Food For Thought for those Starved of Truth

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Oh my, such stereotypical behavior coming out of Baltimore this week. Didn’t these people learn anything from Ferguson? Don’t they realize that destroying other people’s property and looting does nothing to further their cause? They expect us to want to help them while they behave like thugs and animals.

Does this sound like anything you’ve heard or read this week? I, for one, am sick and tired of the commentary. If one more person utters this to me, I may pick up a brick and toss it through a window.

Imagine, if you will, that you are born a person of color, into a life of poverty, an overcrowded and underfunded educational system, perhaps a broken home and little to no support system. Businesses cannot grow in your community because people of color will more likely than not be turned down for small business loans. Jobs are scarce because you have no education, skills or experience. Parents are working outside of the neighborhood when and where they can, thus unable to be home and ensure their children are safe and supervised. Those who have taken an oath to serve and protect only serve to bully and intimidate. You are a target any time you leave your home, either by others who have lost their moral compass or officers who deem your life to be of no value.  You are routinely stripped of what little dignity you may have, by a Country that looks upon you as a burden. You are more likely to die from diseases that are generally treatable because you don’t have access to quality medical care or knowledge of warning signs when you should seek help. You begin to look at others who look like you and resent them. You begin to hate them because they are a reflection of your hopelessness. You are violent because you are invisible. You are violent because you are void of all feeling. You are violent because nothing fills that cavity where aspirations and dreams once dwelled.

True, some make it out. The majority do not. The majority continue the cycle. Many Americans seem to be okay with this, as long as it doesn’t spill into their existence. When it becomes uncomfortable, then it gets attention. Just as with Ferguson, Baltimore is drawing attention to an issue. Unfortunately, the issue seems to be how black folk cannot control themselves. The idea of rioting has overshadowed the truth, which is very convenient for those who don’t want to face the root cause.  It seems to give a pass to the problem at hand, because we see how angry and scary African Americans truly are. No wonder the police are killing them. For that one, I may hurl a garbage can.

Let’s turn the tables for a moment. I wonder what actions would be taken if the headlines read:

Unarmed White Man Choked To Death by Black Policemen While Pleading He Could Not Breathe

Unarmed White Man Shot In the Back by Black Policeman

White Man’s Spine Mysteriously Severed in Paddy Wagon after Arrest by Black Policemen

Unarmed White Man Shot to Death in Wal-Mart by Black Policemen for Holding a Water Gun

Unarmed White Man Shot to Death on Street by Black Policeman

Unarmed White Man Pulled out of Car and Beaten Severely by Black Policemen for Broken Tail Light

White Woman Arrested For Not Giving Up Bus Seat to Black Man

White Man Found Murdered In Connection With Allegation That He Whistled at a Black Woman. All Black Jury Finds Black Defendant’s Not Guilty

White Man Beaten Half to Death by Black Policemen. Jury Finds Black Officers Not Guilty

White People’s Church Bombed. Four White Children Dead. Black Defendant’s Found Not Guilty.

 White President and First Lady Depicted as Monkeys in Email Passed Around by Members on Capitol Hill

White Women Dying of Breast Cancer at a Rate of 10-1 Over Black Women

White Men 12 Times More Likely to go to Prison Than Black Men

12 Year Old White Boy Shot and Killed By Black Officers for Having a BB Gun

White Man Shot by Black Man Dressed As Officer During a Police Sting. Black Man Not a Policeman but Apologizes Before Heading Off to a Bahamas Vacation

You can choose to continue to believe that this is a Black problem, not an American problem.  You can continue to believe that ignoring the problem will make it go away. You can be “put out” that you cannot attend a MLB game in Baltimore this week. You can keep insisting that this is America and everyone has the same chance to succeed. Just make sure and duck to avoid the rock I may throw at your head.

Or, you can face the fact that our Country, no matter how great, has a problem; a big problem.

I seem to recall reading about a time in this Country when a large group of demonstrators who’s voices were not being heard, destroyed other people’s property, got the attention of those in power and started a Revolution that changed our Country forever. Maybe the next great Revolution in these United States of America will be for Equality, Liberty & Justice For All… Again.

