Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby! The Night My Little Tadpole Stopped Being Little
Posted by: Lisa on: January 14, 2010
Seventeen years ago I gave birth to a tadpole (see tadpole photo to the left). No, not literally a tadpole, that’s the nickname I gave my younger son. He was all arms and legs and hair, with big, bright eyes and strong as an ox. I predicted he would be tall and those bright eyes would be his best feature. I was right on both accounts, but I failed to predict the day when my little tadpole would come to me for a candid discussion about sex.
The tadpole is now a frog and wants to play intimate leap frog games.
It was a miracle this discussion even occurred, honest injun’. My tadpole has said repeatedly in the past that he didn’t feel comfortable talking about THOSE type of things with me. I’m like…dude, your dad ain’t around so get over it. Yet, my tadpole was reluctant to share. However, I did manage to occasionally slip in some pearls of wisdom against his will such as, “I’m not ready to be a grandma, so if you need condoms, ask!” and “watch these little girls out here because they’re liable to give you something you can’t get rid of!” and “don’t ever go into a girl’s house when her parents ain’t home, you’re begging for trouble!” Yes, of course we’ve had the birds and bees talk, my ex-husband did that at my coaching when my son turned eleven. Explaining how body parts fit and that if sperm reaches egg a baby results is only half of what young adults should know.
It’s a scary world today, people. I know I’m showing my age but I didn’t have to worry about AIDS during high school because only adults got that. The only pregnant teenager I knew had married her boyfriend before she got knocked up. Bisexuality? What’s that? Perhaps it sounds as though I led a sheltered life but that’s the world I lived in growing up. Now teens can get AIDS, schools have LGBT clubs, sex is a sport for the “friends with benefits” crowd and oral sex, not kissing, is a closet game.
So when my son came to me one night and made a confession that he and his girlfriend wanted to “get busy,” inwardly I cringed. I’m no prude to teen sex, would be totally naive to think this day would never come since I met “da wifey” (the pet name for his girlfriend), but I’m looking at my little tadpole and I thinking, “my tadpole’s a horny toad!” Now, keep in mind my son is not a virgin; this ain’t his first go-a-round at the ole sex rodeo. I had to be grateful for small favors, though, that he came to talk to me about it rather than going ahead and doing what he wanted. For fear of scaring him off from coming to me in the future, I eased into the conversation with a “why do you two want to have sex?” and then from there asked about birth control, brought up worst case scenarios, gave him a brief overview of my missteps in the sexual arena as an impetuous youth…all in all played devil’s advocate. I didn’t give my consent, nor did I say no, for God sake, don’t do it. I basically gave him some things to chew on and hoped, neigh, PRAYED my words hit their target.
Is the battle to keep my son out of some girl’s bed before he’s achieved his goals over? Not by a long shot. The battle is ongoing and will be long-fought; the exposure to sex for today’s youth is growing more and more outrageous. My homeboy from high school, who is a parent of the same mind, hipped me to the “rainbow game” and no, it’s nothing remotely similar to Shoots and Ladders. Apparently, a boy child goes into a dark closet and various girl children with different shades of lip gloss enter the closet to give this boy child oral sex, thus creating a “rainbow” of lip gloss on his member. Are you horrified? I sure as hell was and that’s when I knew I had crossed over from a cool young chick to some old broad that runs around saying, “when I was a young girl, we didn’t…” And with the swift advances in telecommunications, us parents have to deal with “sexting” (have phone sex through texting), sending x-rated material of a whole host of sexual acts through cell phones in photograph AND video form…stuff I never knew about until I got OUT of the Navy.
What’s the solution, people? Lock our children in the basement with bread and water until they turn 18? Ask Steve Jobs to devise a unique chastity belt with a computerized time lock ? Get a license to carry a shotgun in states that require it? No, I say! If you don’t have a teenager in your household let me tell you, the more you push the more they oppose. My house is a friggin’ physics lesson in what happens when oppositional forces collide. I can honestly say I don’t have a bonafide solution to this problem, only tell you to confront your children about what they know about sex. Be bold, be brazen. Set aside how you were raised and come to the realization that you can’t be shy about this stuff because if your children don’t get this information from you (a reliable source), they’ll go to their friends (an unreliable source). It’s fine that they learn the mechanics of sex but that’s simply not enough these days. Tell them of your experiences, tell them how you wish you did things differently, tell them there are other ways to express feelings of love.
