When you know better, you do better

I know it's been a while since I've fed the beast, but it's been hectic round these parts.

Okay, it hasn't really been THAT hectic. I've just been lazy. Whaddya gonna do?

Right now, I think I'm the happiest I've been in a long time. Nothing particularly great happened to me lately, I'm just feeling good.

Mississippi was good. I was down there for a sad occasion, but it was good to see my family members, some which I hadn't seen in more than 6 years. So we partied, caught up, teased one another, and, of course, played spades.

Gotta love being from a black southern family.

While we were down there, some cousins and I were talking. Now, my grandmother had 13 children, 21 grandchildren and 19 great-grandchildren (you didn't think these child-rearing hips were for naught, did you?). Mostly all of us who were able were there. My cousins and I noticed that all of our aunts have cool...no, not cool, um, unique nicknames.

My mom, Rutha, is nicknamed "Lump,"
Aunt Georgia is "Duck" (sorry V, she's the original);
Aunt Francis is "Frog" (they lived in the country, what can I say?);
Aunt Margaret is "Bae Bae";
Aunt Annie was "Suga"; and the names get less interesting from there.

Now, out of my cousins, only a few of us have nicknames: "Tris," "Peaches," and "Poochie."

I feel kinda slighted. Not that I want to be nicknamed "sugalump" or something like that, but it's just the fact that I don't have the nickname that kind of sucks. Even though I'd probably hate to use it. Anyway, we were just talking about the unfairness of it all, but at the same time, revelling in our good luck. Ah well.

When I got back, I started this wellness program to get my physical fitness game up and get my eating habits right. Diabetes, high blood pressure, obesity, all of that runs real strong in my family and I'm trying to head it off in any way possible. The downside is that I've been hungry ever since I started this joint. No, it's not Master Cleanse. Actually, the plan I'm on suggests you eat like 5 times a day. And I'm doing it. Problem is, after an hour and a half, I'm hungry again. Something has got to give because I can't spend the rest of my life eating - I've got work to do!

I'm finally getting used to my hair. I wore it out as a fro when I went to Mississippi a few weeks ago and just haven't changed it since. I'm finally getting the hang of picking it out and shaping it. I even had my first "petting."

Wrote a song about it, like to hear it, here it go:

Lady approached me in the bano while I was washing my asked to see "how long my hair was," but didn't wait for no answer (strums guitar)

Next thing I know she was patting my head, the look I gave her should have stopped her tail dead. (strums guitar)

I was at work, so I turned and smiled. If we was in the streets I'd have set that thang off like Juvenile. (adlibs) Ahhhh haaaaaa uhnooowwww.

Thankyaverymuch.

And, I'm spent.

Alright, I was going to write more, but, you guessed it, I don't feel like it. Holla at me on the other side of a nap, playa.

Wack 'Fro

I feel like my afro is all out of wack today.

My sister told me that my hair would respond to my moods eventually. I think my hair is in tune with me sooner than anyone expected.

One patch keeps sticking up in the back of my head. My shape is slightly off-kilter. And no matter how much I pick it, the back of my 'fro is flat.

I'll write more later, but I have to file a story.

I think me and my hair both need a nap.

What that thang smell like?

So yeah, I'm not a loyal watcher of BET's UnCut, but I know some of you out there in cyberspace are. In case you didn't know, it's getting the ax.

Guess I'll never learn the fine art of booty-clapping in 5-inch lucite heels.

*Sigh*

Wanna save it? Sign the petition.

http://www.petitiononline.com/mod_perl/signed.cgi?BETUNCUT&1


Now, in honor of UnCut's last stand, just a few of the highlights - feel free to add your own:

"I wanna kick tonight, girl tell me what that thang smell like"

"P@**# popping on a handstand"

"I ain't got no panties on, ain't got no panties on, I ain't got no panties on, on the dance floor"

"Well it must be yo @$# 'cause it ain't yo face, You a tip Drill,You a Tip Drill"

"White Girls..."

Rest In Peace, UnCut.

R.I.P.

Music on My Mind

My heart still skips a beat when I hear real music.

And trust, I know it when I hear it.

I've been around long enough so I know when music is lying to me, when music is playing with me and when music is just trying to get a rise out of me. I also know when music is at its most vulnerable. At its purest. At its truest.

That's when I fall in love with it all over again.