I Knew You Were Coming, But I Won’t Bake A Cake

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When my parents married in 1964, my father’s dad declared that my father had disgraced his race. My father’s sister, although unhappy with her brother’s decision, decided it was okay, as long as they didn’t have children. After all, what kind of life would a mixed race child have? It’s not God’s will to mix races. The child will be ridiculed and considered an outcast; not accepted by either race. I guess it never dawned on her that SHE and people sharing her “Christian Values” were the only cause of any ridicule and scorn I would feel.

Ironically, my grandfather turned out to play a very positive and important role in my life. I can only imagine this happened after he decided to see my mother as a human being. My aunt lived a long life, spending lots of time with my parents and even me. We were close, maybe because she had her own conscious awakening that people are just people. To further her awareness, God gave her a beautiful gay grandson.

As I stare out my front widow, I look out onto my Hoosier neighbors going about their Hoosier business. Most of them are just trying to make a living, raise a family and enjoy their lives in this  beautiful state in which we reside. Hoosiers are known for their hospitality and friendly manner, but today, I find myself watching intently and wondering which ones agree with RFRA.

I have a golden rule, if you will indulge me, I live by each day. I teach it to my children and I exhibit it to my friends, family and acquaintances. That rule is:

No Tolerance for Intolerance

It is non-negotiable.

I guess it may be true that unless one has experienced intolerance personally, one may not fully understand why it is so important to take a stand against it. In the case of my relatives, they were forced, of sorts, to face the reality that our family had a different dynamic than most. It’s difficult to support segregation when your mixed-race granddaughter is sitting on your lap. It’s hard to refuse service to a gay couple when your grandson has a husband.

We all have interpretations of what God is to us (if at all and that’s perfectly fine too). Some think of Him as a merciful God, some as a vengeful God. I like to think that if there is a God, He doesn’t make mistakes and He loves everyone. He would never ask His followers to discriminate or turn against another simply because they are different. Different can be scary. After all, different means uncommon, out of the ordinary, unusual. For too long, the ignorant and frightened have chosen the definition of different to mean dangerous and immoral. The ignorant have long hidden behind twisted interpretations of the Bible to justify bigoted beliefs.

Here are the sad facts. In a recent survey, The Public Religion Research Institute found that 10 percent of Americans believe business owners should be able to refuse to serve black people if they see that as a violation of their religious beliefs. The outward racial discrimination permissible because of a “religious belief,” seems extreme and dated; but these days, is socially acceptable racism. 19 percent of Americans believe it is okay to discriminate against the LGBT community with a slightly higher percent (21) of Americans believing it’s perfectly fine to deny services to atheists. Go figure. Jews come in around the same as blacks, so don’t get comfortable, Shlomo.

Buying and selling stuff is one of the most basic ways Americans interact with each other—if people can’t tolerate difference in the economic sphere, I will bet any amount of money they can’t tolerate it anywhere. In this poll, the best explanation for the minority view is purely straightforward racism, homophobia, and anti-Semitism. But hovering beneath that is an important claim: Economic life is an acceptable realm for segregation.

In conclusion, this RFRA does matter. It does change the climate of our state. It screams discrimination in the quiet and deceitful way it crept to the Governor’s desk and his pen silently signed it into law. It paraded itself as “religious freedom” and marched right into the history books as one of the worst decisions in Indiana history.

Eleven o’clock on Sunday morning . . . is the most segregated hour in Christian America.—Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Amen, y’all.

*Thanks to Emma Green for polling information

“R” You Kidding Me?

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This morning, I was sitting out on my front porch, just watching the world go by, when I noticed two developmentally disabled people greet each other on the sidewalk.

“What’s up, Retard”?

“Not much, my Retard.”

“You heard from that Retard, Bobby lately?”

“Retard, please. That Retard owes me money. Next time I see that Retard, he better pay me.”

I was intrigued by the commentary, so I yelled out “Hello there, Retards! Nice day we’re having.” Instead of an exchange of pleasantries, I was met with hostility and disapproval.

“YOU cannot call us Retards.”

“Why? It sounds to me as if you mean it in a fellowship sort of manner.” I was quite perplexed.

