha-male persona.  Even when my mother was diagnosed, he still embodied that male bravado.  This was due largely to the fact that he really didn’t understand the severity of my mother’s condition: stage three colon cancer.  Also, as I describe in greater detail in "And We Write: Surviving Cancer", my mother was a trooper.  It wasn’t until her operation, in which her surgical oncologist told us that she would only have about 5 years to live, that I saw my father’s persona change.  The doctor’s comment cracked open my father’s tough exterior, exposing the fear that hid inside.

To be continued...

Father Knows Best? The “Daddy” Trilogy

It was bound to happen.  I knew that I would eventually have to discuss Mr. Lewis.  I think that I was purposely avoiding the topic.  I actually planned on writing about something else, about what my mother told me about relationships (platonic and otherwise) and not considering everyone my “friend.”  I had actually written a few paragraphs on the topic and had titled the piece “Friends, Associates and Foes,” but something else needed to be said, something else has been clawing at the back of my neck while holding on with hind legs.  It is time to shake it off   And I write…

When my mother was alive and well my father, Mr. Lewis, ruled his brood with an iron fist and piercing tongue. My father was an old school disciplinarian.  As long as we abided by his rules, which weren’t always the most diplomatic, all was well. Don’t get me wrong.  My father was incredibly strict but also very loving. He just needed to be in constant control.

The financial decisions, the dinner we ate, the television shows we watched, the vacations or weekend getaways we took, were all pretty much made at my father's discretion. My mother's input was minimal at best.

I remember when we visited a cousin who lived in Harlem.  It was winter and I had to be about 10-years-old.  My father was a drinker (he has since given up the yack) and so was his cousin, Johnny.  Johnny must have hit the bottle rather hard by time we had arrived.  Shortly after we had taken off our coats and made ourselves comfortable, Johnny began to recount his encounter with the devil. Yes  Ol' hoofed foot visited Johnny.  I remember my father asking jokingly as he lounged, one leg hanging over the arm of the couch, what did the devil look like?  Johnny replied that he had a head shaped like a motorcycle helmet with two huge bulging, glossy black eyes and he was as black as coal (blame it on the al..co...hol).

Noticing how comfortable my father was as he lay on the couch, I couldn't help but comment,  Dad, you must think you're at your house, sitting with your leg up like that.  Everyone laughed at the remark, including my father. It wasn't until the ride home that the I learned of my error.

As we rode toward our house, my father looked at me from the rearview mirror.  He informed me that I shouldn't have said anything about him lounging in the chair.  I didn't understand what I had did wrong, so I asked why?  At that moment, I recall that my mother, who was sitting in the front passenger's seat, looked across at my father. With a farrowed brow he stared at the rearview mirror, his eyes locked with mine.

He spoke softly but with clear intent.  Because it is embarrassing. I was a smart kid and knew that I shouldn't purposely embarrass anyone, or hurt anyone’s feelings.  I had not meant to embarrass him and if I had embarrassed him like he claimed, then why did he join in when everyone laughed? My mother could tell that I was confused and turned her head slightly to the left so that she could clearly see my face as she looked over the headrest. She smiled at me and that was the end of it.

I learned something about my father that night that is just as true today as it was then.  My father is insecure. I didn't really know how to describe it then but time has helped to name it.  His insecurity is what caused him to bolt into the apartment when my mother had fallen in front of the building.  She wasn't diagnosed at the time but had broken a bone in her foot and had to use crutches.  My father could walk like a speed demon and he “forgot” that my mother was on crutches. In her haste to keep up with him, she fell.  She scraped her knee, elbow and ego.  He was more concerned about how embarrassed he was and didn't even bother to help her up, from what my mother later told me.

