Throw My Mother From the Train...Please

I'm just joking.  I LOVE my mother for life.  But unfortunately I don't like her - let me rephrase that - I can't live with her.  I don't know how I did it for the first 19 years of my life?  My mother is sweet and she means well, but a lot of times her own idiosyncrasies gets in the way of me enjoying being around her .

Despite all this, about a month ago it seemed like a good idea to drive up to Queens, NY to bring my mother back home to Virginia to live with me.  Understand that at the time I was really concerned for her health and well-being up there and plus, there were incidents that made me feel uncomfortable about her living situation.  So the plan was to bring her back to her birth place, help her get readjusted to living here again and help her get her own housing eventually.

That first week I thought to myself, "What the fuck was you thinking?".  I just recently moved into a quiet residential neighborhood filled with old, white folks.  Right up my mother's alley right? Peace and quiet.  Wrong.  My mother is LOUD.  As soon as I turn the corner to go down my street I already know she's on the porch.  She is that loud. For two reasons; first, that's just the way she is, and second, for the last five years or so she's been having to talk over a house full of crying kids.  Even when she realizes she's loud she she gets louder.  She hasn't figured out yet how to turn herself down.

She also, unknowingly, suffers from insomnia and has been that way for as long as I've known her.  I can maybe count on one hand how many times I've actually seen my mother asleep....with her eyes closed.  So it's nothing to find myself awakened at 2:30 in the morning from the sound of someone downstairs rustling through the refrigerator for a snack, or "silently" talking on the phone.  How do you tell your mom, "Will you carry your ass to bed!....please?"

All my mom's conversations start something like this: "I didn't get to sleep 'til about 3 o'clock last night."  Long pause.  Even longer pause now.  You see, this where I'm suppose to chime in and say, "So why didn't you get to sleep 'til 3 o'clock?"  And then, by law, she can continue to explain why.  Honestly, it's the funniest shit ever.  "Ma, why can't you just tell me why you were up 'til 3 instead of me having to pretend like I'm asking?"  No answer.

Well, it seems she's not ready to come down and stay for good just yet (every time I say that I uncontrollably jump in the air and click my heels together).  She lives with my younger brother and his wife and they need her to help out babysitting my three nieces (daycare in NY is a bitch).  A big part of my mother's being is the joy of raising children.  I don't have one yet for her to raise so when she's here she starts to feel a bit unuseful.  So, this Saturday I'll be driving her back up to NY until the next time she gets stressed out and needs to come back home to relax.  I'm okay with that because her short stay allowed me to learn a little about myself, and that is that I'm not ready to deal with my mother full-time yet.  Saturday can't get here fast enough.

Give a Little, Live a Little

"You give but little when you give your possessions.  It is when you give of yourself that you truly give."
- Kahlil Gibran

Lately, I've been following this blog, 366 Random Acts of Kindness, simply because I was interested in what this guy had to say about his random acts.  If anyone out there follows my blog then you remember in an earlier post, Give Forward, where I mentioned the 1000 Shoes for 1000 Smiles organization that I wanted to be involved with.  I was successful in contacting the organization and received an email thanking me for wanting to help.  I guess now I just wait until someone contacts me, which should be around the time everyone is out shopping for school clothes, to come out and lend a hand.  (Finger tapping on my desk) So what am I to do in the meantime?  Well, since my days are already sliced up into 25 hours, devoting my time to someone or something is a bit of stretch for me.  This is where the 366 Random Acts of Kindness comes in.  I figured if someone could conjure an act of kindness for 366 days, hell, I could donate to 53 different non-profit organizations each week.  And blog about it.  So that's my mission for the year.  I'm not out for recognition or anything like that, I just feel a need to give back.  I've been blessed over the past few years of my life and everyday I wake up I remind myself that this day is an opportunity to either make something better or make something new; or both.  If you're reading this and know of an organization that could use a little help, please comment.  Talk atcha' next week.

