Grease...It ain't just a musical!

Here's what I think...I think black people are addicted to it. We put it on our plates, in our bodies, and on our hair. I live in the south now and everything down here is fried. But I'm also black so I'm used to things being fried so it's not much of a difference. I don't eat a lot of fried foods anymore, though I can remember growing up and having containers of used grease sitting on the stove--one for chicken and one for fish, and you better not use the fish grease to fry the chicken in! Someone down here asked me recently, if I'd had the pleasure of eating fried Oreo's. The thought alone makes my arteries harden. But as an adult I try to do more baking. That doesn't' mean I eat totally healthy, but hey, I try. Don't judge me!

So it's not enough to have everything we eat drip with clear, greasy goodness, which later congeals, hardens and turns into a white like substance that looks much like my hair conditioner, but we also have to slather it on our heads. Now, historically, I think I know why this happened. Mommy told me back in the day when she was a kid, this was basically the only way black hair was done. We do need a lot of hydration and conditioning on our hair cause without it, it becomes dry and breaks off. And black hair is different from other ethnic types. All the White, Asian, Native American, and etc. hair that I've seen have been fairly similar (with some exceptions but not many). So I'm not saying we don't need any, we can't run around like we have white girl hair, but if we stop loading it down with grease, we may be able to achieve that which all black women covet...white girl swing! That is what I call black hair that swings, and/or blows in the wind like white hair. And for years that was unattainable by us due to our long love affair, dare I say marriage, to hair grease. It's like we feel if our hair isn't completely covered in it like brylcream (which my grandfather still uses by the way) we haven't done our jobs.

Just like I don't eat a lot of grease, I don't need a lot of it in my hair. I don't like the phrase "good hair", as a matter of fact it pisses me off. I hate anything that pits black against black, but you can't have a comprehensive black hair discussion without it. I'll skip that for now unless someone reading this blog has no idea what that means, but since most of you following me are black, I'll assume you know. But my hair is like right in the middle I suppose. I can achieve white girl swing, but I also need a touch of grease. The problem arises when I go to the black hair salon for a hit of the creamy crack I've been addicted to since I was twelve (my mother started me cause she got tired of slaving over the thick brambles atop my head, and I was tired of her burning me with the hot comb/curling iron), cause without fail they slather on the grease. I just went to a new place today cause since I'm new to the area again, I need to find a place and this salon had coupons. Hair on a budget. Before I went in, I looked like Harriet Tubman and now I have the hair of a white girl who's into grunge and plaid shirts. All I wanted was to not look like I was running for freedom while going on job interviews and now my hair is so stringy from all the grease she slapped on, that I look like I used my head to sop up the BP oil spill.

I kinda knew this would happen, cause it always does. That's kinda why I started going to the dominicans. They know how to do all types of hair cause dominicans have all types of hair. I think it may have something to do with the African, Indian, and Spanish blood lines there...or something. At least that's what all the tour guides kept telling me when I went there two years ago. And, the number one seller, you don't spend all day in the damn shop and usually only have one or two people who touch your head. Black shops?...I think it's safe to say we all know that shit ain't true. You're there ALL damn day for a wash and blow dry, and twenty five people handle you...one to wash you, one to condition you, one to put you under the blow dryer, another one to wash you again, one to sit under the dryer again, and if you're lucky your stylist will blow it out and style you. Shear economics dictated that I go to the dominicans, I can't afford to tip all those damn folks, there's a recession people! When I leave the dominicans, I have what I like to call "Dominican Swing". That's white girl swing with attitude. My hair is soft, shiny, and healthy. Even if it's been four months since my last touch up, you can't tell when I leave there cause they get all the ends to lay down. Looks great (until I sweat, then I look like Tito Jackson). The only problem is they don't like to use any grease! I guess that would be ok if they didn't use so much heat. I think all their hairdryers are set on HOTTER THAN HELL. I've never felt heat like that before. Like all the heat from the Sahara, the Equator, and the gates of Hell combined to singe my scalp.

