Lights, Camera, Action!

It was 1:23 a.m. Saturday morning and I was just getting home.

I walked into the door and kicked off the black loafers that had replaced the stilleto sandals I'd started the evening in. My bag got dropped somewhere between the front door and the main hallway as I struggled to stay upright. I peeled off my cocktail dress and fell onto the mattress in my living room.

My feet were sore, my back ached and my head twirled in a buzzed haze as I pulled the covers up to my chin, trying to find some peace. It had been a helluva night and if I had the chance, I'd do it all over again.

Five hours ago, I arrived at the Venus De Milo, a cheesy restaurant in Swansea, Mass., to prepare for my debut in the Providence Newspaper Guild Follies. I'd spent the last two months, and the last two full days practicing my lines, trying out costumes and overcoming my pre-performance jitters. As I walked through the door, I couldn't believe my eyes: The hall was full of about 1,500 politicians, government officials and my own coworkers and bosses. The cast told me to expect this, but you can't really imagine that many people until they're elbowing you trying to get to the bar.

I put my coat, tote bag and thermos of tea backstage and went out into the crowd to find my co-stars. The Follies, essentially, is like Saturday Night Live, set to music. Each year, members of the Providence Newspaper Guild and the community get together to poke fun at the major headlines, politicos and other weird things that have happened in news the past year. I decided to join the cast to get to know my coworkers a little better and to get the weekends off: practices were on Saturday. I can't say my reasonings were totally admirable, but it got me to join, so I can't complain.

The cast milled around the lobby as everyone ate dinner. 9:10 p.m., it was time to start. We grabbed hands and marched through the banquet hall singing "God Bless America" as we made our way backstage for some quick changes. Then, it was showtime.


I was in a total of six scenes. After the opener, set to the tune of "all that jazz," I performed in a number of skits and songs throughout the night. In one, I was one of four hospital patients exaulting the state legislature of legalizing medical marijuana. In another, I was a "commatta," or an Italian mistress for all you non-Soprano's fan's out there. I also sang lead in two numbers. One, set to the tune of "Rescue Me" by Fontella Bass, had me playing the part of a tired daycare worker who wanted to unionize. Here are some of the lyrics:

Rescue Me, It's time to unionize
Rescue Me, don't hang me out to dry
Cause I'm lonely and I'm poor
You're my cure
Oh, I am sure,
Come on and rescue me

Come on union, and rescue me
Come on union, increase my fee
Cause I need you by my side
Can't you see that I'm lonely


In the other, set to the tune of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough," I played Ruth Simmons, the president of Brown University, as she defended the "Sex, Power, God" party that garnered national headlines when a producer from Bill O'Reilly's show videotaped segments to air on the show. When I unzipped my doctoral graduation robe to reveal a t-shirt sheath with a painted on bra and panty set, the crowd went wild. Here's the refrain from the Brown song I sang:

Ain't no party wild enough
ain't no co-ed drunk enough
ain't no student high enough to flunk out of this Ivy League
Ain't no costume low enough
ain't no cocktail strong enough
ain't no party wild enough to sully our proud reputation

After we finished the show, I changed back into my cocktail dress and mingled with my co-workers and who's who in Rhode Island politics. As I walked around, people kept stopping me, saying how well I'd done and how beautiful my voice was. One guy came up to me as a co-worker and I made our ways to the bar and goes something like: "I want you to know that when I was growing up, I used to sneak out of Mass and go down the street to the church that sang gospel. There were two women there, Eunetta Flowers and Doretha Jackson and they had these voices that just made you feel every word they sang. I want you to know that tonight, your performance brought me back to that church. Thank you." I was blown away. I thanked him and we chatted for a minute before I headed to the bar for an Amarretto Sour. With my co-worker, I jokingly reasoned that people kept picking me out because I was the only black girl in the show and one of only a handful in the room, but regardless, it still made me feel good.

I ate along with the rest of the cast, joking and laughing, still high off of our performance. Deemed one of the "Rookies of the Year" by the Follies cast, I promised to be a part of the cast next year. Around 1 a.m., everything started to catch up with me. I packed my bag, switched out of my stillettos and into some sensible shoes and hopped on the expressway home.