The younger disabled young man advised me that Retard is a term of endearment in the developmentally disabled community, and therefore, may only be used by other developmentally disabled people. If I, a non-disabled person use the word Retard, I would be prejudiced toward a group of people.

“But the word still means the same thing”, I stated. “The word Retard is defined as a person who is less advanced in mental, physical, or social development than is usual for one’s age. It can also be used to offensively describe something that is foolish or stupid, right?”

The young man stood there in contemplation of my question. He looked up at the sky, then down at the ground. Up at the sky, then down at the ground. He rubbed his chin and furrowed his brows. “By using the word Retard, we, the developmentally disabled, take away its power. We make it our own. We’ve turned it on its head and made it a positive word showing our camaraderie.”

“So then, what you’re saying is all the people who worked tirelessly to pass the American’s with Disabilities Act are okay with this. All the disabled people who endured or continue to be discriminated against, institutionalized, labeled and considered less than a person are happy to be addressed as Retard? It is pretty amazing that with all the years of people throwing the word Retard around to describe things that are clearly screwed up, dim-witted, wrong or socially unacceptable, you’ve managed to take control of a word that has a life of its own by only allowing other disabled people to use it? Wow. That would be impressive if it wasn’t so Retarded.”

“Look around you, fellas. This is a very diverse neighborhood. Italian neighbors to the left, Jewish neighbors to the right and Asian neighbors up the block. I have never heard them address each other with How’s it goin’ WOP, What’s up Kike or Good Evening Gook.”

“Think about this for maybe a moment, my disabled friends. When you call each other Retard, people WILL think less of you. When you call yourself a Retard, don’t get mad when people treat you like one.”

*Feel free to insert another word in place of the “R”….

THE TRUTH HURTS: Race Relations as experienced by an old Mixed Chick

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For the next few moments, I am going to nominate myself spokeswoman for race relations in this country. You don’t have to agree, but seeing as I am 47% African and 53% European (thanks to the Europeans who penetrated my mother’s side, welcomed or not), I may be the best example you’re going to get.

First of all, I am not a militant anything. I am, however, passionate about the fair treatment of ALL people. I call it as I see it. I have the ability to walk within both races, black and white, and witness the good and the not-so-good. For those of you who refuse to believe there are two separate and defined races in this country, I’m here to tell you that denial makes you unattractive.

Let’s get one thing out of the way fast, quick and in a hurry. I identify myself as a black female. Why? I was born in 1965, in Chicago, to loving parents, a black mother and a white father. In that day, a child was considered the race of the mother. Also, back in the day, a drop of black made you black. My mother was the predominant caretaker at home while dad worked as an Airline Captain. My mother was my rock. My father, simply put, was and is my hero. As a young lady, I wanted to be just like my mother as I began to understand her struggles, her pain and her triumphs. She was a dark-skinned woman, no confusion about her blackness. I felt a comfort with her that somehow she was stronger than most, and she was. I married a man who happened to be white, which is incidentally what my mother always told me about my dad. I married a man who most reminded me of the values and strength exhibited by my father, who taught me how a man should treat his wife. So, let’s move on..

White people are still winning. Yes, it’s true. Yes, I said it. My white friends, rich or poor, Ivy League or trade school educated, city or rural folk have it better than most. When I say better, I’m not talking about bank accounts or net worth. I’m talking about a day in the life. I have never once had a conversation with my white friends about fear of their young boys being beaten or murdered by the police. Not once have we ever discussed discrimination in the workplace based on color. Their white children are never concerned about what they can grow up to be, because they won’t have roadblocks placed in their paths (except maybe Affirmative Action). Before you start freaking out, my fair friends, think of the last time you were in a group of fellow pale citizens discussing academic opportunities for white kids and how you can help to advance their education. You haven’t, and you don’t. You don’t have an NAACP or a UNCF because you don’t need them. White people I know rely on the police for assistance and protection. They take comfort in knowing that 911 will respond. White people I know haven’t the slightest clue what it’s like to be profiled because of skin color.

There is an unspoken freedom granted to white people which blacks and other minorities, let’s face it, may never know.