I just need a true hair technician who understands my hair type. I need more grease than a white girl, but less than the fry vat at McDonald's. The dominicans are closer to what I need, but not quite on the mark, yet. And the blacks assume if you have black hair that they should dump an entire jar of vaseline on your head and call it a day. It must all boil down to black people not knowing how to give up the grease, truly. Like when it comes to hair especially, trying something different is sacrilegious. We're gonna have to take baby steps I guess. I'm already there, but I gotta get my people to rise up and join me and say No to the Grease! It makes your hair heavy and your hips big. Let's get that slogan on the ballot next week and vote in some change! Till next time, lovers!

Today's Entertainment News...

I need someone to explain to me what the fascination is with Megan Fox. Cause clearly, I don't understand it. Allegedly, she's hot and sexy and all that jazz. To me she looks kinda gross. Fake big lips, pale white skin, weird looking face. Why is she the new "it" girl? I find her to be devoid of talent and looks. I guess because for black folks, full luscious lips are kinda standard so I'm not impressed. So are big asses...not that she has one, does she? I don't know. I watched that "horror movie" (and I use the term as loosely as I can) Jennifer's Body, and it was the stupidest thing I've seen since Showgirls. Watching her act is like having bad sex--you find yourself wondering when it'll be over, and fighting back the urge to fake a seizure to bring about it's end. She makes my eyes water in much the same fashion as Lady Gaga does.

I think what it is, truly, is that I'm not a fan of talentless acting. It makes my skin crawl and I just can't abide by it. I believe I addressed the issue in my last entertainment posting, but I can't help but comment on things like this when I come across pictures and/or postings online or in magazines about these people. Facebook had an ad for Ms. Fox, I'm sorry, Mrs. Brian Austin Green and one of my cousins clicked "like" for her, and I found my eyes rolling from side to side on their own. Maybe I'm missing something, or maybe I'm being too hard on Mrs. Green--but I doubt it.

I introduced my friend to one of my favorite tv shows The Tudors. Now it's not the most historically sound drama on television, fairly though because Michael Hirst (the writer of both Elizabeth movies--Elizabeth and Elizabeth: The Golden Age) is a stickler for that kinda stuff and it's beautifully dramatic and entertaining. We watched seasons 1 & 2 in two days, naturally I own the complete series but after awhile, I think she needed a break even though she told me she is totally in love and addicted to it. I coulda watched the whole thing without leaving the apartment. But I'm telling you this because after watching the show, we went to see the play Anne of the Thousand Days at a Shakespeare playhouse downtown. And it sucked. The thing was written sometime ago, like when my mom was a kid so the dialogue was dated, and it was thoroughly over acted. I mean there was a lot of breathing in exasperation, throwing up of hands, walking aimlessly around the stage for no reason, excited running around from person to person on stage, and just general hysterics. I hate that people feel this is normal when doing a period piece, particularly a Shakespearian period piece. It's so distracting. Now, even though the main chick, Anne Boleyn, is in no way, shape, or form, comparable to Megan Fox in the looks department (attractive to some is what I mean cause I don't find either one pretty), she was getting fairly similar reviews. Meaning she was lauded with praises of exceptional performances and whatnot. After the show, I bolted from the room. Couldn't get out fast enough. My friend asserted that we are Tudors snobs, and I thoroughly agree.

And I make no apologies for my snobbery. I earned my MFA in this area and that affords me the right to be snobbish when it comes to good acting. I hate that a pretty face is supposed to take away from talent. And since Lady Gaga's face is routinely hidden from view, it's hard to tell if she is indeed pretty. I venture to say NO. She's my favorite whipping girl because I find her to be a one woman suckfest of epic proportions. And Megan Fox as well. She's like vegan ice cream. What's the point? The acting equivalent of cardboard. I hope she does better in her role as Mrs. Green than she has in all of her movies combined. Time will tell on that one I guess, but I see her renegotiating that deal in a few years and flying solo soon after. That's all for now. Till next time, lovers!

