Monthly Archives: August 2012

The Lowest Point in my Mothering Experience (Thus Far)

In the human breeding world, there are hierarchies within parenting. On a macro level there are:

  • Perfect parents
  • Parents who think they are perfect
  • Parents who are just trying to keep their kids alive and breathing
  • People who should have a gonadectomy at the earliest possible opportunity

Within each of these sets exist a number of, which include extreme parents, oblivious parents, survivalist parents, and individuals who should never engage in the act of copulation if they are in possession of viable sperm and/or ovaries.

I believe 80% of humanity falls within the third group, with the remaining percentage scattered between geniuses and idiots. Most of us (the 80% that is) make mistakes, learn from them, and strive never to repeat them, while idiot parents seem to always be placing their children in harm’s way. Perfect parents never have to worry about this, because they’ve never made a mistake with regards to child rearing, while parents who think they are perfect sit in perpetual judgment of all of us. This brings me to the point of my post today, MOM Squad…for I did something a few weeks ago for which I deserve harsh judgment.

I saw a little girl running pell-mell down the road yesterday afternoon as I was on my way to pick up the girls from school. She looked to be about 5 years old. She was scrawny and dressed in faded orange capris and a red and white t-shirt. Her little braids bounced with every stride she took. I looked around to see if I could find her parents and saw no one. To my horror, just as I turned my head, she ran into the road – directly into oncoming traffic – without ever looking up from the pavement.

No, no! She wasn’t hit by a car. There were definitely angels on guard for this child, and a Roswell police cruiser was directly in front of me. The officer turned on his lights and stopped traffic and called the girl to him. She took off down the road. In my rear view mirror I saw him corner her off and get out his car again. I would have gone to offer my assistance, but I had my own child to pick up. I knew she would be okay. Someone was going to be in big trouble with the cops, I thought. And today it isn’t going to be me!

You see, as a card carrying member of the 80%, I am trustworthy enough of a human being to watch another person’s offspring without inflicting severe damage upon them. At my house, the worst thing that could happen to a child is that they get dirty, because I’m a firm believer that kids are better people OUTSIDE of my house. Idiot parents don’t understand this, and therefore keep their children cooped upside watching TV for days on end. When they are set free, they don’t know how to act. I found myself in the care of two such children, one of whom heralded “The Incident.”

******Lights Fading Out*****

 

I stood looking at Kim like she was absolutely crazy. I had already been watching her kids for the last 12 hours, and now she wanted me to watch them 12 hours more. It wasn’t that I was without sympathy, it was just that I could not comprehend how she thought this was okay.

Kim works nights at a local bar, and for whatever reason – and certainly without giving me due notice – decided to pick up the day shift the very next afternoon. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was only supposed to watch her kids at night. Her kids hadn’t seen her in 24 hours. No one seemed happy, except for this foolish 20-something brunette grinning sheepishly at me.

“I’ll see you later, stinkers!” she croaked to her kids, who of course began to whine.

2 year old Kacey clung to her chest and 4 year old Korey looked at the floor in resentment. She didn’t care though. She had tips to go make and broke Black men to go chase. I rolled my eyes and told her babies to give her a kiss goodbye. The kids, my four and her two, sat down to finish breakfast. I went outside to throw away some trash. A flock of sleek black crows was feeding on debris in front of my carport.

That’s odd, I thought. Crows have never come to my house before.

I should have known it was an omen of things to come.

My phone rang. It was Douche Bag.

“Hey, can Nadjah come see me today?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied. It wasn’t his scheduled week end for visitation, but one less person complaining in my ear for the day was fine with me.

“Cool. I’ll meet you at the Krystals in 15 minutes,” he said.

I hung up and went to get Nadjah ready.

And then I realized I had a problem. I had six kids, and only 5 seats in my car. Crap! I formulated a quick plan. I would take the 3 youngest and leave Aya and Korey in the house with the door locked. Krystals was only a half mile away. They would be fine, I assured myself with trembling fingers buckling the babies into the car seats.

“You’re going to leave us here?!” wailed Korey!

“Look,” I said sharply. “I’m going to drop Nadjah off and I will be back in 5 minutes, okay?”

“But you’re going to leave us here without a grown up??”