Let me be clear I am NOT preaching abstinence and I triple-dog dare you to say I am. What I’m saying is to teach your children about relationships, how sex changes things, how one false move can change your life and all your goals will be a dream deferred when a baby comes in the mix before your mature enough to handle it. Maybe they’ll listen to you, maybe they won’t, but consider the fact that regardless, you’re arming your child with important knowledge. You’re setting the stage for open sex communication, and in doing so you’re passing the torch of such communication to your children for them to use with their children and down through the generations.
Good customer service, where for art thou?
Posted by: Lisa on: January 13, 2010
Photo by Corrie Pizzoni
I’ve had the most horrific experiences on the phone with various companies and state agencies so far this week, and I’m none too optimistic it’ll get better.
My mother and I discuss this all the time. We lament over cups of perfectly-strained tea how human customer service reps just don’t give a flying crap about serving you and the companies they work for encourage this attitude. And let’s not get into these non-human customer service reps with their “press or say one” nonsense… do companies really think, when I need assistance, that a recording is going to magically solve my issue?
Let me stop right here and give you some back story so you can understand where this tantrum is coming from.
The State of Connecticut, specifically the Dept. of Labor (DOL), saw fit to delay my benefits three weeks running. Like an idiot I was hoping to receive SOMETHING in the mail letting me know the issue. Reaching a humanoid is an absolute nightmare. The only chance you have to talk to someone is at 7:30 am and the unemployed masses know this and attack the phone line at the stroke of 7:30. I spent three days trying to reach a live person only to get a message stating, “due to high traffic volume, customer service representatives are busy serving other customers. Please try your call again later.” CLICK! No option to hold, which I would be willing to do because money is on the line. And they know this, people!
On the third day, something amazing happened with DOL and I firmly believe Directv indirectly affected that amazing outcome. Yes, the satelitte company! For a week prior my HD receiver was giving me error messages I chose to ignore until the receiver finally bit the dust. I woke up early (which goes against my religion) to try DOL and when I couldn’t get through, I figured I’d kill time and call Directv. I pressed “one” for this, pressed “two” for that and lo and behold, I got a person! And a pleasant and courtesous person at that. She stayed on the line, troubleshooted the problem, didn’t pass me to another department and resolved the issue in ten minutes flat. I made a second phone call that evening for a different issue and again, resolved in 10 minutes flat by Bobby, a cheerful woman with a positive disposition. I even heard laughing in the background.
Those who have ever dealt with a telecommunications company, for example…COMCAST, knows this is a miracle. Buoyed by the experience with Directv, I called DOL and got a person on the first try who referred me to the right division to give me the info needed. Eureka!
Yes, I know what you’re thinking, one has nothing to do with the other. But I’d like to think Directv sent out a positive customer service vibe that affected my next phone call for assistance. Unfortunately, that vibe didn’t extend to my auto finance company, CitiFinancial Auto, the commercial lending arm of Citigroup.
For the first phone call to the company recently to resolve an issue, I was on hold for an hour before reaching a person. The representative gave me her direct extension to call back, only to encounter her voice mail and didn’t receive a return call even though I left four messages.
The second phone call: 1 hour 30 minutes on hold. I was told a document needed to be faxed to me but they needed info from a third party before they could fax it. When I asked if they could call the third party I was told no, they had to email and it could take up to 24 hours for a response. When I questioned this procedure, the representative flipped out on me, accused me of using bad language (luckily I have a witness who’ll swear I didn’t) and passed me off to her manager. The manager’s attitude was, “sorry, can’t help ya, it is what it is” and dismissed it as company policy. I asked for a copy of this alleged policy and I was refused and told I would need a lawyer if I wanted a copy. Side note: I called the third party and was given the required info with minimum fuss. Interestingly, the person told me that CitiFinancial does not consistently follow their own policy.
Third phone call: 1 hour 50 minutes on hold. This representative attempted to fax to my cell phone number.
Fourth phone call: two hours. This representative, when I tried to explain I had been on hold for 2 hours and wanted to end this issue today, repeatedly interrupted me, launched into a PMS tantrum and accused me of being rude, and promptly put me back on hold to avoid me. When she returned, she told me the person who was working on the document was away from her desk and the document would have to be redone. I asked if she could redo it and she basically told me it wasn’t her job, only the other person could do it, and that she couldn’t jam her line with my phone call when I willingly agreed to be on hold until the person returned. End result: attempts were made, to my cell phone twice and the number I gave. Ironically, I didn’t receive the letter because my regular line kept forwarding to my voice mail. I didn’t have the patience or energy to call again.
Let’s tally it up, shall we? In the space of three business days, I was put on hold for a total of six hours 20 minutes, spoke to four different representatives for a combination of an hour and got absolutely nowhere.