I have lots of black friends. Unlike some of you, I’m telling the truth. Black people have white friends… to a degree. You will never be on the inside. Hell, I’m not even all the way accepted in the inner workings of the black community. My husband is just a confused bystander. There is much distrust in the black community of other races. Some is warranted, some isn’t. Here’s some of what makes me shake my head:

• Tanning

• Butt implants

• Hair Extensions

• Lip injections

• Elvis (ask Chuck Berry)

Listen, I understand that we all interact in diverse groups to illustrate that we can communicate with many kinds of people, but at the end of the day, we are most comfortable in the companionship of our own race of people. That’s natural. However, within that security and contentment cannot come unresponsiveness to the plight of the HUMAN RACE.

Here’s where the rubber hits the road, folks.

White people, imagine for a moment, if you will, that your dog Fluffy was walking down the middle of the street and a policeman rolled up on it and shot it. Would it be justified if your dog had stolen a bone from the butcher and growled at the butcher as it left the building?

By all means No, I am not equating a young man’s life to a dog, it’s just that using a canine in this scenario is more believable than a white kid.

Let’s say it happens time and time again. You complain about the police brutality but nothing ever changes. Sometimes, your Golden Retriever is minding its own business, sometimes its behavior is less than stellar. But your dog has no teeth and really can’t seriously hurt anyone. Still, it’s dead. You’d fight for change. I know you would. Who would stand for such behavior? When is it okay for police to round-up innocent Labradors and take them to the pound without cause? Since when did it become routine for police to murder Schnauzers for no reason. See where I’m going here?

As someone who has a teensy more European blood than African blood, it still boils when I see mistreatment of ANYONE.

Get angry. Don’t stand for it. Speak up. Inaction is a sign of apathy and indifference.

The only hope that our children and grandchildren will see no color, is if we all see RED.

In The Event of an Emergency…a little story about depression

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My beautiful son was born on a September afternoon in 2005. My OBGYN said it was the most uneventful delivery he had ever witnessed. He actually sat on the side of my bed and we watched as #3 just kind of magically glided out into the world. Three times IS a charm and I was proud to have mastered the painless birth. I had managed to control the uncontrollable. Score.

My nickname, besides Sistah, is Controlee. I like to be in charge. I find comfort in leadership, not because I like to boss people around, but because I am calmest with my decision-making skills. I seek teamwork and ideas from others, as long as I have the final ruling. I believe I have a fear of trusting responsibility to others and that I’m better off when I manage all situations. Let me tell you, it’s exhausting and not always productive. Wow, not really a newsflash.

My story begins with this revelation, much to my shock and disbelief: I can’t control autism. I could manage how my son came into this world but not remedy his developmental delays. My child has a challenge which I cannot fully solve? This is way out of my element. The fear crept in and quickly turned to terror. I turned that terror into action and became the best damned autism advocate this side of Chicago. Still, when I lay in bed at night, I felt like what I was doing was never enough even though #3 was thriving.

You see, I have always been the person others rely on to make all things better. I have a meticulous record as “The Fixer”. I inherited this gift (or curse) from my mother. This autism thing… I can fix this too. Mom, the “Super Fixer” was by my side along with my husband and together, we would work tirelessly for my son. We would make everything okay. I declared myself Super Autism Mom, but still so much work to do.

Then, my Mom gets sick. Now, I must achieve superior knowledge about liver disease so that I can “fix” her. I must be able to stay one step ahead of her doctors so I may have a complete understanding of the problem at hand. After all, it’s just a problem and that’s my specialty. Sure, I’m 850 miles away, but I can handle it. I can live in the hospital room with Mommy from M-F, then fly home and see my children and husband for the weekend. Yes, it’s the worst winter on record and I find myself sleeping in several different airports, unable to get home, but I’m okay. I’m Super…

She’s getting worse. Dad is so frightened that he is rendered helplessly unable to make a decision. He gets sick. Now, I’m between the hospital, dad’s house and airport. Apple pie has become my only solace. I don’t even bother to use a plate. Just a fork. If there has ever been a poster for depression, it would be a woman sitting in a hospital room, next to her dying mother, in the dark, eating a whole pie.

She dies. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save her.

I can’t cure my son. I can’t cure my son.

I can’t. I can’t.