I looked at the little boy suspiciously. Was he going to rat me out to his mother? I didn’t have time to worry about that. The sooner I left, the sooner I would get back.

“You’re going to be fine, Korey,” I said firmly. “I’m locking this door. Don’t go outside and don’t open it for any reason until I get back. Understand?”

He nodded and I turned on the TV for him. He should have been accustomed to that. It was hardly evident that he was mixed race, he was so pale. All the boy did was sit at home and watch the television. No father to take him out to play ball. A mother that didn’t care about anything but finding a Black man, ANY Black man to love her. I felt sorry for him. I could deal with that later though. Right then, I had to drop off Nadjah.

“Aya! I’ll be back. Don’t open the door, okay?” I yelled up the stairs.

“Okay!” she yelled back.

I drove off with my heart racing. I always know where my kids are. I didn’t like this a bit.

When I got home and parked the car, I saw that the door was cracked. It shouldn’t have been cracked…I’d locked it!

“Aya! Korey?!”

No answer.

I ran through every room in the house, screaming their names. They were gone.

 

******Lights fading in*******

 

“I’m sorry, you did what now?” asked Mom 5X.

“I called 911,” I repeated.

“How long were you gone?”

“Four minutes. Exactly 4 minutes. I left at 10:27 and got back at 10:31,” I mumbled.

My friend laughed heartlessly.

“Girl, I wouldn’t have called the police,” she said with certainty. “I would have been too afraid of going to jail.”

“Yeah, I know. But I had someone else’s kid, and I couldn’t find them!”

“So where were they?”

“Riding their bikes,” I snarled.

Yes, Reader. As I was breathing each word hysterically on the phone to the operator, Aya and Korey came peddling around the corner with silly grins on their faces. I was relieved, gobsmacked, and furious. I told the operator they had shown up and assured her all was well.

“Get in the house!” I screeched when I’d hung up.

I was so blinded by worry and fury that I gave them a quick swat on the bottom and sent them upstairs.

“No TV for the rest of the day!” I yelled at no one in particular.

I got the rest of the kids out of the car and locked the door. Suddenly, there was a knock. I thought it was the cable guy (whom I had assumed had absconded with my missing kids), so I swung the door open with a smile. It quickly dissipated when my eyes beheld a burly officer. He was responding to a report of a missing child. Just as I explained to him what had happened, another knock came to my back door.

“That’s probably my partner.”

“No, it’s the cable guy,” I said confidently.

Suddenly, I had two White officers in my home, which was stuffed with kids, 36% of which did not belong to me. I assured the cops that all was well, and that I had NEVER left the children in the first place. ( Call it an instinct to lie to the police).The burly officer didn’t say a word and let me keep talking.

“We’re here! We’re fine!” I squeaked. “Do you want to see the kids?”

“Yes,” he said.

I called Aya and Korey down to prove that they were safe. Suddenly, Korey began to sob uncontrollably. That little $#@!#^

The two police officers looked at me accusingly. I explained that he had not seen his mother in 24 hours because she works at a bar (ugh!) and that he probably missed her. I offered Korey the phone so he could call her. His waterworks ended as quickly as they began. He chatted gaily with the officers, one of whom was fingering his handcuffs.

Sweet Jesus. That little Negro was about to send me jail!

It seemed like an eternity before they left, but not before they took my address details, my driver’s license details, and the names and dates of birth of the “missing kids”.

I was furious and shaken. I sent Kim a text and told her I could no longer watch her kids after that day. This was HER fault! If she hadn’t left her kids I would have room in my car for all mine! I cursed Douche Bag too. If he hadn’t asked to get Nadjah on an unscheduled weekend, this wouldn’t have happened either!

Mom 5X saw it differently though.

“Girl, you never should’ve called the cops at all. You weren’t even gone 5 minutes!”

Of course, she was right. Silly me for thinking the police were here to help regular citizens like me in our hour of need!

There are things we will all do as parents that we will regret later or know in that moment that it might not be the best decision: like feeding the kids cereal for dinner or letting skip a bath before school. But that? That experience took me to a new low.

What would you have done?

 

 

 

Sorry For Toddler Rockin’!!!!

LMFAO penned and performed so sublime an ode to the subject of drunken disorderliness that it would be almost criminal to attempt to make it analogous to anything else. The song “Sorry for Party Rocking” is a testament to all that can go terribly wrong when one is overtaken by a substance that has the power to leave you mentally impaired and overconfident in your own physical ability.