Now let me say this about that. I was a customer service rep for a sporting goods company and also did it as part of my various positions as an admin asst. NEVER did I treat any of my customers the way Citifinancial treated me. If another rep was handling the issue and was occupied, I’d try to resolve it, not ignore the person by transferring them to voice mail. We always returned a customer’s call and never did a customer have to go over our head to resolve an issue because we solved it. If we said sorry for their inconvenience, we damn well meant it; empathy, not fake sympathy was the key. I even had customers request me because they knew I knew my stuff and I cared. Well, now that I think about it, I did get more requests from men…mostly because my voice sounds sexy when I’m charming and that tends to sell more products but that’s besides the point!
By the grace of God those reps have jobs in this fractured economy. I have two degrees and the most I can get right now is a part time teaching gig. Rather than go the extra step to assist, they hide behind company policy and with a lack of emotion, they spit out apologies with undertones of “it’s not my problem” like company automatons. At any moment their jobs could be outsourced to India for probably half the pay and twice the respect to the customer because they wouldn’t take their job for granted.
Since I’m committed to the whole dharma/karma thing, I would never wish on a person my current difficulties but in this case, I’ll make an exception. A pox on all four customer service reps and their raggedy manager! May they get unpluckable chin hair and wicked early menopause that leaves them looking like Joan Rivers after her third face lift (no, I don’t have a beard nor am I going through menopause. I meant the unemployment part).
I’m angry as hell, people and if you’ve experiened a fraction of what I’ve just described, you should be, too. So if you’ve got a blog, write about your horrible customer service experience. Name names, detail every nonchalant word said. Like the debtor’s revolt that’s in full force, let’s start a bad customer service revolt! Say it out loud: I’m mad as hell and your customer service sucks! I wish Citifinancial would take a crash course in customer service from Directv.
Rebirth, renewal, and all that jazz
Posted by: Lisa on: January 1, 2010
- In: Humor
- 3 Comments
Dear Readers,
Yes, it’s been a while, but believe me when I say I haven’t forgotten you. I’ve just been a busy beaver…errr, bee, a busy bee and to be honest, I couldn’t narrow down exactly what I wanted to write about.
Now that we’re in a new year I wanna scream from the rooftops, “Welcome 2010! I’ve been waitin’ 12 months for you.” As you can tell, I’ve changed the layout of this blog to reflect my eagerness to start anew. We should be very grateful to all those ancient people who got together in skimpy togas and pre-birkenstock sandals and mandated that the world should follow a Julian calendar with months and years and all that junk. Way to go, Julius Caesar! Without those dusty dudes, we would never be able to put the bad stuff behind us and think of January 1 as a fresh start.
With that said, I’m going to list ten things I’m grateful for. I challenge you to come up with ten of your own.
1. I’m grateful I only have to pluck three hairs from my chin on a regular basis. A goatee is not becoming on a lady such as myself.
2. I’m grateful my genetic code only allows me 15 (or so) grey hairs at this point of my adult growth.
3. I’m grateful my boobs don’t graze the floor…yet. I’m also grateful my ass doesn’t graze the floor…much.
4. I’m grateful my younger son is not in lock up for probation violation, and that I haven’t turned into Joan Crawford and beaten his ass with wire hangers even though I feel it would benefit him immensely. Which leads me to No. 5.
5. I’m grateful Department of Children and Families hasn’t sent a social worker to ask about those wire hangers.
6. I’m grateful that I’m not the LEAST bit bitter over being laid off by the state, that I don’t qualify for any kind of public assistance or reduced lunch for my son because of my part time income, that my little trips to Bath & Body Works, NY & Co. and Swarvoski are on hiatus….okay, screw this, you suck CT! Do you hear me? YOU SUUUUCK! Burn in hell!
7. I’m grateful that I am now mature enough to use my extensive vocabulary when talking to my mother instead of cussin’ at her, and have adopted such useful phrases as, “never mind,” “drop it,” “okay, I got you the first time” and my favorite, “I gotta go, someone’s at the door” to avoid an arguement.
8. I’m grateful that the extra income I did manage to earn in 2009 went towards my son’s college education, a tattoo, a trip to Vegas and a male stripper named, “Mr. Big Stuff.”
9. I’m grateful that turning 40 has given me the strength and maturity to set aside my animosity towards my ex-husband and move forward, and that my urge to bludgeon him with a heavy, blunt object and toss his limp body in the CT River when I see him has now decreased from 100% to 75%.
AND…
10. Most of all, I’m grateful for the friends I have made, the people I have met and the love and respect that has surrounded and comforted me through the difficult times in 2009. I’m more secure and ready to face whatever awaits me in 2010. Stay by my side for the ride, my friends and I will stay by yours for life.