Annette Larkins

Since 16 years old I haven't eaten a morsel of pork.  For about the next 5 years I was "off and on" with the beef thing until I decided that too had to go.  I haven't been able yet to fully rid myself of chicken or turkey though.  And seafood....forget about it, I can't even imagine my life without fish.  I still have stark images of my uncles coming through my grandmother's front door lugging a garbage can full of fresh, live crabs just waiting to be steamed and served. 
Fortunately for me I grew up where Hip-Hop was fresh, raw, original and most importantly...conscious.  There were groups like Gangstar and Brand Nubians, to name a few, that stirred my awareness to pork, lard, and other dietary ills that I never gave much thought to.  KRS-ONE was solely responsible for arousing my consciousness to the deathly manufacturing of beef and offered a more holistic alternative to the way my friends and I were eating.  Public Enemy would wisely drop names in their songs to dare you to do your research.  How else was I going to know who Assata Shakur was, otherwise known as Joanna Chesimard?  Or Geronimo Pratt, Nelson Mandela (before he was internationally known), The Last Poets, Frantz Fannon, Malcolm X, Angela Davis, Che Guevera, the MOVE.  These weren't people that I was able to go to my school library and check out a book on.  Back then the public school system thought it was better for inner city kids to learn that Reaganomics was a good thing.  The Honorable Elijah Muhammad published a small, narrow book called "How to Eat to Live", that I read from cover to cover.  This book, for me, was revolutionary.  It marked a turning point in my life, and not by just what I fed my body but what I fed my mind as well.  By this time I was what people now refer to as a pescatarian, a person that abstains from eating all meat except for fish.  That has worked for me up until about five years ago.  I started back consuming chicken and turkey in order to convenience family and friends at times when they would prepare meals for me.  As of today, March 1, 2012, no more.  Thanks to Annette Larkins I've had it with chicken and Turkey for good.  Who is Annette Larkins?  I'm glad you ask...

My First Report Due

Ah, let's see.  The last time I recall having to turn in an English report was in 10th grade, I think.  I do remember it was on transcendentalism, because one, Henry David Thoreau was my dude, and second, I occasionally refer back to those teachings to remind myself that I'm not a complete moron.  This week my first report was due for my English III class.  The assignment was to write a process analysis paper.  So, the title of my paper was "How to Ball at a Strip Club."  I figure, since it had to be 750 words at least, and anything else that I was remotely cognizant of would've been too long, I selected to write about every one's favorite topic - strip clubs.  The paper was from strictly observation of course, believe me, I'm the last person you'll see at a strip club "making it rain" on ho's.  I go there because I like to shoot pool and I like listening to Hip-Hop music while I shoot pool, and besides, what man wouldn't mind a few scantily-clad women thrown in the mix?  So I do find myself at your local titty-bar more often than I care to admit. My report had flow to it and I only went a few words over a thousand.  It was concise, with a little humor, and I think I used logical order pretty well.  Overall, not bad for a first.  What matters is the grade... we'll see.

This report got me to thinking about starting yet another blog....G-String Chronicles, or maybe, The Adventures of Supasperm.  The latter I like, but looking at it now sounds just a little too vague.  Plus, that kind of commitment would find me in the titty-bar more often than I need to be.  That has a lot of potential for trouble.  Although, it would make for one hell of an excuse to go out.  "Honey, I'll be back. I gotta' go down to the Red Velvet to do some research."  Hmm.

The Quicker-Fixer-Upper

Well, I just moved into my new home.  A cozy, little three bedroom attached to its own driveway and garage, something that I've underestimated the value of.  The neighborhood is quiet, full of senior citizens whose only care is making sure they don't get their medications confused. The lawn is so soft it's almost as if God layed the plush carpet of grass down himself. There's a spacious backyard with plenty of running room for my rottweiler to dart after squirrels and birds.

Sounds peachy right?  If you look at the picture of my backyard, you see that corner patch of dirt where God's carpet use to be?  Well, that's where all the peachy descriptions end.  Yes, I went ballsy on my family and moved us into a true fixer-upper.  How much of a fixer-upper is it, you ask?  The picture below shows where I patched drywall over a gaping hole. The previous owners had the idea that it would be near genius to build a refrigerator IN THE WALL.

That patch of dirt in the backyard, that was where a makeshift deck used to be.  It was built right in front of the back door, and I do mean literally right-in-front-of-the-door.  I got a plumber coming to visit me this weekend because the kitchen sink refuses to drain.  And before you barrage me with all your DIY suggestions, don't bother, I've tried them all.  So I called the nice, little plumber man to come and snake my drain from the roof of the house and when he comes down he's going to hand me a nice, little plumber bill that says, "Fuck you, pay me."