Dear Mommy

I love you and I've missed you everyday since you left me. I realize now that there are still so many lessons I had left to learn from you. So many moments of value. Even now I still find myself needing to seek your advice or wanting to run something by you before I act. When I moved into my new apartment I still wanted you to see it. I find it so odd that you're not here to cover me under the cloak of your love and understanding. I told the folks at your funeral that you were the perfect mother for me and that's true. You understood the person I was from the moment I was born. You truly knew that your son and I were two disparate personalities and parented us appropriately, and that's something I took for granted. I thought everyone had a parent like that. But you were unique in that you parented with common sense and love and that's missing in parenting today. Everyone wants to be their child's friend. But our friendship was the result of you being my mother FIRST.

You were the best and the things you taught me are innumberable. But you also underestimated your worth to those around you which is something you passed along to both your children. I found myself wishing you could see all the people who turned out for your wake and funeral. That you could have felt all that love, but then again if you were there, none of that would have been necessary. You have been so loved and "L" and I still love you. I've always been proud to be your daughter and really wished with all my heart that I could be half the woman you were. In your youth, you lived your life your way and didn't let fear decide things for you as I have. I always loved that about you and wish I'd had more of that. I loved the fight in you. That's one thing that was always said about you...you'd never go down without a fight. Even in the end. You said to me that you didn't want anyone thinking you were a punk because you couldn't do anymore chemo, and I told you then I would never let anyone think that about you. And I never will. You were so brave in those final months, weeks, and days.

The night before you left was like any other night. I sat with you and watched you sleep for awhile and I started to leave around 11pm. I lotioned your hands, brushed your soft white hair, and kissed your forehead. Your eyes fluttered and then opened, and I said, "I'm leaving now Mom. I'll see you tomorrow," and you said, "Ok." Then I stroked your cheek and said, "I love you," and you closed your eyes and softly uttered, "I love you too." And those were the last words you ever spoke to me. And I'm so glad for that. I wonder if you heard me at all the next day and night as your body made its transition to the other side. Did you feel me crawl in the bed next to you and rest my head on your chest? Did you feel my lips touch your forehead, did you hear me tell you over and over again how much I love you and how much I need you? Could you feel my hand in yours as you drifted out of my world and into God's eternal embrace? Were you ok, were you calm as you left? I just wanted to make your journey as peaceful and fearless as I could for you. Did it work? As I remember your final moments this last day of your life, I hope wherever you are, that you can feel my love, our love, and know that I will never get over your loss. I hope to have other love and other joys in my life, but you are the love of my life. And if I failed to tell you that in life, I hope you know it and can feel it now. Mommy, my one true love...I miss you. Forever.

Mommy on my Mind

So it's October. And in nine days it will be the one year anniversary of my mother's death. I think that's why, clearly, I feel so emotional. My first night here in Atlanta, I was sleeping on Mortal Kombat's couch, and he was sleeping beside me on another couch. He told me the next morning that I was crying in my sleep and seemed to be very upset. I tried to play it off, but I knew what he was talking about. I was having some sort of nightmare. We'd fallen asleep watching some random movie streamed to his tv on his Netflix. I don't remember much, but I do remember this feeling of trying to connect with her. In my last grief counseling session last Wednesday, I told my counselor that the reason I feel so bothered when spiritual folk tell me that I carry her with me everywhere, and that she's all around me, is because I don't feel her. And that I haven't felt her presence ever. And she told me something very similar to what a friend told me. Basically that I may not be settled enough to receive her yet. That it may not be the right time. And what I thought about that was it wasn't the right time for her to go either. But that's selfish.