In LMFAO’s case, Ciroc and Red Bull (and I suspect a little bit of cocaine) were the culprits. However, a very different white granular substance overpowered my youngest child…and that substance was the demon ‘Sugar’.  All parents know what effects of sugar can have on a person under 50 lbs, and yet many of us continue to feed it to our kids, thinking it can’t be that bad in moderation.

Huh. I say huh!

As I watched my two year old daughter whiz around my sister’s house this summer, I tried to imagine what the world must have looked like in through those pretty brown eyes, glazed over in her heightened state of consciousness. She must have felt so powerful and so very alive…like she could do anything without fear of reprisal and repercussion. The astounded look on the faces of her parents and aunt must have only fueled that belief. As she cackled manically flitting from one room to the next, leaving a path of destruction with every step she took, I could audibly make out the sounds of a beat machine in the background. It was screaming:
Sorrrry for Toddler Rockin’!!!!

How did this all happen? None of it was my fault, I assure you. I know sugar and kids don’t mix. My sister is yet to learn that painful, however.
My sister invited my family to a house warming party a few weeks ago in DC. Unfortunately it was cancelled because there was leak in her a/c unit and she didn’t want her guest to suffer in the oppressive heat. The plans for the party had been in play for weeks though, and she had already purchased drinks, snacks and food for her would-be guests. Chief among these snacks were chocolate chip cookies (of all varieties) and ready to drink packets of Kool-Aid. My children made quick work of the cookies. They were sitting on the fireplace in plain view, and my sister had assured them that they could help themselves to as many as they wanted.

“I bought them for you guys,” she said warmly. “And no one else is going to eat them. Auntie A-Dub is on a diet.”

(I snickered and helped myself to a cookie. I never diet. Dieting means giving up on your favorite foods, and I never give up. For my dedication, I am rewarded with thighs that applaud me – thunderously – with every step I take.)

Liya, the baby, wasn’t so interested in the cookies. She took a bite out of mine and then walked away. In a few minutes, she came back and growled a request.

“I want d’ink!”

The cookie had obviously made her thirsty.

“Do you have anything for the kids to drink?” I asked.

“Yeah!” my sister shouted from the kitchen. “Those Kool-Aid packets in the living room.”

I pierced the straw into the foil, handed it to Liya and sent her on her way. She sucked the purple liquid greedily and walked down to the basement where to toys – and my sister’s sewing items – were stored.

Ten minutes later she was back again.

“I want d’ink!!”

I was reading an email on my phone and didn’t have time to pay attention to this repeated request.

“Babe, can you get Liya a drink?” I asked absently.

He pushed himself up from the couch and handed her another Kool-Aid packet. This exercise repeated itself, with her asking for ‘d’ink’ and three irresponsible adults handing her Kool-Aid, for the next 45 minutes. Finally when her sugar lust was satiated, it was time to unleash the hoard within.

Liya was unstoppable.

Unaware of the squall churning within her lithe body, we stood in the kitchen discussing fixtures and accessories that might go well with the space. To my right, I saw a brown figure clad in resplendent white climbing up the open shelves where my sister kept her alcohol and collection of shot glasses. Liya thrust one at me one from Mexico with an impish grin.

“Oh…thank you, baby,” I cooed.

I didn’t want to alarm her and have her loosen her grip on the shelf or drop the glass. The fall and/or the shattered glass could’ve hurt her. I pulled her down gently and my sister recovered her artifact.

“Don’t climb these shelves,” A-Dub cautioned. “You could fall and hurt yourself.”

I re-iterated my sister’s warning. Liya grinned and shot off like a rocket.

Sorry for Toddler Rockin’!!!

A few minutes she was back again, this time with something black in her hand. It was a Sharpie. She laughed uproariously as she scribbled on my sister’s cream colored walls.

“Ahhhhhahahahahaha!!!” she screeched. It was an unholy sound.

“Oh, God, no!” I yelled.

My sister was crestfallen. Above all else, she desires cleanliness in her home. Sharpie marks on the wall are the antithesis of cleanliness.

Sorry for Toddler Rockin’!!!!