I might use this as my introduction to my next blog, but I'm not sure what to title it yet.  I'm thinking maybe I'll title it "Home Sweat Home", or "2 Hammers & 1 Nail" has a nice ring to it too.  Irregardless of which I choose, it would make for a nice chronicle of events to write about.  I finally sketched out my "to-do-list", so now each weekend I have something to do and, subsequently, something to write about.  Yippee!

Give Forward

For a long time I've been wanting to give back to my community in some way.  Part of this urge is to make up for all the horror I've caused people in the past, but also because I sincerely want to make a difference.  The thing is I just didn't want it to be the typical volunteer service though.  You know...helping out down at the local Salvation Army soup line or being a Big Brother to some hard-headed ass kid that reminds me of myself when I was their age.  Although, for awhile I did coach a Little League Football team (Go Huntersville Wolverines!) full of 8-10 year olds, which I really enjoyed doing.  But then worked picked up and now I'm in school, so coaching anything is out of the question.  One weekend morning during one of my many commutes I was listening to a local radio station and they were interviewing, what seemed to be a young(ish) lady talking about a non-profit organization called "A 1000 Shoes For A 1000 Smiles".  And the purpose of this organization is each year, since 2004 (I think), their mission is to give away 2000 brand new shoes to needy school-aged kids.  I knew immediately, hearing this, this was something I can definitely relate to and get involved in.  Where do I sign?

True story.  One summer right before the school was to start, once again, my mother didn't have enough money to buy me and my little brother new shoes for year or at least for the first six months, which is the length of time it took before she had to buy us a new pair again.  About this time I was around 16 years old.  My brother is five years younger than me.  We both were tired of having to deal with the ridicule every school year because we had to return still were wearing our old shoes from last year.  I had a plan.  There was an A&N store down the block from us at the corner of the shopping mall.  They didn't have security or anything and since I was pretty big for my age I had the cashier guy by 25 pounds at least.  So one fateful night I walked in, while my brother stood post outside the store, and began to browse for our dream shoes - The Jordan VI.

I picked a blue pair for me and a red pair for him, with my heart pounding through my chest, I proceeded to the front door.  After about three steps the cashier guy halts me and very "customer-service" like grabs the shoes from my grip and tells me, "The shoes will be waiting for you behind the counter when you're ready to pay."  Smiling at me with his mouth, his eyes telling me, "Don't even think about it".  Damn, what do I do now?  My little brother looking at me through the glass window saying, "Damn, what you gonna do now?"  I moped around the store debating to myself, while leisurely picking up a couple sweatpants (???) and a few shirts, very casually inching my way back closer to the counter. I don't think I once took my eyes off them shoes.  Fuck it.  There was no way we were going back to school in old shoes!  With the clothes draped over my arm I swooped behind the counter, snatched up the shoe boxes, spun, and made a mad dash for the door.  I could hear the cashier guy screaming after me, "GET BACK HERE!"  Ain't gonna' happen chief.  Next thing I knew my little brother was opening the door for me, wisely, with just enough room for me to slip through.  I heard something crash into the concrete behind me and someone laughing but I was in the wind.  My escape route home was almost as if it was meant to be.  I raced into the house, cut off all the lights and lied there in the darkness on the living room floor scared, relieved, elated, every emotion was in a ball in my stomach.  I made it.  My brother's knock on the door, scared the crap out of me.  He walked in, the look on his face was happy-confusion.  I was his hero.  The act was so uncharacteristic of me (at the time), but we had new shoes.  Sadly, to this day my mother never asked me where or how I got them.
So as I'm listening to the radio, flashing back to that night, I wonder how many kids got that same story to tell.  I don't want to know.

How To Make A Soup Sandwich

This is an excerpt from one of my English journals that I thought to share.

By far, one of my favorite sandwiches has to be the soup sandwich.  Mainly because there's no right or wrong way to make it; in the end it's always the same result.  Feel free to follow this recipe if you choose, but I will briefly describe how I prefer my soup sandwich.
First, you will need an unattainable goal (or no goal at all sometimes works just as fine).  Secondly, you might want to grab you a 1 oz bag of crunchy knit-wits (not hard to find, just look over at the person on your left).  Next, I like to use two different slices of bread, a slice of Honey-O Shit bread and another slice of 9-grain "not my job". 
I then lay out my O-Shit bread.  Pour on my unattainable goal mix with my knit-wits and top it off with a slice of "not my Job".  And there you have it, what we at work like to call something that is as F'd up as a soup sandwich, also known as the Chicken Noodle Hoagie.