All black everything

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 19:30:09 GMT

Click and read. It pays me and plus I can write better than a monkey with a mac. Mostly.

Also, academia has made creative writing a non sequiter for me of late -- see, i say things like that! with NO sense of irony, damn shame -- but I was recently challenged to write a version of Woolf's "A Room Of Her Own". The great feminist manifesto. Of course, I suck as a feminist but it was for prize money. Being a whore is one of the reasons why I'm not a great feminist. So I wrote it. And won. That's gas money!

See a theme?

I'm broke.

I come from greatness but that matters little to the rotten cess pool of week old beans and cured pork meat clogging the toilet.

My husband has a college degree. I know this because every month I search about the mail and fast food wrappers in the floor boards of his Chevy for the student loan payment coupon that seems to never make it into the box labeled “bills” that sits just inside the front door. Were it not for the $489.62 payment to Chase Bank every month I would question the man’s intelligence. As it stands I question only his upbringing and ownership of opposable thumbs.

We have a garbage disposal. This is important to note. I know we have a garbage disposal because every two weeks I cut up a lemon and drop it down the chute at Martha Stewart’s insistence that the thing that eats waste should never stink of waste. This is what America has come to: disguising the very nature of every thing lest someone ever be offended by its existence. It is no matter that its existence is functional and needed and serves a useful purpose. No, we that do the thing we are created to do must never insult the delicate sensibilities of others.

I sympathize with the garbage disposal.

My husband must sympathize as well. That or he hates the toilet. Or, he hates me having full use of the bathroom I barred him from six months into our marriage when globs of unidentifiable substances continued to gather on every surface. I cannot live with things that have no identity. How can I be expected to sleep peacefully knowing there are strangers breeding in the crevices of my own home? He never understood my unease. He sleeps no matter what grows where.

Anyway, this could well be retaliation for his banishment to the guest bath that I would never allow a guest to use. I close the door and pretend that our home lost 20 square feet in the recession. It is dead to me, that bathroom.

Although at second thought planned retaliation seems too complicated a task for a man who once left a week’s worth of household garbage to rot in the trunk of his car. This, even after the stench became so bad that he drove with his head hanging out of the window like one of those stupid little hairy dogs. No he is not the type to plan ahead. That is why I manage all of the household accounts. And I am terrible with money. I dreamt, once, of a rich man who would give me a very generous monthly allowance and indulge my “story writing” like those men in the Doris Day movies my mother always watched. I could stand to be indulged. Damn all this equality shit to hell. Equality is the reason why men like my husband are perfectly happy turning over not only their wallets but their lives to women who do not have the courage to kill them in their sleep. Not that I would, but also not like I have not dreamt of ways to do it. Cleanly.

No, the attack on the toilet was undoubtedly a spontaneous act of hubris and stupidity. It is his specialty. When we were dating it made him seem boyish. Why on dear earth is a resemblance to a child considered an attractive trait by adult women is beyond me. But, I was one of those women. I thought I could live with boyish. I thought, too, that I could live with snoring and underwear on the coffee table and downloaded porn on my laptop. I thought the extra security from having a partner and extra income were worth it.

I am nothing if not practical. Two is better than one! There’s a whole industry of needlepoints that promise it is so. Old wives’ tales are, presumably, the wisdom of women who mastered the art of wiving. If I cannot trust them, who can I trust?

So, I married thinking of the second bedroom a second income could make possible. I would finally buy one of those huge chair and a halves for my ass and a half. I would dress the room in drapes of nubby fabrics, chenille throws and brightly colored pillows. I would retreat there with cups of steaming tea and fuzzy socks and I would think. Relieved of the stress of managing a life all on my own, I would have time to daydream and create and think. Unlike other wives I would not envy my husband his tee times or his night out with the boys. I would have a room steeped in peace and cinnamon tea.

That was the deal.

Only I underestimated that a husband would bring his own life, his own stuff in need of a room. Or, that sometimes his checks would barely cover the additional bills he seemed to also bring. There was him locking his keys in the car and me leaving my room to bring him the spare set. Or, he would get far too drunk with the guys and I would be the first person called. I am the wife, after all.

Between managing the student loan payments, the removal of rotted trash from car upholstery and all the other assorted tasks my room never seemed to come together.

I bought the curtains but I cannot reach to hang them and I did not marry a handyman.

The chenille rug found its way to the dog’s bed before I ever got a cool enough day to use it.

Then XBOX 360s and large shoes appeared in the corner reserved for my daydreaming. And football gear from the JV championship of ’96 when Dunbar High School almost won State blocked my window view.

And so it was in every room. There was stuff I did not recognize and stuff that only I seemed capable of handling.

Like the toilet. I made beans with smoked ham hocks because they remind me of my grandmother and sometimes I have a hankering to be a wife. I cleaned and shelled the beans; seeped the cured meat and let it all come together slowly in a huge pot. I invited my husband to partake after he finished his video game tournament. With his promise to store the food once he was done I fell into the bed intent on going to sleep first for once.