Well, there you have it, ten things I’m grateful for. Before I wrap up this post, let me make a shameless plug for my debut short story collection, The Things Your Eyes Have Seen, which is available for purchase on Lulu.com, E-Bay or direct from me. I also launched a new Web site that incorporates everything I do www.lisamichele.info. Towards mid-January it’ll be available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and brick-and-mortar bookstores!
So, what are you grateful for?
Once upon a time I went to the bookstore…
Posted by: Lisa on: December 1, 2009
- In: Writing
- 3 Comments
I had a rude awakening recently.
In an attempt to do some research for a book idea I had, my good friend in Indiana suggested a collection of shorts by Agatha Christie that I’ve never heard of. In retrospect, I should’ve gone online to buy it, but I wanted to re-live my teen years when I used to go to B. Dalton as soon as I got a little money in my pocket and run the aisles like a lunatic.
I found my book within the first five minutes of entry, so I decided to wander around with the hopes I could be tempted to buy another. Peeking around corners and looking at overhead signs I stumbled upon the “African American Literature” section of the store. I was a bit confused at first…I could see Toni Morrison’s Beloved but the books surrounding it had such titles as More Drama in the Church and Nasty by the noted author Dr. XyZ (I’m not making that name up, that was the pseudonym the book was published under). My eyes darted up and down and I couldn’t easily spot a James Baldwin or a Richard Wright…hell, I couldn’t even see a Malcolm X anywhere. Just endless titles with covers of black women posed with attitude in skimpy attire or black men tatted up looking thuggish, strategically placed next to Beloved and I became incensed.
Let me just say that when I visited this bookstore months prior, this kind of literature had its own section titled “Urban Literature” and I didn’t have a problem with that. It is what it is, ya know? But to dwarf such books by Zora Neale Hurston and Langston Hughes with titles like T.H.U.G. L.I.F.E.? (which, a fellow alumna recently pointed out to me, came from rapper Tupac Shakur; an acronym for “The Hate U Give Little Infants F***s Everyone“) Oh no…I can’t hang with that. Yes, sounds like my problem is with the bookstore, but it goes much deeper than that.
I’m about to get borderline offensive regarding this “urban literature” so hold on to your hat.
There are many who rally against this kind of literature, yet there are some that find value in it and mention such pioneer authors like Chester Himes of the “Gravedigger Jones” series who wrote and sold shorts about life on the streets from his jail cell. It has been argued that society needs a clear picture of the other side of the fence, the rotten side that’s filled with the have-nots and these types of books fit the bill. Let me ask you a question: is it a secret that ghettos are filled with Black people ho’in’, and sellin’, sniffin’ and riffin’ (to quote my man Chuch D. from Public Enemy)? I believe rap music has come through in informing the public on that issue ad nauseum. What exactly are these books revealing that people don’t already know? Why are black women in bootie-huggin’ dresses posed seductively on the cover? Will readers get some special insight on how to flip a gram into a kilo? Sorry, The Biography Channel has a series called “American Gangster” and if I want to find out how to run a drug empire, I’ll watch that show.
People, these titles aren’t published as non-fiction. They’re published as f-i-c-t-i-o-n. And what is fiction? Fiction is a huge lie masquerading as a truth. I teach my students in my fiction writing class to tell a lie and tell it good, to convince their readers that the story could and may happen by strategically using truthful elements to entertain and yes, fool the reader into thinking the characters, the setting, the situation…all of it exists. I tell my students that if the setting is in New York and they’ve never been there, they better do their research because if a native New Yorker picks up their story and you’ve missed the boat on certain details, the reader will soon lose interest…in a sense you will lose the reader’s TRUST. The reader is trusting you, the author, to know what the hell you’re writing about. Food for thought: are these actual tales from the ‘hood or is it someone who really does some damn good research with a vivid imagination? With an author by the name of Dr. XyZ, what do you think? For all you know, these books could be written by some white chick living in an expensive brownstone in Brooklyn Heights who couldn’t get a book deal any other way and is going undercover in the ‘hood for material and grammatically-correct Ebonics. (I warned you I was going to get borderline offensive, didn’t I?)
Here’s the kicker. Who are these writers writing for? What audience are they aiming at? Do you think Mr. Happy Madison (I’m a huge Adam Sandler fan) of Greenwich, CT and Park Avenue South is sending his assistant down to the local bookstore to get the latest from Sapphire? He might now, since the novel Push was turned into “Precious,” the hottest film of the season, but do you think he even knew who Sapphire was before then? Go to the bookstore, look at the covers. You seriously think Mr. Madison would buy it? I think not! These books are geared to the minority using the same themes that have been explored since the beginning of post-modernism but using hip language and sexy book covers. There are great contemporary authors like Z. Z. Packer and Zadie Smith, darlings of the literary world, whose writings don’t have a prerequisite that you must be a saddity, bougie black folk to enjoy a story.