We made it a point to pick up all the pens, crayons, pencils and other writing utensils that were within toddler reach. My sister stored them in a drawer, certain that no one would look for them there.

Night had begun to fall, and we had to sort out dinner. It was decided that pizza would be the easiest thing to do. My childhood best friend had come over on a whim with some big news.

“I think I’m pregnant,” said Tem, flopping onto the sofa.

If we were all 23 years old and just fresh out of college, it would be a big deal. However, since every woman in the room was well into her 30’s and had an established career, the news was merely par for the course. That she had made it to 34 without getting pregnant was astounding to all.

I decided to play along though, and assuage her “fears”. We went to CVS and picked up a pregnancy test. I waited by the bathroom door while she peed on the stick.

“I’m nervous,” she croaked.

“Oh please,” I said dismissively. “You’re a medical doctor. You make more than enough money. And you only have one more good year before your eggs rot and fall out of your uterus. It’s going to be fine.”

In the middle of my pep talk, I heard my sister gasp from the kitchen downstairs.

“Liya!”

The sound of grating laughter and quickly retreating footsteps was all I heard next. I walked down to see what the commotion was all about, and to my utter horror beheld a sight so grisly, all I could do was apologize.

“A-Dub. I am SO sorry.”

Liya had dipped her hands in pizza sauce and pawed half the wall his her tiny hands. Her eyes gleamed with delight as she peered at the two of us, who were exhausted by this point and staring in disbelief at the wall which was clean just moments before. Before we had time to contemplate next steps, she bent down to throw something red at my sister. It was a pin cushion.

“No, no, no Liya!” my sister wailed.

The sound of her distress only seemed to amuse the child-run-amok all the more. She flew down the stairs with reckless abandon, looking for something else to get into and hopefully destroy.

Sorrrry for Toddler Rockin’!!!!

“Guys! I think  I’m pregnant!” said Tem from the bathroom door. She came downstairs and flopped on the couch despondently.  “There’s two lines. I’m pregnant, right?”

I looked at her results and scoffed.

“Negro, please.  All that degree learnin’ and you can’t even read the test. That’s not a plus. It’s a minus. You’re not even half pregnant.” And you better be happy you’re not, I mumbled internally.

“Oh!” she said, brightening instantly. “In that case, hand me a drink!”

A-Dub handed her a mix of vodka and Fanta.  All seemed back to normal until we heard two children laughing uproariously from behind a closed bedroom door. Stone and Liya had gotten into my sister’s jewelry box and ripped a beaded bracelet apart. I’d gotten it for her when I was in South Africa. The look on her face is difficult to describe. To put it simply, she looked pained. Little orange beads dotted her dark wood floors and lay lifelessly at her feet. The more distressed she looked, the more my children mocked and pointed.

Sorrrry for Toddler Rockin’!!!!

It was time to put Liya to bed. Enough was enough! Marshall struggled to bathe her. She squirmed and slithered in his massive hands, but she was no match. Diapered and clothed in a t-shirt, he dumped her unceremoniously into her borrowed crib and walked out of the room. The silence in the house was deafening…and sweet.

The next morning, Liya woke up and stalked up the stairs. The sound of her footfall was heavy and sluggish, almost as if she was hung over. I waited for her to reach the top of the stairs before I dared to look in her direction.

“G’morning Mawmeee,” she growled. Her voice was guttural, her eyes were crusted over, and she was completely naked. What had happened in the crib in the night?!

“Can I have d’ink?” she said. It was a brazen demand, not a polite request.

“No!!!!”

That was enough toddler rockin’ for one day.

And Just Who is “Y’All”, Mr. Vice President?

He’s like the drunken frat boy that shows up in the auditorium while you’re in the midst of defending your senior thesis, spewing obscenities and waving his shriveled penis at the distinguished panel in mock contempt. He is the Evil Kool-Aid man of the Executive Branch. He bursts onto the national scene with verbal and verbose absurdities at the most inopportune time. And if he keeps this going, he’s going to cost the president re-election.

‘He’ is Joe Biden.

I’d love a face to face interview with Mr. Biden, but I understand that that will never be a reality. I’m busy working and he is busy crisscrossing the country with his message of fear and doom, prophesying to loyal constituents who lap whatever he’s placed in his benevolently cupped VP hand. This week, it was a warning to the people of Danville, Virginia.