As I lay on the mattress, my mind raced to the performance I'd given hours ago. I replayed the gasps and laughs I'd garnered during my performance. I re-listened to the praise and congratulatory words I'd heard from absolute strangers, my bosses and co-workers after the show. A smile crept across my face as I thought about what I'd just been a part of.

I could still hear the applause echoing in my ears as I drifted off to sleep.

Photo captions, (from top to bottom): me, at the Venus, striking a pose; one of the cast boards that was set up in the lobby - I'm the black girl at the bottom left; me on stage as a disgruntled babysitter; Me, as Ruth Simmons, practicing with the girls during dress rehersal; Thom, me and Don right before the show.

It's back....

It's been a while since I've done one of these. When I first got here, I thought Rhode Island was too normal to support this entry. Oh, how wrong I was. I think I need to change the name though. I'm thinking "as the quahog turns" or "around the quahog." Anyway, here it is.

Call it Straight from the Streets reincarnated. Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*What makes a person, in this day and age, grow a tail with their hair? At my council meeting, I was mesmerized by the long thin braid coming from the back of the head of one of the resident's. That joint was meticulously braided and secured with a bright green elastic. I wonder if dude was standing in the mirror, getting dressed saying to himself, "yeah, this braided tail is hella fresh. All the ladies gonna be on me tough." I just wanted to whip out a swiss army knife, chop the braid off and give him a coupon to Supercuts.

*This cat walked into my town council meeting with the freshest Air Jordan XI's I've seen in a long time. Not a speck of dirt was on the white canvas lace holders. The clear gel sole was spotless - unstained. I was, however disappointed at the rest of his attire: a green oversized sweatshirt and some ill-fitting pants. I wanted him to come correct with it, 1995 style - fresh jersey or crisp button-up and jeans with the razor sharp crease. One can only hope, I suppose.

*As hard as I try to resist, I think I'm turning into a Rhode Islander - or at least, a New Englander. People back at home say I'm starting to replace my "r" with "ah" when I speak, a la Sean Lyons ("go pahk tha cah, Jahmah"). When people try to pass me on the expressway, I speed up just enough so that they don't have clearance. I grocery shop in Massachusetts. Cranston is now preceeded by "I gotta go all the way south to." (Mind you, it takes maximum 15 minutes to get almost any place in Providence. From the airport, you pass through three of the largest cities in 5 minutes on Route 95). I'm beginning to refer to expressways as "route" ( note route 95 instead of I-95). And yesterday, for the first time, I had a stuffie, a Rhode Island delicacy. Really, just a stuffed clam, but locals rave about them.

The Break-up

It's finally time out for me and Supercuts.

I used to be a big fan. I’m not the type to get my hair done on a regular basis, so for me, Supercuts provided a way for me to get my regular trims without wasting all day in the hair salon or spending $65 or more on my follicles.

I could come in, get my wig split, pay my $12 and go.

They always did say you get what you pay for. And I take full responsibility for the mess that is currently my hair. After all, I'd been warned.

For those of you who don't know, last month's drastic cut was a primer to get me ready for the next big step in my hair life: going natural. I've been growing out my perm since Thanksgiving, so I now have about an inch or so of new growth.

When I told my sister (whose hair always made me want to go natural) about my desire to change my hair, she told me to be prepared during the growing-out process: products I used to use and styles I used to wear won't work any more and my hair might start to do crazy things.

Pish posh, I said and headed into my area Supercuts today for a quick trim.

If you've never been, here's how it works: you come up and the people sign your name on a ticket. When a chair is available, they call you by name to get your hair cut. Once you sit down, the stylist talks to you about what you're getting done, spritzes your hair with water and gets to chopping.

The water part never proved to be a problem until now. As the stylist drenched my hair (which they usually don't do), I could already tell this was going to be all bad. When she tried to run the comb through my hair and got it caught on the kinks, I closed my eyes and cursed that I'd decided to sit in her chair. When she got done cutting and tried to salvage my hair by tucking and patting it under to make a crude curl, I wanted to slap her.

I asked her to blow dry my hair #1, because it was like 18 degrees outside and I was just getting over being sick; and #2, because if she could at least blow dry it, I could put a headband on and call it a day.

Do you know what this heffa said to me?

"We don't blow dry hair straight here," she said. "And we don't have flat irons."

Come again?