So with that fresh in my mind, I had this dream where it seemed like she was trying to reach out to me. I could almost see her in this dream state, and I could almost feel her. I just felt warm and I knew it was her. But before I could say anything to her or hear anything from her, the movie we were watching ripped me violently back to consciousness and she was gone. I tried to force myself back to sleep quickly and searched eagerly throughout the recesses of my mind for any trace of her. And that developed into another dream where I was in literal darkness, arms outstretched like a baby, grabbing hold of pieces of nothingness desperately trying to turn it into something. Trying to turn it into her. And every time I failed, I just cried out "No". And that's what he saw. He said it looked like I was struggling. I woke up with dry tear stains down my face, and at first I didn't know what was real and what was a dream. And I've been an emotional roller coaster since that day. Everything is much more heightened now as I approach the 15th. All this mess with the movers not bringing my stuff (which as I type this, I received a call from the driver saying he'll be there tomorrow Oct. 7th b/w 1-3pm...I'm not gonna hold my breath, but God willing it'll happen) is so much more than it would have been normally. And watching Mortal Kombat snuggle on his couch with a woman he claims isn't his girlfriend, but with behavior that to me and many other people seems to be clearly relationship stuff, it reminds me of the physical contact I've gone without for almost a year. I want a man to hold me while I sleep. Or hold me while I cry. To tell me that he knows it's not the same, but that he loves me and everything's gonna be ok.

This has been on my mind for the past several weeks...the past year. I had a miscarriage five years ago. Saying it out loud is still kinda unreal. I feel so removed from it at times, and then at others like now, it's more real than anything else in my life. Everyone around me is having babies--friends and family. And underneath my immense delight for their news is a weighted and incalculable grief. I want children but I have no husband. No boyfriend. And uncooperative hormone levels. Just as every woman wants her father to walk her down the aisle on her wedding day, she also wants her mother to help her pick out the gown, and hold her hand through all the days of her pregnancy. It's a symmetrical bond that is germaine only to women. How beautiful to look in your mother's eyes and know she's walked the same path you're walking right now. She knows what it's like to be in love with the life growing inside her and what that feels like and what it means, how the body changes. A friend of mine told me that when her son was born she didn't know she could love something so much, and she told her grandmother that. And her grandmother smiled at her and said, "That's how your mother feels about you", and she said she burst into tears. She said it blew her mind to know someone loved her that strongly and that it wasn't a feeling that was quantifiable. And that was mind blowing because now that she was a mother, she knew just how deeply she was loved by her own mother. And I remember being so touched when she shared that story with me, and I told Mommy and she looked at me and just said, "Of course".

As long as she was alive, my feelings of guilt about the miscarriage had taken their inevitable course, and hid themselves away deep in my subconscious. I know mentally that it wasn't my fault, but now that she's gone, I can't help but blame myself. She kept saying, even before she got sick, that she'd never be a grandmother. And sometimes she was joking cause my brother and I, both over thirty, weren't in serious relationships and neither of us seemed to be in a rush. But I'd always tell her she's being silly and that's not true. But she knew. And in the end she was right. She left this world without knowing the joy of seeing her children have life beyond their own. And she wanted to be a grandmother so much. She woulda been a great one. And it's a horrible feeling to know the one thing she wanted most, was the one thing I couldn't give her. And it wouldn't be so bad if either I never knew about the miscarriage, or if I'd never been pregnant. But knowing that there was life that began and then ended--knowing that the chance for her to get the thing she wanted was there is almost too much to find peace with.

I always thought she'd be there with me on that day. Even in my crazy fantasies when I was Mrs. Brad Pitt. I was thin, and beautiful, and rich, and successful with a good marriage and a baby on the way. Sometimes in the fantasy, I'd go into labor and I'd call Mommy from the car on the way to the hospital, and she'd hop the first flight outta Jersey to LA, even though she's afraid to fly, and I'd have a car waiting for her and it'd drive her straight to me. Other times, I'd call her a month before I was due and she'd spend all that time with me. Sometimes Brad was shooting on location and it'd just be me and Mommy in the hospital, and sometimes Brad would be home and drive all three of us to the hospital. As you can see, there were many permutations of this dream, but always the first face I wanted to see after my baby's was hers. And now, no matter what, that will never happen. And I hate thinking of my future now. Yes, there have been times in this past year where things have felt a little normal. But normal isn't normal. And I hate that.