“Mitt Romney wants to unchain Wall Street!” he thundered ominously. “Huh. He’s gonna put y’all back in chains.”

I admit, I laughed when I first heard him say that. It was like listening to a “yo’ momma” joke, and then realizing much too late that he was talking about MY momma. On the surface it was reminiscent of Don Imus and his nappy headed hoes comment; and at its core it was beneath the office of the Vice President of the United States.

Joe Biden is a nice guy, I’m sure, but his problem – to put it crudely – is that he just doesn’t give a f*ck. There are certain things you don’t say to certain groups. Here’s an example of something you wouldn’t want to say to a group of Jews.

“Mitt Romney wants to fuel Wall Street… and gas its efforts. Huh. He’ll put y’all back in gas chambers!”

Do you see how that can be construed as relating to the Holocaust? Do you see how that is terribly inappropriate?!?

Given the Democratic Party’s historical involvement in the maiming, raping, dehumanizing and enslavement of African-Americans in this country, I wonder if Vice President Biden might be on to a sinister plot that the rest of us are unaware of. IS there another round of slavery coming for my people? What kinds of chains is he referring to? Does he mean ‘chains’ circa 1532 when Europeans raided African villages and forcibly placed them on ships set for the New World? Is he referring to the auction block in historic towns like Danville? Does he mean chain gangs…or is he just making reference to something less sinister, mental chains? Is Mitt Romney a space alien about to invade my brain!?!? Oh God, Joe, why won’t you answer me?!?!

Questions, questions; so many questions!

And who or what does he mean by “y’all”? If there is a plot coming, is he just going to leave us regular (*cough* BLACK) folk to fend for ourselves? Is he going to at least leave us with a road map to escape this alluded to bondage? Oh!!! It just dawned on me. The only way to escape these chains is to give the Obama-Biden ticket a second chance – a second term.

Excuse me while I laugh uncontrollably.

I’m not sure who I’m voting for this election. Maybe I’ll “throw away” my vote and give it to the Green Party. One thing is for darn skippy, I will not be checking off Mr. Obama’s name come re-election time. Should anything ever happen to the incumbent, it will be up to this ass-clown to lead the nation, and though he’s a funny guy, I wouldn’t trust him to lead me out of a paper bag. It’s just too risky.

I can just see him as Commander-in-Chief.

“Hey y’all! Al Qaida is dropping bombs over the entire state of Georgia. I hope y’all have some sort of bomb insurance. I sold some to the Arab-Americans. I thought they could use it more than the rest of y’all. You know, since all Americans are unequal. Dag. My bad.”

Perhaps the ‘chains’ he is referring to are indeed physical chains. It may well be that Mitt Romney and the Republican party are about to re-energize the steel industry to manufacturing chains just for us darkies as a reward/punishment for voting them into power. It would make sense. I mean, America was built on the backs of Black enslaved (and chained) people. It only stands to reason that the country would be re-built on the descendants of those people. But seriously, if that’s the case, you owe us a heads up. After all the Will.I.Am and Oprah did to get you into office, you could at the very least provide fair warning that they will from hence forth be known as Elias and Kizzy, and that you are unwilling to stop them. Should I assume you will be donning a Quaker’s hat in the new regime? No? Okay. :(

In any event, Mr. Biden, you have some explaining and some apologizing to do. You just don’t get to run into a crowded theater and yell fire just for a few giggles. Stop acting like a 23 year old stoner and wake up and realize you’re the Vice President of the United States of America! Am I the only person slightly concerned about this behavior?

Should I Even Bother Pushing My Kids If ‘They’ Won’t?

It’s 3:33pm and I’ve just woken from a lovely one and a half hour nap. The house is silent save for the hum of my ceiling fan and the tapping of my keys. With the advent of back-to-school my afternoons – at least in part – are lazy and I can spend them as I wish. I would say “this is the life”, except I generally spend my mornings dashing around frantically trying to hurry the kids off to school before hurrying off to my job as a housekeeper.

I kiss my kids goodbye and drive off to another unknown family’s unkempt house, fueled by the assurance that those few dollars will in turn fuel my long term goals for my four kids.