When I heard the key unlocking the door, I proceeded to open it.  My father walked across the threshold, ranting about how my mother had fallen and how embarrassed he was.  She's out there fallin' on the ground.  She doesn't understand how embarrassing that is?  I disregarded his questions.  I scanned my mother's body as she stood, defeated, on crutches.  I noticed a few scrapes and bruises.  I told her to come in and have a seat while my father still complained about the episode in the background.  When I had gotten her into a chair, I asked if she was alright. She said she was and I then went to get some alcohol and cotton balls to clean up the scrapes and bruises.  My father was still ranting and raving in the background.  Once I was informed of what had happened: my father had walked ahead of her toward the car, leaving her behind on crutches.  She said he was walking quickly and she tried to keep up and subsequently hit the pavement. There were a bunch of folks in front of the building non-of-whom came to her aid (Bastards ).

My father made the God awful mistake of admitting that he had walked ahead of her while she was on crutches.  He mentioned that he turned around when he  noticed  that she wasn't behind him and saw her in the distance on the ground and had to walk back to where she was stretched out on the ground.  I was no longer 10-years-old.  Needless to say, Ms. Lewis went in...

"Where were you? Why were you walking so far ahead of her? You knew that she's on crutches.  What husband does that?"  I calmly asked while still tending to my mother’s wounds.

A heated argument ensued; the exact details of the tirade have since slipped my memory, but...

To be continued...

Oh No, Not the Nails!

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Cancer Risk at Your Fingertips?

The rules of summer tell us to cover ourselves from head to toe with hat, sunscreen, and clothing so we won’t fall victim to harmful UV rays.

But if you’re a regular at the nail salon, danger may be lurking closer than you think. According to a recent story in the New York Times, that UV nail light used to dry freshly polished nails acts like a mini-tanning bed, making the device especially questionable for those in the nail-tech industry who use it every day.

More From WebMD:
Tanning Beds Triple Melanoma Risk 
What Your Nails Say About Your Health 
Answers to Embarrassing Beauty Problems

Posted by: WebMD Blogs at 11:27 am

 Link to this post

There is Progress

The book is currently in the interior and book cover design stage.  It has already been edited and is a good
read, ya'll.  The publisher will send me
a few cover design mock-ups based on the purpose of the book and a few of my
ideas.  

I cannot believe that it is almost done, ya'll. 
Well close to done. From my understanding, I will receive a PDF of the
book for review, which I should peruse several times before I say "it's
done." Nevertheless, there is progress.

Now, book release ideas... Hmmmm.  I want
to do something, a book release party or something along those lines.  




Any ideas?

Are You a Skutter Butt?

For the past few weeks, I've watched as folks have been inconsiderate, rude, nasty etc, and I wonder where the devil they've picked up such shameful habits?  My mother made sure to teach myself and my siblings how to say “thank you” and to be polite and mindful of others' space and time.

I hate to say it, but some New Yorkers can be disgusting, just really nasty; these folks are skutter butts, (skank + gutter + @ss).  Are ... you ... a ... skutter ... butt?

Don't get me wrong.  No one is perfect.  I too at times am guilty of not saying "thank you" amongst committing other social offenses.  I am fully aware of the oversight(s) and am making every effort to extend my gratitude when the situation calls for it, but I really wonder if folks are conscious of their mishaps.

Can one be such a skutter butt that he isn't even aware of his skutter butt ways?

Consider the middle aged woman who resides in my complex.  For the past couple of weeks, we have both taken the same bus home from the Staten Island ferry terminal and have both exited the bus at the same stop, walking almost with the same stride toward the complex's back gate. Once we have neared the gate, she has proceeded to take out her keys and has swiped herself in, holding the door for me.  Naturally, out of common courtesy, I have said, "thank you." She has merely let the gate go and has proceeded to walk toward her building not even looking back to acknowledge my comment.

I was almost certain that she disliked me, but it just so happened that the next day one of my neighbors (Jan) happened to get off the bus as well.  Jan too said "thank you" only to receive no response.