The publishing industry needs to raise the bar on quality. We as disenfranchised citizens of this country need to raise our reading standards. I’m not saying all black people are reading these books but there wouldn’t be a market for them unless the demand was there, a demand the publishing industry has seized upon to make buckets of money. Do we really want to give publishers that much power?
A good bra, like a good man, must lift and support
Posted by: Lisa on: October 24, 2009
I’ve had a revelation recently. Something minor turned out to be major and it has changed my life.
I got a new bra.
I know, especially to you men who may read this, that it doesn’t seem like a big deal. But image if you’ve been wearing the wrong size underwear for years, mercilessly crushing the ole twig and berries and restricting their ability to jiggle freely and one day you decide to go one size up. Relief, right?
Well it’s the same thing with a good bra. For years I’ve been buying on the cheap side because of my single-mother mentality of cutting corners. All I cared about is if it had underwire and if it was what I thought was my cup size. Often time it was a crap shoot because I never took the time to try it on before leaving the store. So when I got home and found it too tight, it would go to the land of misfit bras, which was usually at the bottom of my underwear drawer.
I know all the women reading this are going, “Oh my God! How could you not care about what kind of bra you wear?” Simply put, I rarely had the time or patience to endlessly try on bras. Whenever I went clothes shopping in my younger years I was always with two small boys who couldn’t be dragged into the dressing room. So I chose to waive my right to try on five different kinds of bras because you can only tolerate the rambunctious of two little boys but for so long before you start popping a blood vessel from the screaming.
Until two weeks ago, I was a Walmart shopper for my bras. When the underwire began to poke through the fabric I would venture forth to the underwear section at my local Wallymart and pick my normal brand for the full-figured gal.
Then I had a mystical experience at Lane Bryant.
It was obscene to me to pay more than $15 for a bra (I told you I was cheap!) but I now see the error of my ways. The sales ladies at Lane Bryant were having a slow day so I got the full-court press from them. They measured me for the size I should be wearing, and then assaulted me with every bra and panty combo they had.
Oh the wonder of it all! My eyes glazed over as I gazed at the vibrant colors and frilly lace. I reached out like a curious child to touch the delicate embroidery on the cup and massage the padding. I giggled over the easy access panties that come off with two tugs of the silky ribbons at the hip and oogled the sheer nighties with thongs. I stepped into the dressing room for the try-on and marveled at myself in the mirror as I slipped on bra after bra. My twin gals were now upright and proud as they sat nestled in the comfort of those comfortable cups, not sagging to the floor like two socks with rocks in them. I glowed…dare I say, I even pranced like a pony at my reflection. Is this what it’s like on the other side of the pricey lingerie fence?
Needless to say I was flush from all the excitement, so flush I flushed my wallet of the money it cost to buy three big girl bras and matching panties.
Not soon after my lingerie success I had one of those girlie conversations with a friend of mine in Maryland over the difficulty of finding a good bra. We compared cup sizes, talked about the devistating effects of gravity since high school and the best places to buy boulder-holders for busty gals. In short, it was a conversation I’ve never really had before, outside of my mother that is and she doesn’t count. Imagine, me, a woman who showered with 67 other women for three months in boot camp, too shy to have one of “those” conversations with another female. Setting aside the fact that my friend from Maryland and I are so in-tune with each other that to discuss these kinds of things with her is no big deal, I was surprised at the ease of my abilty to share these intimate details about my body. When did I become so…girlie?
I use to think it poor taste for women to discuss every heat flash of menopause, every cramp from a uterus during menses, and would cringe inwardly and whisper, “TMI” under my breath. Is it my march to the 40-year door that has stripped me of my inibitions? Perhaps it was my first tattoo (pictured left), which I got this summer, that has loosened me up a bit.
What a strange and orphic sex I belong to, a gender club in which the members are paradoxal in nature who commiserate over such woes as the best store to purchase delicate unmentionables. Until now, I didn’t consider myself an active member, just an outsider looking in.