Before I left Jersey, I went to the cemetery and stood over my mother's grave. They had just laid the headstone. It's a simple design, two hands praying, pink granite. It reads: Frances Louise Gonzalez Beloved Daughter and Mother December 8, 1947-October 15, 2009. It was the most powerful moment of my life. There I was staring down at the green grass as immaculate as someone's lawn, picturing her white and pink casket beneath my feet, holding her body forever. This vessel that brought forth my life in pain, this vessel that once wrapped its arms around me in comfort and love. This vessel that kissed me with its lips. This vessel that is now an empty shell, resting eternally beneath the dark earthen lawn of a picturesque cemetery. Mommy never felt comfortable going to the cemetery. Perhaps it's because there were so many people there that she knew--her brothers, her sister, grandparents, cousins, uncles, friends. So to leave her there is so painful. I feel like I failed her, and I know I did the best that I could, but that's never gonna feel like enough. She's my mother. And I want her back. It's that simple. And it's that complicated. And I know it can never be, but still, I just want her back.

My Little Cousin Nelson

So two weeks, or it coulda been last week honestly, I don't know my days and weeks are kinda running together now. But whenever it was, my younger cousin Nelson came to visit us while I was still in Jersey. Actually, he came with two of his friends to see a Yankee game and they flew into LaGuardia (it's a New York City airport some serious miles from us in suburban New Jersey) instead of the much more convenient Newark Airport. He was banking on me coming all the way out there to pick them up, but aside from the very real fact that I REFUSE to drive anywhere in the NYC area cause I HATE NYC drivers, I wasn't even there. My stepmother asked me to stay with my father for the week in Maryland, while she was away for a work conference. My grandfather is 86 yrs old and not comfortable enough to drive all the way out there, and my grandmother who's 80 yrs old (she'll be 81 in December) only drives as far as the local grocery store. So they were able to arrange for our pastor to drive out there and pick them up.

None of this is really the point but I wanted to give you some back story. After seeing the game, my cousin then picks up and goes down to Leesburg, VA leaving his friends at my grandparents house, not to return until Sunday night. Yes, you read that correctly. Why did he go all the way to Virginia for, you ask? Why else would a 29 yr old single man pick up and leave his friends on someone else's doorstep? MK (Mortal Kombat) calls it THE POWER OF THE PUSSY. I called it a booty call, both of which my cousin vehemently denied. But he did confess to me that he was going to see about a girl. I, naturally, rolled my eyes and scoffed with typical older cousin, single woman disdain. A "yeah right" if you will. Nelson and I have been close since our teens. He's only four years younger than me, and I've always wanted a younger sibling cause I was tired of my brother beating the shit outta me all the time. And Nelson didn't feel that he could talk to his older sister cause she was a bit too judgmental of his choices, he felt. His mother was my mother's younger sister (more back story for you).

So I listened to him, as I always listened to him and tried to guide him as best I could. I always felt close to him I suppose, because I know at times he felt like an outsider in his family, and I was constantly the black sheep in my house. So I saw myself in him and I wanted him to be ok cause if he was ok, than so was I. But he would always say and do stupid shit. Looking back, I guess he's kinda my exercise in parenting. You know the whole "you can lead a horse to water but you can't make the muthafucka drink" adage. Just love him, advise him, and let him do what he's gonna do and pray for the best. So I prepared myself for the inevitable dumbness that was about to spew forth from his immature lips, but I found myself pleasantly surprised instead.