Let me be clear: I don’t have to work. My husband makes enough money to cover our basic family needs from groceries to gas. I could never scrub another toilet and never want for another thing. However, he is very frugal with our money, and our ideas of what constitutes a ‘basic need’ are sometimes world apart. It is because of that gulf in ideology that I spend my mornings covered in human hair and pet feces. I believe that participation in after school activities is a basic need. It develops the mind. And so it is my meager income that pays for the children’s extracurricular activities: this year being drama and gymnastics. (And daycare of course. I have to put the younger two in daycare. Stone’s idea of cleaning up a floor is to pour milk on it and then run through the opaque puddle. You could call that art…if you were so inclined.)

I’m losing track.

Most parents want to give their children better than they ever had, if it is in their power to do so. I personally never got to join anything in school if there was a cost associated with it. I remember I went almost a whole term with no school uniform (which was a basic requirement to go to school!). It was only until the headmaster threatened to expel me that my parents took me to a seamstress to get me kitted for a brown pinafore and beige shirt. I remember how relieved I was to match the rest of the kids! Those feelings are only amplified when you find yourself amidst like people, which is why artists hang with other artists, weed heads befriend stoners and so on. Now that my two eldest girls have discovered personal interests and established unique identities, I want to give them the opportunity to foster their natural talents, and in this day and age that takes money.

Nadjah’s first production this year will be ‘Annie’. I sometimes imagine Nadjah as a Tony Award winner, smiling with giddy delight into the camera and reflecting on the long hard road she’d had to have travelled in order to end up on stage with the likes of Patrick Stewart; assuming he’s around in twelve years.

I pour a little Comet in a brown rimmed tub and begin to scrub.

Then I think about Aya flinging her muscular body weight around the uneven bars and doing floor exercises. By then she will be part of a new vanguard of African-American girls who have thrown off the shackles of cosmopolitan conformity, trapped in overweight bodies for fear of messing up their hair.

I scrub harder.

Then I think about all the endorsement deals they might garner and the fine home each of them will live in. Aya, in fact, has already picked out her sleigh bed and told me recently that she WILL live in a much nicer house than the one me and Daddy bought.

I pause to relish in the possibilities of the future.

Suddenly, a dollar figure looms over the imaginary lifestyle I’ve dreamed up for the two of them. It’s in the millions…well over the $250,000 that our government recently set as a standard of ‘wealth’ in this country…and I’m pissed.
Really pissed.

There are days that I question the sanity of working so hard to give my children a better future, when the government – and by that I mean Democrats – convey the message, quite subversively, that my efforts aren’t necessary. Why? Because the rest of the country can just take it from the rich. Ach! How inane, but that’s how a lot of people in this country think.

The MOM Squad knows that I am neither a Democant nor a Teapublican. I believe in hard work and earning your way in this life. I don’t own a business, but I have given a crack at it several times. Owning and running a successful business takes fortitude and an acumen that I do not possess. I am a worker bee, and I’m okay with that. It’s me and other workers that build hives all around the country. So when I hear the honey badger outside of my hive galloping along for his unearned share of my blood sweat and tears, declaring ‘you didn’t build that’, I get pissed. And royally so.

Yes,yes.  I’m talking about Obama.

Why in the world am I grossing myself out morning after morning in order to seed into my children’s future? Does it make sense, knowing that at any moment’s time their potential windfall could be squandered by the tentacles of ever rising government taxes and demands for compassion on their part?

“It is our Christian duty to care for the less fortunate,” our president says; and this is true. But caring for the less fortunate also includes giving them job opportunities so that they can create their OWN wealth. I’m not big on this parceling out kettles of fish so that I can fulfill president Obama’s idea of Christian duty. There are thousands of homes in this city in need of cleaning. Neither to poor nor the rich need a degree to that job.

Why should the sweat of my brow go to feed another able bodied woman’s child, simply because she wants to sit at home and watch Jeremy Kyle and Jerry all afternoon? Does it make sense for me to puch my children to be the best that they can, so that they can grow up to support her kids and grandkids as well? What am I supposed to tell me kids?

“Try hard, but don’t do your best. I only want you to give $249,999 worth of you effort in ANYTHING you set your heart and mind to.”

I dunno. You tell me.

This rant was brought to you courtesy of MSNBC, the Democratic Party’s bullhorn and bully pulpit, who woke me up with their special brand of brewed crap. Instead of asking President Obama what he can do about bettering this economy, they’d rather bitch about Paul Ryan. Paul Ryan??  C’mon people.