I explain to her that I'm not asking for a style, just that she blow my hair out so it doesn't get tangled, since she was the one who said she couldn't cut it without getting it wet. She picks up the blowdryer and proceeds to FINGER COMB my hair as she blasts my locks with hot air. I hold my tongue because I know nothing I can say to her will make her understand that this method she's using isn't going to cut it with me. She puts some shine serum on my hair and I try to tuck the errant pieces behind my ears.

I walk to the front silently to pay for my trim. After handing her my card, I pull my knit cap onto my still-damp hair, thankful I'd brought it along today. In my car, I examine my hair - or more accurately - the helmet of coils that covered my head. Then, I slowly pulled the hat back over my hair, where it would remain until I went home that evening to wash and style my hair.

But this is what I wanted - a glimpse at my hair as God intended it.

So, no more speedy trims with fantabulous layers. No more paper straight edges. No more spending $12 on a haircut.

Good thing is a friend of mine passed along the name of a natural hair salon in the city. I'll be making an appointment soon. Real soon.

Guess that settles it for me.

Hey, Cupid: could ya pass the tissues, please?

The woman seemed nice enough, but I couldn’t help but be skeptical.

“Open your mouth and say ahhh,” she cooed.

I looked at her apprehensively, waiting for her to explain to me what she was going to do with the two long cotton swabs she now held in her hand.

“What’s that for,” I asked, backing away from her extended hands.

“It’s to check for strep throat,” she said. “Now open wide.”

This was not how I wanted to spend my Valentine’s Day, but I really had no choice.

The poor decision to attempt to dig my Cavalier out from under 18 inches of snow on Sunday had brought me here – complaining of a sore throat and a nagging, dry cough. I’d gotten through Monday half drugged, but when I woke up on the day reserved for lovers, I didn’t know how much more I could take. I dipped out of work for a few hours to go to the emergency clinic and get what I felt like the ebola virus on my tonsils checked out.

So here I was, being poked and prodded by strangers – and not even in a good way.

As I waited for the test results, I couldn’t help but smile through my pain. I was in a doctor’s office. Within 48 hours of developing symptoms of some illness. And I wasn’t worried about how I would pay for it.

Going to the doctor’s office was just something we didn’t do in my household. I can remember going to the doctor’s office only a few times in my life: once to get a physical for the track team, once to get a physical before going to college and once when I was younger and I had an ear ache. Other than those times, the only doctor in my life was my momma. Faking sick to get a day off from school had no appeal for me. If I mentioned a sore throat, my mom would give me an extra strength Tylenol, a shot of the yellow Triaminic or make me gargle with a cup of warm salty water and send me to the bus. Going to the doctor was reserved for life threatening illnesses on account of my mother’s horrible insurance that required a $65 co-pay for office visits. I guess she figured that for $65, instead of getting the same pink stuff the doctor always gave us, she could go to the store, get some meds and soup and get us back to health herself. She passed along her medical knowledge to me as I went to college. I learned how to self medicate and tough it out whenever I got sick. Saved me some money, but caused me a lot of pain and agony over the years.

So, it was nice to be in a physician’s office, knowing I’d soon have health-inducing medications to make me all better. The doctor came in to tell me I didn’t have strep throat, but I did have an infection of my right ear. She prescribed some meds, which I promptly filled for a copay of $5 and I was on my way.

When I got back to the office, my editor urged me to take the rest of the day off. Who was I to complain, so I went home and wallowed on the mattress that serves as my living room couch for the time being. All kinds of things ran through my head during the hours that followed as I napped, watched bad TV and fielded calls from my momma who knew, somehow, that I was feeling under the weather.

Some of the things that crossed my mind:

*I don’t have enough grilled cheese sandwiches in my life. I should rectify that.

*Soup labels suck. Particularly the kind that claim to have some money saving coupon or recipe on the back. I almost cut my hand stabbing at one such can with a pair of scissors, trying to obtain the alleged coupons behind the cover. Bastards. If you’re going to hide things behind the labels, at least make them easy to remove.

*I think the single most irritating question someone can ask you when you’re sick is “do you feel better?” I understand you’re just trying to get a read on how I’m feeling, but in my situation, I couldn’t answer it. Earlier in the day, I felt like there was a tennis ball stuck in my throat. After the medication, the tennis ball was gone, but I was coughing up my shoulder blades instead. Is that really better? Can’t say. It’s like six in one hand, half dozen in the other. I’m still sick. That’s all that matters.