The guilty party is a chronic repeat offender. I have watched as she has committed the same offense over and over again.  Is she aware that she is a skutter butt? Given the frequency in which she neglects to say "thank you,"  it is fair to say no. 

On countless occasions, I have observed some of the females from the company that shares office space with the organization that I work for use and then exit the bathroom without washing their hands.  Someone from the company even brings what appears to be a washcloth into the stall and when she is done leaves the damp cloth balled up on the floor directly underneath the toilet.  Highly unsanitary, ya’ll and simply gross!

All of them may not fit the description but a select few are, without a doubt, skutter butts who are repeat offenders. Again, are they aware of their skutter butt ways?  Hmmmmm...

There was an attractive young Asain girl riding on the same Manhattan bus as myself in route to the Jacob Javits Center in Manhattan.  When the bus had reached her requested stop, she began to make her way through the crowd, her cardigan dropping to the floor in her hast.  A kind passenger picked up the cardigan.  With a warm smile, he handed it back to its rightful owner who snatched the cardigan from his hands, turned around, and proceeded to exit the bus.

She is a skutter butt.

Please be sure to thank the person who, despite the early morning weekday rush, is kind enough to place a hand or foot in front of the door so you can board the train.

If a young man or woman compliments your hair, clothes, even your toes (compliments them in a non-offensive manner), smile and say “thank you.”

If a random stranger, smiles or attempts to strike up a conversation, do not assume that the individual is a nut who is up to no good.  You may very well be looking at your future husband or wife.  Do not be rude.

Do not be a skutter butt.

My Mojo is Back ... Yeah Baby!

Okay, I haven't posted anything lately that relates to the book, so I figured I should get back on track. 

Of course I will continue to mix things up a bit.  I aim to impress not depress with a litany of fine literary musings.   I am a hot mess of a trip.  I crack myself up, but I digress ...

It has been a little over four years since I started working on the book and there were a slew of bumps and hurdles along the way.  They say that death comes in threes, and that's exactly what happened.  Shortly after my mother died, her 1st cousin died and then my father's mother passed.  This all transpired within the span of two years, and I just couldn't bring myself to write.  It's weird because I initially approached the project with so much energy and enthusiasm that I thought the book would be completed in a year.  It's shocking how life can take a toll on you to the point where you're no longer motivated.  Life kicked me in the backside, and I just decided to lie down so it could get a real good view, make sure that it wedged its boot in really good.  I was physically and emotionally drained.

Nevertheless, I never once stopped thinking about the project; it was always on my mind, and I would periodically attempt to crack open my laptop and write or post something on the Google group, but I just couldn't do it, at least not as regularly as I would have liked.  Emotionally, I just wasn't ready. When I attempted to write my own entries, I would breakdown before I could complete a sentence.  

I did manage to write a few things here and there but those writings were, until recently, incomplete.
 
I threw myself into both work and school to cope, and I welcomed the distractions, no matter how fleeting they were.

Ironically, I didn't really start to miss my mother, really miss her, until about 2 years after she had died.  By that time, I had completed school, had a salaried position and my own apartment.  I had achieved the goals that I had set for myself at the time, so I slowed down and when I did, her absence was greatly felt.

I cannot recall exactly what reactivated my mojo.  I was definitely concerned that those whose submissions were selected for the compilation would want to know what was going on.  I certainly would.  I didn't want to give anyone the impression that the book was merely a scam to steal others' work.

I think that there was something going on internally that also made writing a bit easier. Perhaps it was just time passing to the point where it hurt a little less, yet the pain tended to resurface with the same degree of intensity at times, sometimes hurting just as much as it did when she had first died.  Time cannot be the sole answer.

 It may very well be a combination of various factors that twisted the top off of the creativity bottle and allowed the juices to flow again.  Whether it was time, concern about reconnecting with those who had made submissions, and/or a particular individual (Mr. Archbold) who whispered words of encouragement into my ear, one thing is definitely for certain.  I got my mojo back ya’ll!