The only thing that gives me comfort is that even if Mitt Romney chose Jesus Christ as his running mate, Democrats would still have something to kvetch about.

“Jesus Christ? You mean that guy who thinks He’s the Son of God?”

“The Republicans are going to have a hard time selling this one to the American people.”

“You know, I heard that guy Jesus once pushed granny out the window.”

“Wait. Didn’t He try to heal her? I heard there was a pool of healing water underneath it.”

“Yeah…but that’s not point. He pushed her. Jesus Christ folks. YOU decide.”

*Fix the economy and stop setting stupid ceilings for wealth and achievement in this country!*

They’re Shooting at Us Baby; But YOLO!…You Understand?

One of the first stories I heard when I got off the cruise ship (the one opportunity I had to decompress these last 3 months) was about the tragic shooting in Colorado during a screening of the Dark Knight Rises. Watching the hourly updates on the event in the airport terminal and listening to them on the radio brought any euphoria and elation I’d garnered on my voyage to an abrupt end.

12 people died that night and dozens others were wounded. Amid the personal stories to horror and hope, tragedy and triumph, there was one story in particular that stood out for me, and that was a story that exemplified the essence of cowardice.

Of course, because the American media is the deceiving, mendacious, half-cocked entity that it is, we had to rely on the Brits to bring this story to the masses in its raw, truthful form.  Somehow, the US media has managed to spin it as a ‘survive against all odds love story’.

By now you’ve heard that the youngest victim to lose her life was a 6 year old girl, and had it not been for the heroism and selflessness of a total stranger, the youngest might have been a 4 month old baby. Who brings a 4 month old baby to a midnight screening of such a violent film in lieu of hiring a sitter? This pair of geniuses, and most recent winners of the prestigious Darwin Awards. Their excuse?

“Well, you just can’t stay cooped up in the house all the time”.

And you don’t have to. But you should be able to spring twenty bucks for someone to watch your infant for a few hours.
I called my sister A-Dub to ask her if she’d heard of this story (which sadly involves a marriage proposal).

“No!” she said with anticipation. “What happened?”

She was organizing her dishes and smiling into her cell phone as I recounted the tale. I quickly rattled off the important details, telling her how the couple had gone to see the Dark Knight, and how the father of the infant darted around the room trying to make an escape.

“When he couldn’t make it out, he put his baby on the floor and jumped over the balcony and ran out.”

“Wait. What?”

“Oh wait, it gets better,” I continued. “His girlfriend was in the theater with their daughter and he left them there.”

She gasped.

“Just a second!” I interjected. “A Black man came along, saw the woman struggling to get to safety with the two kids and leapt to action. He used his body to shield them and ran with them out of the exit door. He took a bullet for it.”
By this time she had stopped smiling. She told me as much.

“I thought you were going to tell me about how this guy saved his family and asked his girlfriend to marry him because he realized how precious life was,” she groused. “Instead you’re telling me another dude took a bullet for this dude’s family because he’s a punk b*tch?”

I snorted, and suddenly remembered a vital bit of information. This was the cherry on the cake.

“Oh! How could I forget? When he left the theater, he got into his car and drove AWAY,” I yelped. “He didn’t come back until his girlfriend called him to find out where he was.

I think my sister died a little bit on the other end of the line. I delighted in her horror. Her two year old son is the apple of her eye and the pride of her life. I don’t think she would take too kindly to her boyfriend leaving him in the midst of a massacre in order to save his own life…and then have the stones to come back and ask for her hand in marriage. I giggled maliciously at the thought.

“What would you have done if Chris had left Plankton on the floor next to bleeding bodies, drove off and come back to the hospital while you were recovering and asked to marry you?

“Chris is no fool,” she said darkly. “He would know not to come within 10 feet of me. There’s a lot I could do in 10 feet.”

******Lights fading out *******

The steady whir of electrical equipment kept A-Dub from getting any real sleep. When she did close her eyes, the terrifying memory of gunfire and twisted bleeding human flesh in the windowless theater propelled her out of sleep. The only thing that gave her peace was the knowledge that her son was safe. A good man – an angel – had seen her limping where a bullet had pierced her thigh. He’d grabbed her hand and lifted Plankton in the crook of his arm ushering them to safety outside. Had it not been for him, she and her son could have been among the mortally wounded that fateful night.