But enough about me. How'd you spend your Valentine's Day?

Scattered Shots

Fresh baked blueberry muffins from Sam's are yummm-o! I eat the bottom first, saving the muffin-top goodness for last. If you haven't had one lately, go buy a 12 pack and eat yourself into oblivion. You'll thank me for it.

Shouldn't we pronounce the letter W as double V? It really doesn't look like a U at all - let alone two of them.

People lie. so much. This guy called my office about a story which I supsequently covered. When it came out in the paper the next day, he gets on the radio talking about he didn't know how we got the story and that I just "showed up" wanting to talk to him. Thank you, lying bastard, for doing all you can to give journalists a bad name. We needed all the help we could get. Thanks.

Landlord came out to fix my ceiling. Now I have two huge holes in my kitchen and bathroom. I don't like to pee when there's emptiness over my head. This situation needs to be rectified immediately.

Can you see me now? Good.

A few weeks ago, I lost my glasses.

At first, it wasn’t a big deal. I can see without them. I barely even used them except when I was reading for an extended period of time. So when they came up missing, I didn’t stress too much. I figured they’d turn up eventually.

So I kept reading my O Magazine and spending long hours chatting and working on the computer. I proofed pages and read the newspaper with ease.

Then, today, my eyes started burning. And they wouldn’t stop.

I was at work and had just started typing on my computer when the brightness got to me. I turned away and opted to read the paper instead. As I turned the pages, I felt like the words were slicing my eyes like little paper cuts. I put my head down and closed my eyes to give them a rest. I tried dropping a few dollops of Visine in them for good measure. Even rubbing them did no good.

I needed my glasses.

I’d just gotten a new pair when I was in Detroit this summer. When I moved from Hampton, the last pair I had mysteriously vanished and I needed a new pair while I was still on my mom’s insurance. I opted for a snazzy Guess pair – brown, turquoise and metal with rectangularish frames. They were cute. Better still, I looked cute in them. I remember wearing them to work for the first time in Detroit thinking I somehow looked more mature and serious about my job. I really just looked like me – but in glasses – but you couldn’t tell me that.

The excitement eventually wore off as I began to use my glasses more regularly. Here in Rhode Island, I’d begun using them every so often since my workstation has me essentially on top of my computer. The last time I remembered having my glasses, I’d stuck them – sans case – into the pocket of my wool coat as I went into a police station to do cop checks. It was snowing and condensation was accumulating on the lenses. When I got back to the car, I remembered placing them on the seat – so I wouldn’t break them when I sat down.

Smart, yeah. I know.

Anyway, I figured they were still in my car – somewhere – but I knew this would be no easy task. If you’ve ever been in or seen my car, you know what I’m talking about: part hazard of the profession, other part laziness. But today at work, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was going to have to delve into the landfill that is my car and find my glasses. Either that or buy a new pair. I donned my coat and headed outside to search the abyss.

I do have to say I found a lot of interesting things in my car. An old McDonald’s bag underneath the passenger seat. A purple/silver belt in the back. A travel cup and oodles of pens and pencils beneath the driver’s seat. But no glasses.

I stood outside my car, trying to think of where my spectacles could be. Then I remembered – the back seat. A few years ago, in my wild and crazy college days, an afternoon with my roommate and some friends ended with my backseat unhinged next to my Cavalier. Apparently, the friend had lost a piece of jewelry and – wouldn’t ya know it – the backseat can unhinge. But as we tried to re-hinge my seat, we encountered a problem: a seat no longer fit flush against the backseat and we couldn’t get all of the hinges to lock correctly. So, for the last three years or so, I’ve had a small chasm in my backseat where occasionally I find all kinds of wonderful and not so wonderful things. If I couldn’t find my glasses there, I’d have to search the trunk.

I leaned over and lifted the right side of the backseat. Beyonce CD, comb, errant papers. No glasses. Discouraged but not defeated, I ventured to the left side of the car and lifted. Pens mocked me from the confetti-ed padding beneath the seat. Just as I was about to plop the seat down, a sparkle caught my eye.

Could it be? Toward the hump? My glasses? Yes, indeed.

I snatched up my frames and slid them onto my face. I went back inside, literally skipping with joy. When I came into the newsroom, our office manager noticed my smile.

“I take it you found your glasses,” she said.

“I did,” I said beaming with happiness. “I did.”