A day in Wickham Park
Posted by: Lisa on: October 20, 2009
As I journey deeper into Photoshop I discover more and more cool stuff:
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- Pond in the Oriental Garden at Wickham Park
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- Interior of the pagoda house at Wickham Park
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- Another view of the interior of the pagoda house
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- A stone dragon standing watch
I’m a really baaad blogger
Posted by: Lisa on: October 20, 2009
- In: Humor| Photography
- 11 Comments
Okay, I’m admitting that I’m a really bad blogger. I came on strong at the beginning, promising a whole lot of stuff and then fell way short. My intentions were pure; I even added posting to the blog on my iPhone calendar for every Monday. But whenever the reminder came up, I kinda, sorta ignored it. One week turned into two and damn! The summer ended! So this is me on one knee (my good knee. If I get down on both knees, I’d have to fight like hell to get back to a standing position) asking for…um…not your forgiveness, exactly. More like…your understanding? Tolerance? Ah, the hell with it, mea culpa, okay?
I’ll be 40 in about three weeks. And at first I was gonna do the Jack Benny thing and stop counting at 39. But my 39th year on this planet has been plagued with misery so I say damn 39, bring on 40 and from there I’ll stop counting. This summer especially has made me want to run to the 40-year hills and scream from the mountaintop “free at last!” I’ve been exposed to selfishness and emotionally-crippled humans who can’t seem to pull themselves out of the quagmire of their inadequacies and flow on a sea of self-denial. I’ve been dragged into a hell where Rush Limbaugh plays 24-7 and Sarah Palin’s book outsells Stephen King by 5-to-1. But on the other end of that spectrum, I’ve received kindness and warmth from people who are in good places emotionally and mentally, who listened to my woes and reached out to me from an altruistic place deep within their solar plexus. And when I think of these people collectively, how they circled the wagons around me, my heart murmurs a really deep sigh. For every asshole there’s an angel waiting to heal and it makes me want to get down on my good knee and say, “Thank you, God for creating that asshole/angel balance.”
If you haven’t noticed, there’s a name change at the top. So the soon-to-be-ex-husband can now be officially called the ex-husband (the ex, for short). I have to say two things on that subject: 1) I never thought I’d have the “distinction” of calling anyone my ex-husband, and 2) next time, if there is a next time, I marry for money…lots of it. The judge who resided over my divorce, who looked to be about 100, kept chatting me up and smiling at me during the court proceedings so he might be a prospect.
(channeling Eddie Izzard) So…um…yeah, yeah…my full-time employer made me redundant recently. I’m using the British term redundant because it sounds much nicer than laid off. Yes, I’m a victim of the economic downturn but I’m not a complete victim because I still teach part-time. I could take you through the range of emotions that awashed over me when I got the axe, but you’re intelligent people so you can pretty much guess how I felt. I have to admit, though, that I like sleeping late and rolling out of bed when I feel like it; doing errands during a weekday instead of a weekend. However, I’ve become dangerously attached to this home rhythm I’ve developed, being able to stay on top of my sons and finding good tv programming that will carry me through the day.
The first week I was home, I rarely got out of bed except to wash my ass, put the dogs out and cart my older son to campus. No…wait…I take that back, I did take a sojourn out of my rabbit hole for a Nathan’s experience of hot dogs and chilly cheese fries that gave me wicked gas for the evening. The second week I found the right channels to watch and discovered the meager pittance I’ll receive in unemployment bennies. This week…well…I said enough! Damn it, this is the perfect time to sink into a bath of creativity! I’ve got a pitch letter to rewrite, a manuscript to peddle, photos to take and ideas to put on paper. Photoshop CS4 is waiting for me to unlock its secrets and my camera is ready-Freddy for action. I have recipes to try and a new stove that’s begging to lose its virginity. This is the time I should be regrouping, regenerating, rediscovering…all those damnable “re” words that signify a movement towards change and growth. In short, it’s time to get on the good foot and do the bad thing. Brothahs and sistahs, nobody can do the bad thing like I can.
Yesterday I went exploring with my camera and came across this outdoor chapel in the Rhododendron Garden at Wickham Park in Manchester. No, I’m not Catholic…hell, I’m a stranger to my own christened religion of Episcopalian. But when you come across something so peaceful and soothing, you cannot help but bow down to its’ magnificence regardless of religion. I kneeled on the steel altar and said a small prayer to the Virgin Mary.
I was a bit rusty on the prayer thing so I had to wing it, but I’m pretty sure she got my message. In thinking back, I should’ve asked her for clarity of mind, but the Virgin Mother is a busy woman, what with all those mysterious sightings on grilled cheese sandwiches and whatnot that always seems to happen somewhere in Florida. Besides, there are some things I just have to do for myself.