I didn’t want to get out of bed. When I finally did, I over-compensated to make up for what I considered my failures as a daughter and mother. So, I over extended myself even more than what was normal for me. I had to save someone, find a cure, rescue a shelter dog.

Next step, anger set in. I am running into more obstacles that I cannot “fix”. My son, who is hypersensitive, cries when I cry, yells when I yell. My daughters and husband are getting caught up in this hurricane of crap. This is no good. I am beginning to spiral out of control and feel like I’m drowning in uncontrollable failure.

I need help.

I got help.

Therapy has been the saving grace for me. I’m coming back better than ever. I was never suicidal. Homicidal, yes. Definitely homicidal. You could even say Medieval Shit homicidal. One of the first assignments from my therapist was to make a Pros & Cons list of all the people I wanted to see dead and how it would really affect my life. It took several months before the Pro side was shorter than the Con. My therapist talked me out of that tree and every other twisted shrub in this crazy forest that grows in my mind. We have had a few good laughs in session, even though her chuckles are usually combined with lots of writing in her notebook and eyes darting left to right. I don’t know what that’s all about, but I think I’m Chapter 6 in her book.

I also take a little medication to keep my moods from swinging like Chris Brown on a date. It’s not a cure-all, but probably the best assist to keep me out of lock up. I am learning that relinquishing control, especially to others that are perfectly qualified to take over, isn’t such a bad thing. I don’t have to know everything, fix everything. I have to let go and let the Universe catch things. I make my hands in the shape of a little bowl and recite this often.

I’m learning that I need to put on my oxygen mask and help myself first so that I can be a better me, wife, mother, daughter and friend. Oddly enough, no one wants an oxygen deprived maniac attempting to lead during an emergency situation.

Hopefully, this little story has motivated you to take better care of yourself. Hopefully, this story has given you a better understanding that you or someone in your life may be struggling. Hopefully, this story gives you peace of mind that there is no shame in asking for help, even when you are everyone else’s sunshine.

Put on your oxygen mask first, breathe and let the Universe do Her thang.
Be well.

Smells like Teen Drama

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Last week, my eldest daughter texted me asking for a ride home from the bus stop. The bus stop is half a block. Was someone bullying her? Was she hurt? I asked for an explanation and the only response I received was a plea for my arrival. I decided to walk, just in case there was a bully. I wanted to make my presence known if I needed to get in somebody’s face, of course, only if necessary. Much to my surprise and relief, she was just crying. Then, she walked right past me, no acknowledgement whatsoever.

“Hey, mom’s here” I say as I trail her down the sidewalk. “Just like you asked. What’s wrong?”

“Just never mind”.

Okay. So I am begged to come literally 200 yards meet the bus and I’m greeted with a “Never Mind” and tears. What is a mother supposed to do with that? Probably not what I did. I chose the old follow and nag tactic. It went something like this:

“Why did you ask me to come down here and pick you up if you’re not going to tell me what’s wrong? I’m your mother. You should want to talk to me. Why don’t you talk to me? You know, I would give anything to be able to talk to MY mother. One day, you’re going to want to talk to me and you know what? I won’t be here because I’ll be DEAD. That’s right. DEAD. And you’ll be crying I want to talk to my mother but it will be too late, because I’m DEAD! Really? You’re ignoring me? I can’t believe this. You better stop walking right now and turn around and answer me, young lady. Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong with you?”

Then, I closed my eyes and opened my arms, expecting a crying teenager to run into them for comfort. Arms still extended, I opened one eye and then the other. To my dismay, there stood a teenage girl staring at me and trying her best to wish that we had already arrived at my DEAD scenario.

Apparently, motherhood has different stages. I laugh because I know this. I cry because I swore I would never allow my children to think of me as I did of my mom when I was a teen. Was mom on my top 10 list of favorite people? Not even in the ballpark. Did I love her? Yes, well. Yes.

And so it goes. I must learn patience and the art of teenage space. Eventually, she did come around and I think I gave her some pretty good advice. Will she follow it? Probably not, but that’s okay. I realize that part of growing up is actually giving them to space to do so, knowing when to offer up those arms to hug them and knowing when to just trail behind and keep my mouth shut. I’m going to try it…someday.

Did She Just Say What I Think She Said?