Music and I had a special kind of relationship, one I wonder if I'll ever find again. We fit so perfectly together, it still amazes me to this day. Where I was shy, music made me bold. Music made me appreciate bodies in motion, dancers so lost in the rhythm that neither time nor place was of consequence to them. Music taught me to listen to my own beat - and when I couldn't hear it, I'd close my eyes and music showed me how it felt to be overcome by the percussion. Music showed me that my dance, my song, my rhythm and flow were all that counted and that I could indulge in them whenever I felt the urge. What cared I who saw? Music was there - and that was all that mattered.

When I was weak, I'd stretch myself on music's back, aligning my heartbeat to the sound of the drum. With each beat, I felt stronger. With each note, I felt I could go on.

But sometimes, music got weak. Then, it was my turn to offer support.

My family wasn't particularly rhythmic, but I did what I could to fortify music the only way I knew how. I strengthened music with heaping plates of Ray Charles, towering cups of Coltrane, hearty spoonfuls of Stevie and a small bowl of Jill Scott, for dessert. I never let music go hungry. No sir, not while I was around.

Notes renewed, I'd set music free. For the day, we'd live our seperate lives. A DJ in the Student Center or a radio in the dorm allowed us to brush paths regularly. Silently, I enjoyed music. I watched as music flowed across the room, bringing smiles to all in the path. I waited in anxious anticipation for music to come my way. Music turned to me, our gazes now locked. In one swoop, music would hoist me in the air with reckless abandon. Lost in music, everything around me ceased to exist. I could never hide the smile that now illuminated my face.

I smile because no matter what happens, I know no one will ever know music like I knew music. I smile because our relationship forever changed music and I. I smile because I'm one of the few who can say they know music for real. And with me, music knows there is no fronting.

I smile because even years removed from the way we used to be, music comes through as sweet and clear as moonlight through the pines.

I smile because I know music remembers. And so do I.

They Say It's Wonderful

I used to have a love affair with music. Until music broke my heart.

Music represented everything I admired in life: strength, intelligence, artistic ability, determination and so much more. Music was possibility, personified.

I was introduced to music in college. Each day, whatever I was doing, I took time to get lost in the rhythms music provided. I reveled in the dances music conjured from my usually timid frame. I would collapse into music's arms after a long day of studying.

I so loved the way music made me feel - I took to learning more. I'd spend hours upon hours listening to music speak to me, taking in the tales told and yearning to hear more. I spent most of my free time with music. If music would be there, so would I. Concert choir exhibitions. Gospel concert fundraisers. Talent shows. Even the impromptu showcase of notes in my Cavalier or in the confines of my apartment.

Music made me feel safe. Made me feel warm. Made me feel loved.

And in turn, I let music know me.

At night, I sang songs only music knew, in a chorus only music could understand. In turn, music helped me take the notes to a level I'd never known before. Music was my release, my refuge, my rock.

My friends noticed the change they said. Music, it was clear, made me unbelievably happy.

I thought I made music happy, too. I sang my heart out each time we met. I rebuffed the thought of picking up another instrument, seeking solice, instead in the notes to which I'd grown so accustomed. But then I found that just as I'd known music, others had, too. They talked about the notes they sang together, the concerts yet to come, and how, of course, they were meant to be with music forever.

I listened. I held my head high. I smiled.

From graduation on, my relationship with music changed. I tried to work through it, but the sense that someone, somewhere could be singing the same song as I didn't sit well with me. I wanted a song all my own. I deserved that.

So I silenced my notes and turned from music.

I've grown stronger now and I can see the day where I can once again enjoy music unabashedly, unashamed, completely engulfed in the feelings music evokes from me. Every so often, I think I'm strong enough to enjoy my passion once again.

I'll switch on the radio and land on a song that reminds me of the good times I shared with music. I get lost in the lyrics and let my hips sway to and fro with the beat. A sound of joy escapes my lips as I join music in a moment of revelry. For a moment, I remember the way music used to make me feel. For a moment, I yearn for that feeling once again. For a moment, my broken heart is whole again.

I switch off the radio, but still, the melody echoes in my ears.

Independent Woman

Each year, I ring in America's birthday in a new city.

In 2002, it was Memphis, then our nation's capitol in 2003. In 2004, I was on the promenade with my sister as I watched the fireworks explode over the Hudson River. Last year, I was on a Florida beach with three of the best friends a chick could have.