Summer delights
Posted by: Lisa on: July 24, 2009
- In: Photography
- 1 Comment
Summer always brings out the best in me, and when I say the best in me, I mean my desire to make delicious summer desserts using the freshest of fruit. Even though, sadly enough, I’m allergic to quite a number of fruits out there, it doesn’t stop me from finding special recipes to cook the fruit to a state that makes it easier for me to eat them.
I should be more specific about the allergy claimer. I’m not allergic to the fruit itself, just the patch, bush or tree it was growing in. For example, I’m allergic to the skin of an apple because of the pollen it was exposed to during its growth. Once I peel off the skin or bake that fruit, whatever I’m allergic to gets cooked away.
Okay, so I’m a huge fan of SmittenKitchen, a blog I stumbled across and subscribe to. The recipes are cool, but the photography is even cooler. The visual certainly adds something magical when you’re trying to show people how to put together a myriad of ingredients to produce such-and-such food.
So last week Smitten Kitchen sent me a recipe for a dessert called Blueberry Boy Bait. Being I work for a state agency that advocates for the rights of women and young girls, I was initially offended by the title of this delicious-looking dessert…well, no, not really, I’m lying. I thought the name was cute and whatever I can do to attract a man to sample my treats (yes, take that for what you will), I’m all for it. Last Thursday I slid on over to my favorite supermarket (do you have a favorite supermarket?) and wouldn’t you know it? Blueberries are on sale!
In my first batch, I used 2% milk and the dessert came out nice and firm. The only way to describe the taste is to compare it to cornbread but without the cornmeal and a tad sweeter. The recipe doesn’t call for a whole bunch of blueberries so your taste buds are not assaulted with the tartness the fruit. Just a warning though: I used buttermilk for the second batch (which I brought to work for our bi-weekly staff meeting), it came out loosey-goosey and a bit too crumbly for my taste, plus it doesn’t hold very well in storage.
You can find this recipe on Smitten Kitchen’s Web site (and check out the photos while you’re at it) or you can e-mail me for the recipe. It’s real simple to make, a lot simpler than my other favorite dessert, Red Velvet Cake.
Old friends and new happenings
Posted by: Lisa on: June 25, 2009
Dear Readers,
I’m gonna wax nostalgia for this post. But I promise to resume my report on the class action law suit against my uterus next week. Don’t make me forget to tell you about how I was compelled to correct with a scarlet red pen the threatening “anonymous” note I received. I couldn’t help myself really, bad grammar needs to be corrected. Sorry for the late post. I’m working with this new iPhoneWordPress app (iPhone lingo for application for those unfamiliar) and got a little lazy in posting.
The events of last week were a wild roller coaster ride with so many twists and turns I’m getting fitted for a neck brace from the whiplash. The ride began with a slow up climb when I was goofing off on Facebook searching for a friend, a former shipmate of mine from the Navy. Now, this friend is not just any ole’ friend. He and I didn’t visit bars together drinkin’ and fightin’ and getting matching tattoos as we laughed over who had the loudest fart. Oh no. This particular friend helped deliver my younger son.
Yes, you read right, I said HE!
A man I was never intimate with got to see my treats, my goodies, my sugar walls, my kitty cat up close and personal as I squeezed an object the size of a watermelon through the opening the size of an underdeveloped kiwi. His willingness to be my labor coach gave the slogan “Join the Navy, See the World” an entirely different meaning. I’m betting his recruiter never told him about that kind of duty. But I digress…moving on!
So back to the story. On a whim I did a search for his name in Facebook(hereafter referred to as Fb) and I got a hit. I wasn’t sure if it was him because the picture was so dark, but I know his bright smile anywhere so I took a chance and sent an invite. I was tickled when I checked Fb two days later and saw he accepted. We were like two high schoolers posting back and forth on each others’ walls reminiscing over those twelve hours when he heard me scream, yell and curse Biblical Eve for getting me into that mess. And what a mess it was; nappy hair flying in 20 different directions, a big ass needle jammed up my spine, reeking of hospital funk with a visage that would turn Medusa into stone.
As I thought back on that time, I soon began to realize how fuzzy my memory was. I see bits and pieces, like a one-second flash of a moving picture scene. I envy those that can recount every moment, like when they first began potting training. Why you would want to remember that, I don’t know.
So anyway, when my labor coach contacted me, I strained, literally, to find more memories from that time in my life. There are some that hold strong, like when he came over a week after my son was born to see how we were and he watched me bathe a squiggly baby with the nub of an umbilical cord still attached. Others are elusive fragments that are fading quickly as more memories take its place. I go back farther, to my high school days, and those memories are weak, if not weaker than the ones from my Navy days. I look through pictures, look through my high school year book to jog something, anything! I’ve had a few successes. I remember: oh yeah, this girl was a bitch; and that one caused me trouble; and this fool took my virginity without really taking it (long story!); she was sweet; he was too cool for school; I went to middle school with this one…so on and so forth.