The next morning the beans were where I’d left them on the stove. And so they were the day after that. Each day for a week I came home from work and stared at that pot of beans, intent on not touching them. Those beans became my Little Bighorn! I do not know what they meant to him, and I did not ask.

The smell of days old beans began to seep into every corner of our home. There was no room where the beans did not find me. I laid awake in bed and thought of them. I woke up and my first deep breath reminded me of them. I opened windows and glared at his big head and wished them both gone.

It has been a week and the beans, he decided, had to go.

He hefted the large crockpot, spoon and all, and walked past the garbage disposal, two trash cans and the back door to the bathroom. My bathroom. And he emptied it all into the toilet and flushed.

And that’s where any dream of chenille blankets and chapbooks died – at the foot of that toilet. As beans and bits of bone and flesh overflowed and saturated floor mats and rugs, I knew there was nothing left of who I was. Famous descendants of great writers do not clean toilets or beans from rubber mats. They do not scrape remnants of unidentified blobs of goo from beneath their nails or rummage through trash for the right to be the responsible one. They do not hide in the car after a long day at work praying that the crockpot and the smell will be gone when they open the front door to a home where they live but never rest.

Famous descendants of great writers live up to their birthright. They follow sunbeams across wooden floors and chase raindrops across window sills. They sip tea and let ideas lead them to new realities. They scribble and, gotdamnit, they write.

I scrub toilets overflowing with beans I cleaned and soaked and slow cooked.

No amount of lemon can cover up the function of what I am, and no amount of pretending will change what I am not.

Type your cut contents here.

The editor went on and on about the beans representing her creative capital and i'm thinking "lady it was about beans' but whatever. LOL this is why i don't trust english majors.

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 17:53:55 GMT

I just had to change my LJ password because all of sudden the one that's cached and that I KNOW is right didn't work? No email. Should I be worried?

It would only be one of two jackasses who stalk me -- you know who they are -- but damn.

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 23:17:25 GMT

I have noticed a trend in the applyingtograd community. Those applying for MFAs in creative writing have the worst statements of purpose. What is that about?

curly haired debarge jesus does NOT approve!!!!

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 16:35:39 GMT

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 03:14:13 GMT

Please let me tell you that one of my sorors is a stock car race driver!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I love it. Ursula was always a badass.

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 22:03:09 GMT

New rule: when I realize that people just want someone to tell them what they want to hear? I'm going to stop engaging. What a time-saver, no?

Today's meditation

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 20:10:51 GMT

I was going to bitch but there's no point. It'sover, you don't care, I don't care to care so, whatever.

Today's meditation:

The card represents the critical factor for the issue at hand. Eleggua (Six of Discs): A time of prosperity and profit. Success and generosity in material things. Power and influence turned to noble pursuits. Philanthropy, and the balancing of physical and spiritual life. May suggest gifts or aid to one in need.

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 06:41:28 GMT

i am alone, in my apartment after getting management to let me in because i have no keys, no money and no stories of grand fun.

is it just me? oh, really?

hmph. strange.

/snark

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 02:32:37 GMT

Must get a Subtle Sexuality icon!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1 LOL

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 01:28:45 GMT

so every time i have a certain thought i get on my gazelle and work out for 20 min minimum.

i'm trying to rewire myself.

i just did that and i'll be damned if my pms isn't more bearable.

people have always said exercise helps.

i hate it when people are right and i'm not people.

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 16:10:38 GMT

Maybe I'm in the minority, but I think about EVERYTHING. And by "think" I mean obsess.

So, when I hear tell of someone who can't answer a question about who they are or why they are doing what they are doing -- even if it's a bad reason, just to be aware of it -- I look at them like the last dude who was wearing his Cross Colours outfit, way past it's expiration date.

Speaking of the 90s or the 80s -- not really but look back, there's a mental thread lol -- I have seen TWO throw back 'dos this week! Apparently the gumby and the box? On the comeback trail. The gumby was complete with Kwame dye job!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I ain't ready. Unless this means I get to resurrect my Shiela E dreams? Hmmmmmmm....

Find love by finding your tribe

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 05:56:34 GMT

Value thyself.
The single women I know are frequently advised, "Stop being so picky," "Have a better attitude," and "Lower your standards," perhaps to the point where they'll date anyone with a penis and a pulse. I believe this is precisely the wrong approach. Why? Consider our statistical friend, the bell curve. The great bulge in the middle represents areas where you are, well, average. This is also the part of you that could easily be mixed and matched with the largest number of potential mates. The skinnier upper end represents your greatest gifts, the areas where you are most talented and extraordinary. The few people who share your most exceptional characteristics are your tribe, the population that is most likely to contain your heart's partner.

I suggest that you should be pickier, less accepting and more committed to the "bad attitude" that will make you seek people who are extraordinary in the same way you are. Be courteous to men who don't appeal to you, but for God's sake, don't waste your evenings—let alone your nights—with them. "Oh," conventional rule-keepers might exclaim, "you'll have to spend some nights alone!" Yes, indeed. Your pool of candidates is much smaller at the high-quality end of the bell curve, your chances of having no date on Saturday much larger if you refuse to go out with men who bore or repulse you. But if memory serves, the boredom and/or repulsion of bad dating is much worse than spending a few hours on your own.

http://www.oprah.com/article/omagazine/column/omag_200306_beck/2

411 ho

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 20:54:23 GMT

I love information.