And my eyes thanked me for it.

Under the Sea

Usually, the sound of water helps people fall asleep.

But around 7:40 a.m. Saturday, the sound of drops of water gently rapping glass caused me to spring straight up in my bed.

I quickly surveyed the room. The sun was shining. The windows in my bedroom were dry. And, for some reason, it seemed as if the water was coming from inside of my house.

I jumped out of bed to investigate. As I rounded the corner to my kitchen, I couldn't hide my shock.

"Oh my God," I screamed as I took in the sight.

A steady stream of water was flowing from my ceiling, onto my kitchen table and floor. The carpet leading into my living room was soaked as the water crept out of the linoleum confines of my kitchen.

My mouth agape, I stood there watching for a few moments, unable to wrap my head around the waterfall that had implanted itself in my kitchen. Then I got pissed.

After I strategically placed a bucket and some trash cans to catch the water, I ran into my bedroom and got the landlord's number from my trusty "important information box."
It rang. And rang. And rang. No answer.

Damn, damn, damn.

So, I started knocking on doors. First, was the woman directly above me. It had to be something in her apartment that was overflowing. I'd heard her snoring the night before, so I knew she was there.

I knocked. And knocked. And knocked. No answer.

Frustrated, I ran back downstairs to try and think. By now, the trickle of water from my ceiling had turned into a cascade raining next to my stove. Luckily, Darren, who was in town visiting for the weekend, emptied my kitchen trash can and used the 14-gallon container to capture the water.

I called my next door neighbor, then went knocking on doors, waking tenants to see if they had another emergency number for the landlord. I lucked out with the woman in #3, who had the number from a similar incident last year. I called the landlord from my cell phone in her apartment.

"Good morning," the man on the other line said. "How are you doing today?"
"Fine," I started to answer, then, "No. You know what? I'm not fine at all. My kitchen is flooding and I need ya'll to come do something about it."

I proceeded to tell him what was happening and how I now needed an ark to get to my refrigerator. He promised he'd get someone over to my apartment as soon as he could. Meanwhile, the Mississippi River was still flowing from my ceiling. I emptied the buckets and trash cans as they filled, but I couldn't keep doing this all day.

I had to do something.

After a few more misbegotten tries of waking up the tenant above me, I rang her doorbell like a madman then ran upstairs and banged on her door like I was the police. I heard her rustling in the apartment and making her way to the door.

"Who is it," she called, from what I suppose was the hallway.
"Talia, from downstairs," I replied.
Silence. Then:
"What the hell is this?"

She opened the door and I stepped inside. Her kitchen was now a 3-inch high wading pool and her living room carpet was soaked. Sometime during the night, her water heater busted and began filling her kitchen with water. That water, subsequently, seeped through the floorboards of her apartment and through the ceiling of mine. She'd been asleep the whole time and hadn't known what was going on. If I hadn't waken her up, who knows how much worse it would've been.

After she apologized profusely, we call the landlord to find out how to cut the water heater off. Then, I headed back downstairs to mop up my kitchen. It was about 8:45 a.m. now. I was scheduled to be at work in 15 minutes.

I called the desk to let them know I was coming in - but I'd be late. The maintenance guy finally came and got to work replacing the woman's water heater. I dressed and waited for him to come to my apartment. I'd moved my table chairs and wiped down as much as I could. But still, water still streamed from my ceiling.

"Just let the water flow, Talia," Darren said as I paced the apartment, getting madder with every step. "There's nothing else you can do about it. Just let it flow."

Thanks, Toni.

I got dressed and tried to stay calm, but by 10 a.m., I couldn't wait anymore. I went outside and met the maintenence guy at his truck. I let him know that I needed to leave, but he had permission to enter my apartment and that there was damage to the ceiling in the living room, kitchen and bathrooms that needed to be fixed.

Two days later, brown spots have formed in my ceiling where the water once flowed. A section of the kitchen ceiling sits agape, drawn down from the weight of the water. The waters have receeded and none of my property was damaged. And my cell phone has a new speed dial entry: my landlord's emergency number.

(Captions from top: Water streams from my ceiling after the water heater in the apartment above me busted. Then, me, in my pajamas and work shoes, bailing out the kitchen garbage can I used to capture some of the water that gushed from my ceiling -note the pot on the stove, random buckets, trash cans and mop in the photo.)