So continuing on the vein of recollecting my past life, I decided to dig up some old photo albums and scanned some of the pics to post on Fb. Those pics started a watershed of people I’ve connected with from high school to identify various people in my photos, which is a good thing. It brings a whole bunch of people, who probably couldn’t stand each other in high school, together in cyberspace.
This past weekend I decided to get jiggy with it and clean out my car. At this point I want to thank my soon-to-be ex-husband, for if he hadn’t taken the carpet shampooer out of spite when he moved out of the house, I would’ve never been compelled to go to Wallymart to find a new one. It was while I was at Wallymart that I came across the most amazing discovery, as seen in the picture to the left. I should thank Merrill, my friendly Walmarthelper, who saw me standing there wide-eyed and open-mouthed as I stared up at that beauty of a bicycle. Do you notice something peculiar about it? Eh? That’s right, no hand breaks! No gears! It was a bike that hearkened back to my childhood days when, during the summer, I rode from sun up to sun down, riding so fast I could hear the wind whistle in my ears and then back pedal to break abruptly. I sit up straight on this bike like a big girl, not hunched over like I’m practicing for the Tour de France. The seat is perfect for my wide behind, no riding uncomfortably and intimately up my crotch.
At first I was a little shaky; I’m short (5′1″) and the seat sits high so I wiggled a little at the beginning. However, it didn’t take long for me to adjust and soon I was flying down the street to once again hear that wind whistle in my ears. Memories of North Carolina and my grandmamma’s house popped into my head, for when I visited her house down there I would take her old-fashioned bike and ride it downtown to explore. Then flashes of Brooklyn, NY and my trusty banana-seat bicycle with a plastic-woven handlebar basket came into my head. I’m hoping the more I ride that bike, more memories will come. I don’t remember much about my childhood (there’s probably a good reason for that), so maybe, just maybe I might recapture something that will make me smile.
It’s deposition time for Lisa Smith-Overton v. Her uterus
Posted by: Lisa on: June 16, 2009
- In: Humor
- 2 Comments
My case against uterus is progressing nicely, so says Eve Adams, my attorney. For the next three weeks or so, one of the associates at her firm, Abelle BenSira, will be taking depostions from all parties involved. It’s been a flurry of activity that has been somewhat taxing: the signing of endless documents, the swearing (I mean in court, not the cussing) and the harassment from the media. Oh yes, something like this couldn’t stay quiet for long and my phone is starting to ring with calls from this or that media outlet. I try not to sweat it too much since Eve said all calls are to go to her.
Gabriel Daniels, the attorney from Johns, Milton and Paradis representing uterus, deposed me and God, what an an obnoxious, arrogant piece-of-s**t he is! He sicked one of his little flunkies, Seth Paradis (yep, you guessed it, the son of Michael Paradis, the top dog of the law firm) on me. He grilled me like a cheese sandwich and I wanted to pop him one right quick in his mouth for his snotty attitude. Daniels sat on the side with a smug look on his face, nodding ever so often. I kept glancing at Abelle (Eve had to be in court for another case) with knowing looks and she’d just give me a wink of encouragment. Right then I knew Abelle and I were going to get along like a house on fire; she’s cool. I met Abelle right before my deposition and she seems to be on the ball and just as excited as Eve about the historic significance of the case. We talked on the ride home from the deposition (my car’s in the shop) and we found out we’re both dog lovers. I think she’s more fanatic about her dog than I am of mine, though. She’s carries a picture of her Australian Shephard around in her wallet and has some crooked walking stick she keeps in the back seat of her car for when she takes Mark (the dog) for a walk. Yeah, I think it’s kinda weird, but who am I to judge?
I had a weird conversation with cervix the other day. Cervix had been serving as go-between for me and uterus, trying desperately to keep the peace before things went sour. Cervix was like, “You know this is wrong. Uterus loves you, never meant any harm…” blah, blah, blah. I was like, “Who’s side are you on? Why don’t you just stay out of it like vagina? See, vagina is playing it smart, hasn’t said a damn word since everything went down. Take a lesson from vagina.” Well! Cervix was a little off-put by my abruptness, quickly ending our friendly little talk. I couldn’t care less if I never hear from cervix again.
I’ve been getting strange, threatening notes lately. I’m a little freaked out by them, but I have the sneaky suspicion uterus, fallopian tubes and ovaries are behind the notes. I’ll dig one up and see if I can post it for next time, ya’ll can tell me what you think.