This year, I spent it gagging on clams.

Gotta love Rhode Island.

I'd ventured over to my girl Lyndsey's house for an Independence Day barbecue with her fam. As of then, the whole weekend had been pretty cool - despite the fact it was broken up with a day of work.

Saturday, Lynds and I went to Beavertail State Park, soaked up some sun, vamped for the camera and got well acquainted with some aquatic life. While we were at our local Brook's pharmacy, getting magazines for our excursion, I noticed the front page of our local newspaper in the racks. "Dual Declarations..." the headline teased, before continuing below the fold.

"That's my story," I exclaimed. I'd pitched the all editions story early Friday morning after I'd noticed a small rule that was being overlooked by two board of canvassar's offices in my area. Turns out we weren't the only ones skirting the rules.

By the time we got to the beach, I was on cloud 9. Not only was I on the front page, I'd just gotten a 99 cent foot-long sandwich from Subway thanks to a coupon that came in the mail. Saving money and getting good food always makes me happy.

The beach wasn't so much a beach, but a bunch of flat rocks which we baked on for a few hours.

Bliss, I tell ya. Bliss.

Then, we got ice cream at Friendly's, which automatically makes any day better.

Waterfire, a Providence tradition, was our next stop. There, we watched as people stretched out on public green space and drank wine and other spirits. Then we strolled along the waterfront and watched the city light up from the gentle glow of the flames in the water.

Very cool.

Sunday was church, then a FREE Indian dinner with some of my friends. We ventured to Thayer Street and hit up Kabob & Curry. The shrimp curry, lamb and all of their breads are divine, if you're ever around the way.

At the start of the workweek, I followed up on a deadly shooting from Sunday afternoon (which also landed A1, happy independence day to me).

Monday afternoon, I rolled out of bed (yes, I slept in) and headed to the barbecue at Lynds'. I picked up one of my co-workers and off we went to Smithfield. After some small talk with Mr. & Mrs., it was time to eat.

Lynds' mom was the tourguide to the food table.

"There's hamburgers and hotdogs over there," she said, motioning to the table. "Chicken and salads are here. Steamers are near the grill as are the lobsters, but they're for us," she said with a wink.

"Clams," I asked uneasily. "You eat clams at a barbecue?"

In Michigan, you'll find every part of the pig, as well as most of the cow on the grill, with some chicken thrown on for good measure, but clams? Nah, we're good.

"I think I'll pass," I said. "I've never had clams except for in clam chowder."

That sealed it.

"Oh, well then you HAVE to have some steamers, then," Mrs. said. "Lyndsey will show you how to eat them."

So after a chicken thigh, some pasta salad and pop, it was clam shucking time.

"Alright," Lyndsey started placing a clam in her hand. "You just take the shell off like this, hold it here, pull this piece of skin off, clean it up, drench it in some butter and eat it."

I heard her talking but it all sounded like mush to me. I looked to her, confused and scared.

"It's not hard," she said. "Just try it."

And I did. The first one went easy. I had a little trouble getting the skin off, but eventually cleaned it up enough to eat it. "Not bad," I thought as I chewed the tiny animal.

I reached into the bowl and pulled out another clam. All around me, everyone was shucking. I started thinking - this is a whole animal I'm holding in my hand. Liver, intestines, heart - all of it is in here.

"Don't think about it," Mrs. warned from the other end of the table. "Just peel it and eat it."

Easy for her to say.

I'd gotten the technique, so I cleaned the clam with ease, to some applause and cheers from the table. I sloshed the clam in the bowl of butter sitting in front of me, which, at Mrs. suggestion, had been seasoned with salt and pepper.

I took a deep breath and popped the critter in my mouth.

"Awwwkkk," I gagged. My body convulsed and my eyes clenched shut. As I bit down, some fluid gushed out of the clam and now a sandy mess was forming in my mouth. All I could think was that I'd punctured the clam's liver.

"Uh oh, she's got a bad one," someone joked as I bent beneath the table just in case I had to throw up. I reached for a napkin and wiped my tounge, discarding the rest of the seafood delicacy into the paper square.

"I think I'm done with clams," I said quietly, as I grabbed my bottle of water and took a sip. "I'll stick to clam chowder."