I am just old enough that I didn't grow up with the internet. I worked the hell out of a card catalogue and dewey decimal system though! But I cannot imagine what I would have been or what I would have achieved had I had all this information at my finger tips. As it is some nights I know I'm tired and have to get up in the morning and yet here I am just pulling random questions out my ass to look up online.

I have a few requirements in life. If you're over 21 you should have some too, by the way. I will not sleep anywhere hot. I will not use rough toilet tissue. I will not wear shoes that hurt my feet. And I will not be without access to the superinformation highway (do we still use that?) for longer than a few hours. Just won't. I yam what I yam.

I mention this because I realized something today. My mentor, the genius? If I send him an email of just updates on a project? nothing. Let me send him, like I did today, an article on race and sports and a request for local francophones for a possible job opening? And I get INSTANT response. I laughed to myself and thought "he's not just a citation ho, he's an info ho."

And then I realized I was talking bout my own self. LOL

Few things in life make me as happy as passing along information to someone just when they need it. It's why I have a "sister doctors" email filter or why some of you get messages about jobs, fellowships and grants from me all. the. time.

I love doing it. To think that someone's life is a little better because I shared this great thing I heard, read, discovered? Makes me sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo happy. I mean really super duper happy.

I once thought that my ultimate job would be to scan all the news and cool stuff going on and create some kind of software system that would connect the people I know and the people they know so I could instantly shoot off emails tailored to their interests when I came across something.

I want to be a connector! A conduit? A know it all? LOL But, not really that last one. :( I'm sad if people think that's my aim. I don't know nothing about what I'm usually sending but that I thought of you when I read it.

Ah well.

Another "she so crazy" moment.

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 01:32:19 GMT

i wrote it but it's too ugly to share.

i am about to fucking screammmmmmmmmmmmm!!!!!!

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 23:17:33 GMT

I'm going to go get some jerk chicken and some more wine and/or vodka and then I'm coming back and writing the post to end all posts.

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 01:34:49 GMT

Watching "The Bucket List" and Morgan Freeman's character is talking about his first such list when he was a young man. On it he had things like "make a million dollars and see the first black president...you know, a young man's fantasies."

:D

LOL

Love that.

channeling Wendy Williams

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 21:01:31 GMT

Well, hello, Raven Symone...how you doin'?!

Writer's Block: Seeing stars

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 15:21:55 GMT

Which character from any film, television show, or book would you most like to take on a date and why?

Submitted By blue_mariposa88

View 2245 Answers

If by "date" you mean a weekend in the Hamptons sharing gluten free pancakes, sangria and orgasms? Warrick from CSI. Hands down.

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 19:51:58 GMT

i think i can i think i can i think i can i think i can i think i can i think i can i think i can

Fri, 23 Oct 2009 17:58:55 GMT

So I'm just going to keep my stuff to myself. That is best because really it is about me. So, bye.

And thanks to siro_gravity. Really thanks.

Norma Kamali at Wal Mart

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 02:34:10 GMT

This is mostly for Tracie but I thought some of my other budget fashionistas with too much brains to be overly concerned with fashion but too much style not to care somewhat would also enjoy.

I wandered into Wal mart tonight and met the NK line at Wal Mart. I'm talking organic cotton, cool shapes, great colors, and prices that'll make you slap somebody! uh oh! Tarjay better watch it. Speaking of Tarjay...wait, that's another post.

Anyway, e-girl shopping time commences!

nothing here? is more than $22!!!

Come on now! too cute.

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 03:32:37 GMT

ON one of my grad school forums the white people are gathering round the maypole to bay at the moon in protest of so-called "diversity" statements. These statements, supposedly, give minorities and women the upperhand because we get to talk about stank ol' racism and sexism. What's a white man to do?! He ain't got none of that. *commence to hand wringing* Why, it's not like he's a person with individual motivations or life experiences. No sirree. He's just white, from Whitesville, USA. He was raised on white bread and white rice. He doesn't use hot sauce and he votes against goya in grocery stores.

How is he expected to talk about how his "background and life experiences, including cultural, geographical, financial, educational or other opportunities or challenges, motivated your decision to pursue a graduate degree at the University X"?

And yes, that's the big bad "diversity" statement. It asks you talk about - gasp! - your fucking self! The motherfucker you're supposed to know better than anyone!!!!!!! OMFG

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 01:04:22 GMT

So, affairs with professors?

yay or nay?

lol

NO mixeded raced babies in my jurisdiction!

Fri, 16 Oct 2009 15:39:12 GMT

Dear White people,

You know I love some of y'all but if I am going to have to apologize for OJ Simpson the rest of my life? Then you are going to have to go get your boy down in La. Beyond the fact that I double checked and it is, indeed, not 1859 I am doubly insulted by his belief that you have to be married to have babies.

And don't get me started on "mixed race" babies. Unless it's a human and a pug? All the same race asshole.

Sincerely,
T.