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“I’m looking for a man to love me, like I never been loved before. I’m looking for a man who will do it anywhere, even on a limousine floor.” You know you sang it, but did you do it? The answer is, probably not. If you did, you were skanky way before Vanity 6.

Are we really so adversely affected by song lyrics? I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest not. If you have the opportunity, sit down and take a listen (if you can stomach it) to some of the songs on your kids’ playlist. Here’s one for the ages:

After we go to the bathroom, can we go smoke a cigarette?
I really need one
But first, LET ME TAKE A SELFIE

How about these words of wisdom:
Turn down for what Turn down for what Turn down for what
Turn down for what Ball and Out

In the scheme of things, I don’t really pay too much attention to what my daughters are listening to. I realize that there are song lyrics that are raunchy and even downright nasty, but I’m pretty sure these do not illicit a desire for my girls to drop everything and get busy.

Yesterday, I sat down with my daughters to probe this burning question: Will you be surfboarding instead of attending class today?
After a rousing chorus of “Maaaahm! That’s disgusting”, I was determined to get to the bottom of this. As it turns out, my kids are not taking direction from Mr. & Mrs. Carter’s inebriated exploits. In fact, they don’t pay a lot of attention to the words but seem to concentrate on the beat.

This. Is. Shocking.

My oldest even went as far as to explain that she will not be wearing gold teeth, drinking grey goose or tripping in a bathroom or driving a Cadillac in her dreams. Another bonus is that I don’t have to call her Queen Bee. However, the song bumps.

Feeling fairly comfortable that my children are safe from the evil spell of Beyonce, I turn my attentions to young girls who do not have good parental role models, who may take Beyonce seriously and begin to mimic her songs through slutty behaviors. So let me get this straight. We should fear that young girls will behave like a woman who is married, waited until marriage to have a child, and waited until she had her own successful career before marriage and starting a family, who sings about having freaky sex with her husband?

I would also like to add that your daughter probably doesn’t even know what getting Monica Lewinsky-ed all over her gown by her husband in the back of a limo even means. When you explain it, like I did, her response is probably not going to be “How do I get in on that action?”

Teens aren’t complete idiots, mostly, but not completely. Let’s give them some credit. Beyonce is no more responsible for your daughters’ behavior than Sir- Mix- A-Lot is for my big butt or the Beatles were for the Manson Family crimes. They are, however, responsible for opening up an interesting dialogue with your kids.

In the meantime, since Jay- Z has stated that my breasteses are breakfast, think of the money I’ll save on Cheerios.

A Rant About A Rant

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This week, I have been in some interesting conversations about people in the news. The primary target has been Richard Sherman. Apparently, he was rehearsing for his debut in the WWE. I don’t believe anyone was prepared for that kind of in-your-face response, but he never used profanity and he really kind of looked like Hulk Hogan as he talked directly into the camera. I even joked about him sounding a bit like Little John and resembling Predator (the dread locks and larger than life look in his pads). If he were going to join the WWE, I think Predator would be an excellent name for him. I found it to be pretty amusing.

Meanwhile, many of you were not in the least bit amused. Some of the words being tossed about included Classless, Rude, Embarrassing, Unprofessional and Thuggish. Then, there were the comments that went straight for the racial jugular. Those, I found, were probably the least bothersome since you really need to consider the source. It’s the commentary that seemed to suggest that this man doesn’t know his place; that he has no right to show raw emotion literally less than 2 minutes after walking off the field where he just made possibly the biggest game-winning play of his career. To judge a man’s character under those circumstances, I found, to be absurd and hypocritical.

You can’t have it both ways. If we sit in front of our 60” HD screens to watch freakishly large men battle for sports supremacy each week, then we have to take some responsibility for the hype. The crowds cheer for the big hits, the sacks, the massive line defending the goal. Seriously, it’s like choreographed war games with a few rules thrown in. It can also be like a beautiful dance with the gorgeous runs and passes. However, it’s the brutality of the sport, the pure adrenalin that gets us going by watching these professional giants confront one another in the contest for victory. We can’t get enough, and these warriors feed off of our energy. So, next time a player comes off the field and doesn’t give an interview like he’s sitting at a tea party, get over it.