Yes, he was indeed infatuated with a young woman he met at a friend's wedding two months ago, but for a dude who frequently used to refer to young women as "bitches" or some such nonsense, he spoke of her with such respect. In fact, I found myself marveling at his maturity. At how captivating he was as he detailed all the nuances of her that he felt spoke to him. At how she, just by being herself, was making him wanna be better. And I felt pride welling up inside of me for this young man who finally began to sound like he got it. And even if she's not "the one", even if it's not love, I was just impressed with the fact that his brain seemed to click. He was thinking about life, love, all manner of things the way an adult does. And I felt like a parent finally looking at her baby and realizing he's gonna be ok.

But while I rejoiced for him, I also felt a little touch of sadness. How I wished a man spoke of me with the same light in his eyes and excitement in his voice as Nelson did for this girl. And for a split second in my mind, while he was talking I zoned out, and pretended that these words coming from his mouth were meant for me, and in his place I put the faces of many men from my past that I wished with all my heart would have felt that way for me for real. And it felt like warm butter coating my skin. For a brief moment, I felt loved, and it felt good. Just a sensation of warmth radiated inside and out. And I want that, I just don't know how to get it. Nothing I do seems to be right or more to the point, nothing seems to be enough. I've never made a man feel that way about me. So I guess the fault is mine. But you know what's more ironic? Nelson told me about this girl, as he's told me about all the girls' in his life, in the hopes that I would give him some sort of advice. He looks up to me in that way, and I've never been sure why. I know nothing about relationships, clearly I'm terminally single. Yet, as we spoke, I found myself giving him solid, credible advice. And I found myself surprised that I was doing it, and surprised that he was listening, and surprised that it made sense. And it's like, how can you do this so well for him, and yet be so fucked up when you do it for yourself? Food for thought, huh?

Well, till next time lovers.

A Jumbled Mind

So many things are coursing through my brain at the moment, that I thought of just doing a stream of consciousness. Not sure how that would go but I'm kinda inclined to do it anyway. Aside from the fact that it might make the post exceedingly long. This was a writing exercise I used to do in class to jump start creativity--at least that's what the teacher claimed. I still have the journal from that class somewhere and it might be interesting to read back through those entries and see what was on my mind back then.

I moved to Atlanta last week and despite all of my excitement going into this new and much needed chapter of my life, I feel so isolated. I think it's cause the moving company I used is holding my shit hostage; so I've been here since last Friday, but my stuff has yet to make it. And every time I call to check the status I get the same shit about the driver has left and will call me a day before he arrives, he'll call as soon as he gets closer. Now, I made it from Jersey to Atlanta in THREE days, that was me taking my time. I stopped at my Dad's in Maryland, and then was gonna go onto to Charlotte and spend the night with my cousin, but the weather wasn't as cooperative as I'd like and rather than drive through a tornado that was hammering the Carolinas, I stayed another night with my father and then drove 10 hrs straight from his house to my friend's apartment in Atlanta on Friday. I signed my lease and picked up some incidentals for the apartment (garbage can, toaster, toilet paper, etc.) and was all set to have my items arrive the next day. I have things I need to do, like contact possible employers and start that whole thing, however, I can't do things like that until I am SETTLED. I can't get settled until I have my own space set up to my liking, which can't happen until they deliver my shit. My friend, yall know him as Mortal Kombat, has been cool with this situation. He was gonna help move me in but alas, yall know what happened there. So he told me though this situation sucks ass, that I could stay at his place for as long as I need and it'll never bother him. He even got a key made for me so I could come and go as I please. So for the first few days, that was awesome. I was so touched by his generosity and it sustained me. But now, several days in, I just want my shit. I'm feeling so utterly displaced, and as Mommy's anniversary (I hate terming it that way cause it's not something in my mind that's celebratory) approaches next Friday, I'm truly a jumble of thoughts and emotions.

So that's it. Till next time, lovers.