If she could just keep her mind on Plankton, and focus on the knowledge that he was safe at home in his own bed with relatives, she might be able to get some sleep.

“A-Dub?” said a familiar voice.

Her eyes flew open and darted around the room. When her vision came into focus, she saw Chris standing in the doorway. He was holding a bouquet of flowers. She made a gurgling sound in her throat.

“Chris?”

“Yes, babe,” he breathed. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugged her shoulders and looked out of the small window with a view of the industrial part of the city. She cleared her throat and looked back at him. He was smiling and healthy.

“You’re not hurt,” she said matter-of-factly.

“No,” he giggled. “Remember? I got out okay. I got to the car and…”

“And drove away,” she finished for him. The act of cowardly betrayal suddenly became more than she could bear. Her breathing quickened. She struggled to keep her ire in check.

Chris set the flowers he’d brought on her dining tray and looked out of the window. Finally he turned around with a solemn look on his face.

“Look, I know this isn’t the time or the place – what with your leg all blasted open with a bullet hole – but I was wondering if you’d marry me.”

A-Dub stopped breathing altogether. It was only when her chest began to burn that she remembered to suck oxygen in.

“I don’t believe I heard you,” she murmured. “Could you come closer?”

Chris knelt by the side of her bed. He licked his lips and held her left hand in his.

“I asked if you would…”

BAM!!!!

The sick sound of glass splitting his skull penetrated the air. A-Dub had viciously attacked with the very vase he had presented as a gift. Clutching his bleeding cranium, Chris staggered to his feet.

“What the hell man!” he screeched. “What are you doing?”

Ohhh, but A-Dub wasn’t done yet. Blinded by fury and fueled by her disgust for this whimpering simp, she threw her legs of the side of the bed and wrapped the cord from her morphine drip around his neck. Chris choked uncontrollably, trying in vain to get the massive Black woman off his back.

“Do you feel like you’re about to die, nigga?” she growled lowly. “Do you feel life seeping out of you? That’s what I felt like when I got SHOT while carrying our son. And where were you headed? To KFC? Rally’s? It was just another day in the park to you. You Black mutha sucka.”

She released her grip on him and sneered as he crawled around on the newly mopped linoleum floors, gasping for breath. The adrenalin suddenly wore off and intense pain shot through her leg. She eased herself back into her bed.

“You ain’t worth two dead flies,” she croaked. “Now get out of my room and stop bleeding all over my floor.”

                                        ****Lights fading in *****

Now, that’s what that idiot Patricia Legarreta SHOULD have done when that sad excuse for a man Jamie Rohrs left her and their kids in the theater to face possible death, and then turned around and asked to marry her. Instead, she accepted his proposal. Yes, she is going to marry this grease ball.

 O_o.

Humph.

Well, at least she knows he won’t ever try to protect them and certainly won’t die for her or those kids. It’s good to set those types of expectations early in a marriage, don’t you think? <—-Sarcasm

Has your significant other ever left you in a situation where your life was at stake? Would your significant other ever think to do something so low and heinous? Is it just me, or is Jamie Rohrs a special kind coward?

Back To School, Back To Blogging

I didn’t think I was going to make it through the summer, and yet by some miracle I survived. If the frequency of my posts is any indication of the amount of personal time I had available to me, you will see it was not very much. I think I posted 4 articles all summer. I’m too ashamed to go back and look.

School started for my children today and with any luck, that event will truly mean a return to at least one hour of free time every day to write. I hope.

Man, what a summer though, huh?!? I mean there was so much we didn’t get to talk about MOM Squad. Gabby Douglass’ hair; the shooting in Colorado, Liya’s sugar fueled manic weekend in DC where she woke up naked, a pregnancy scare, my near fatal crash on Delta Airlines….gosh there’s so much to get to!

Okay so let’s get to it! I tossed a coin and it looks like the Colorado shooting tragedy is first in the line-up. Here we go MOM Squad. Andrew, Revived Africanna, African Mami, Ebenezer the Scrooge – especially you, David S – and all the people who read and never comment; I’ve missed you all terribly.

Do you believe me? I didn’t think so. But I did! ;)