Well, that was a day of my life I cannot get back. I would like to help you with some headlines you can bypass as well. That will leave you plenty of time to read a book, go for a walk or learn to cook something new. Here’s a quick wrap up of headlines you can avoid, now that you have me to break it down for you.

What Spanx are doing to your internal organs: Hopefully, squashing the shit out of them so I appear smaller.

Jennifer Lawrence says she has “armpit vaginas”:  I think she has mouth vagina; a deep dark hole where weird stuff has been known to come out.

Is NASCAR ready for a gay driver?: I thought that was settled in Talladega Nights.

Toronto Mayor Rob Ford was video- taped drunk again last weekend: So were most students on college campuses.

Two Cookie Jars filled with Marijuana found in Justin Beiber’s home: You would think with all that weed around, his music would be better. Oh, and who cares.

Alex Rodriguez Suspended for 2014 MLB Season: Now, he can lay back at his pool, sipping mojitos with his $300 million dollars and wait till 2015 and another $50 million. That’s showing him.

The Boyfriend

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We have our first boyfriend in the family. I have to say that I am pretty excited for my daughter. She’s nearly 15 and I think that is a fair age. I trust her, but I’m not “Channel 6 News at 11” stupid. I never underestimate the tenacity of a hormone frenzied teen. The other night, my mini-me told me she had a rehearsal that wasn’t on the calendar. Immediately, my mind went to the old “I have a practice at the school and you need to take me but I’m really going to pretend to go there wait till you leave and sneak off to my boyfriend’s house” mode. After some detective work, it turns out that she really did have a practice. Poor thing. She never even knew I was investigating. Would she even know to pull something that sneaky? Damn skippy she would.

I feel like I have been preparing my girls and myself for the first boyfriend since they were old enough to talk. There were the pre-school conversations about the boy who kissed her on the cheek. That’s so cute. He likes you.

In elementary school it was more about diffusing the gross factor. I’ve listened to countless stories of how he said she was stupid, explaining that a 5th graders game was pretty sad and for the most part, he’s brain-damaged.

Middle school contained more brain damaged boys, some with weird facial hair and funny voices, but that’s about it.

Now, high school is all about damage control. The conversations have become dramatic arias about relationships that I clearly don’t understand or couldn’t possibly have experienced. I listen, face completely devoid of emotion. I have learned that if you begin to even crack a smile, it will be met with a “Mahmmmmmm! Gahdddddddd!” So, I sit like a statue, rolling my eyes on the inside.

I try to add a nugget of wisdom at the end, careful not to begin with a “when I was your age”(I was told that anything after that sentence turns into Charlie Brown’s teacher talk). I can usually get in a good piece of advice if I pretend to say it in passing. However, now that the boyfriend has entered our airspace, the commentary has become far more pointed and direct.

If you’re going to give your daughters advice, you better be willing to lead by example. It is impossible to teach your daughter how to have a healthy relationship if you can’t consider yourself a role model.

One of my pet peeves revolves around the use of the word “bitch”. Ooh, I hate that word. I especially can’t stand to hear it in everyday conversation. If you call me a bitch, prepare to be cursed out or worse. No man should ever call you a bitch. You have to make it clear that this is unacceptable. Now, if you allow this type of talk in your home, it’s not so easy to insist a boyfriend show your daughter respect. A man who calls a woman out of her name is a man who doesn’t deserve her attention. Ever.

A young lady will emulate relationships she sees. If you make bad choices and demonstrate destructive behavior; guess what. Get your act together.

My daughters are constantly reminded that their bodies are not the equivalent of a roller coaster. Contrary to some opinions, their physiques are not created for the amusement of others; to hop on for a ride, have fun and then get off. I teach them to respect their bodies by feeding them physically and spiritually. When young ladies understand the majesty of the human body, she is more likely to take great care of her own vessel. Girls who have little to no self-respect tend to become jiz depositories.

It’s okay to be affectionate toward one another. When you kiss, hormones and neurotransmitters rush through your body. Along with natural endorphins, they produce the euphoria most people feel during a good kiss. In addition, your heart rate increases and your blood vessels dilate, so your whole body receives more oxygen than it does when you’re just standing around. Also, along with the increase of the heart rate comes the increase of blood flowing to different parts of the body. Would you care to take a wild guess as to where that blood is rushing to in the young man? That’s right, my dear. You can say that kissing is the gateway drug of sexual activity. Do not pretend it means anything less.

If a young man is respectful, he will not embarrass you or put you in a position where your character may be compromised. Your reputation precedes you. Make sure it’s a positive one.

A dad or consistent positive male role model is the most important part of relationship building for a young lady. This is where she gets her healthy dose of self-respect and understanding of how it feels to be loved and cherished. If this man tells her that she is beautiful, smart and worth being treated only with the highest admiration, she will take that knowledge into future relationships with potential suitors.

My last piece of advice, this week, was to choose wisely. It’s nice to be a couple, but a couple of what is the better question. Be as particular about a young man as you are about your choice in shoes. Believe me, if they are worth your time and attention, they will understand and happily submit.

I have only hope that my daughters will listen to my advice. I know they will have to find their own way but I can sleep at night knowing we have laid a good foundation. It’s also easy to sleep knowing I have a .45 and a shovel.

A Gentleman’s Guide to Holiday Gift Giving

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Filed under Humor, Straight Talk

Each year, my husband attends an event on the Saturday before Christmas. This sacred occasion is called “Man Day”. I have been told that Man Day is held annually as a day of camaraderie where all the men can shop together for their wives. My husband swears that the support of his man friends is helpful when choosing the perfect gift for me. Apparently, he and his buddies have been searching for this perfect gift for 17 years because I have yet to see it.

Man Day traditionally begins at Hooter’s where the men gather to chart their shopping strategy. My husband and twenty of his closest friends, insist that the wings at Hooter’s will sustain them for the virtual lifetime of shopping they must endure. Several hours (and several beers) later, they strike out in search of that present. I have intelligence from a reliable source (a Man Day participant that I bullied into confession) that last year, they never left Hooter’s. However, I am told, first stop is the mall, followed by a local jeweler who sets up a full bar so the men can shop and shake off the holiday gift giving jitters. The pressure must be unbearable…

Christmas morning, I open my gift, smile, let out a sigh and say thank you. Excuse me, but does this man live in the same house as me? Is he even on the same planet?
I have the same conversation with Man Day spouses every year so I have decided to give gentlemen a few tips for shopping this season.

• Look in your wife’s closet. Get the right sizes and write them down. We are not all the same size as the petite 19-year-old sales girl. If you come home with an XS and your wife is an XL, it’s not a compliment and you’re in trouble.

• Scarves suck, unless they are from Hermes (and chances are you don’t even know what that is).

• Don’t buy us shoes. It’s the equivalent of us trying to buy you a car. You will probably buy what you like and we will end up with a pair of clear heeled hooker pumps with ankle straps.

• Nobody wears a size small in under garments except nubile young girls. You aren’t married to her, you certainly don’t know her and I’m assuming prison is not for you. If your wife or girlfriend happens to wear a size small, screw her.

• You can’t go wrong at Tiffany’s. That little blue box contains the antidote to whatever ails her. Let me help you: http://www.tiffany.com.

• Stay away from appliances. My ex-husband once gave me a shop vac.
My EX-Husband.

• Spa certificates are welcomed. A nice, strong masseuse to work out those kinks would be great since you always fall asleep after the first rub.

• Don’t tell her to go out and pick it herself. That’s just lazy and we don’t consider that a “real” gift. We’ll take it, but it won’t count.

• Ask her girlfriends. They are your gift-giving Yoda’s.

• Don’t take your “Man Day” friends’ advice. They are as clueless as you.

Most of all, if she says “Don’t get me anything this year”, GET HER SOMETHING!

Ladies, even though they don’t always get it right (or even get in the ballpark) I will leave you with this nugget of wisdom:

After complaining about a gift I received one year, I was given the best advice ever. My friend, who my children affectionately call Aunt John, laughed out loud when I told him of the pearl earring offering. The last thing I would ever wear is pearl earrings, but that’s what I found under the tree. He said to me “Sistah, if your man can go to a jewelry store and pick out exactly what you would love without your help, you’ve got bigger problems because he’s gay”.

Good luck out there!