Interracial Marriage. Biracial Children...and all the joy that comes with living in the south.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Monday, March 19, 2012
What If...
The "what ifs" of life always have a way of grinding us down to a finely crushed version of who we really are. What if you actually stopped asking "what if" and just do:
what comes naturally to you
what gives you peace
what makes you happy
what you always thought you could do
what "they" said you couldn't/shouldn't (p.s. tell "they" to go to hell)
what makes you smile
what makes you cringe
what makes you strong
what makes you weak
what makes you proud
what makes you feel love
what makes you feel like Wonder Woman, Rosa Parks, and Cher all at the same TIME!!!
WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT!!!
Last time I checked, you're gonna go into a casket/ urn/ Viking burial boat all by your damnself. Stop letting other people tell you WHAT you need to do with YOUR life. Stop waiting for someone else to give you permission to live your own life.That little voice that whispers to your soul is actually shouting: WTF do I gotta do to get you to pay attention?
What if you listen?
Thursday, January 19, 2012
The Liebster Award
This little blog was awarded the Liebster from the wonderful Erin at the beautiful, funny, and touching blog, "from Prada to Payless". I can’t tell you how honored I am to win an
award. Thank you so much, Erin!
Here's a Little more about the award from Erin:
Liebster means "dearest" in German. The Liebster award is given to up and coming bloggers, who have fewer than 200 followers.
There is no evaluation committee or formal award process (darn!) for the Liebster, but it is better than that. It is recognition that a peer has noticed and appreciated your hard work.
There are just a few rules that come along with the Liebster Award. They are as follows:
* Thank your Liebster Award presenter on your blog.
* Link back to the blogger who awarded you.
*Reveal your top five blog picks, who fit within the award parameters.
* Inform them that you have chosen them by leaving a comment on their blog.
* Post the award on your blog.
Here are my TOP FIVE. I look forward to reading each of these blogs and I feel the bloggers that run them are among the best in the world! Allow me to get my Oprah on as I screeeeaammmm, " You get a LIEBSTER!"
LMAO with wendy (liebman) Stand-up comic-Wendy Liebman is one of my idols. Her blog is smart, smart-ass, and informative. It's a wonderful mix of info about healthy living and pie in the face funny. I love this blog. Well, go join it---NOW!
The Sassy Piehole A hysterical look at motherhood. It's funny and sassy and it even bakes you a hot apple pie!
Blogged Down At The Moment This blog is a great humor site run by Mariann Simms. Beautiful pictures razor- sharp insights. This lady is funny as hell. I'm also kinda partial because she's from Alabama!
Captain Canard Run by humorist, contributor to Stupid Ass Questions, and Twitterererer Extraordinaire, Dan Burt. Pretty much a one stop shop for funny and off beat stories and one-liners. Dan is an AMAZING comedy writer. I wouldn't be surprised if he ended up as a head writer for a TV show.
Life on (De) Mars This Mississippi Mama does it all! This is my go to blog for great recipes, cute kid pictures, and money saving tips! I love this blog. Now that Paula Deen has had to cop to giving herself "The Diabetes," I expect Margaret to slip right in, and take her place, y'all.
How to Live in a 320 Square Foot Home I love this blog. I'm breaking protocol by honoring this blog. I'm gonna do it anyway. Anyone who can live in a 320 Square Foot House with this much beauty and charm deserves this award! A really fascinating look at style, function, and sustainability. I'm mesmerized by this blog.http://www.320squarefoothome.com/
There you have it! Congratulations to the winners of the Liebster Award! Now get out there and pay it forward!
~ Tange ( Tangela Ekhoff, Award-Winning Blogger!)
Friday, November 11, 2011
Blame Dave P: How The McBrothas Got Their Name
I apologize in advance for the racial undertones, overtones,
highlights, and lowlights, but this is the story that must be told.
Exhibit A: Baby Daniel
A few weeks after Daniel was born, I walked into 1048 to
show everyone pictures of my sweet little boy. He had hair the color of a new
penny and eyes the color of a back-to-school pair of Levi’s. He was beautiful.
When
the pictures got to Dave P( bling, blong, blaow), the lead singer and harmonica
player of my favorite band, Blues Old Stand, he said, “Damn, Tange, that’s one
white ass baby. You should call him Blackie McWhiteBoy.”
I laughed. Hard. P.Moe was absolutely right. Daniel was the whitest
black baby I had ever seen. He was the perfect mix of DaddyFixIt and me. He was
as white as his dad, and had blue eyes. If it hadn’t been for his perfectly
pouty little mouth, I would go to my grave believing some white woman down the
hall and I had been victims of a soap opera caliber baby swap.
When I got home from my adventure in Cloverdale (It wasn’t a
full Happy Hour. I couldn’t drink, because I was pregnant, yet again.) I told
the husband what Dave P said. I fully expected him to hit the roof. We had had
a couple of full on brushes with some pretty snarky comments about our race
mixing. While I thought Blackie
McWhiteBoy was the funniest thing I ever heard, I wasn’t so sure about Old
Daddy. To my amazement he laughed. Hard. He picked up his son and said, “Well,
I guess you are Blackie McWhiteBoy.”
Exhibit B: Baby Adam
Nine months later Adam was born. His eyes were even bluer.
His hair was even lighter. Rene and I started calling him Whitey McBrotha. Adam
looked nothing like me. At. ALL. I still think he may have been switched.
The boys are just getting to the age where they recognize
that we all look a little different.
Daniel is noticing it more. The other day, he pronounces Old Daddy to be
“Pink, Strawberry Ice Cream.” Daniel
said he and Adam were “Kinda Yellow Ice Cream,” and “Mama, you’re my favorite.
You’re Chocolate!” Rene and I had a good old laugh off of that. I’m just glad I’m
still my little boy’s favorite!
As the McBrothas grow
up and move out into a world that can be very harsh to people of all flavors, I
hope that they always remember that the love Daddy and I feel for each other
and feel for them will never have a color. We are a Neapolitan McFamily.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Little Lessons on the Prairie: Birthday Letter to My Children
Dear Ashlee, Daniel, and Adam:
I love each of you. You each bring me immeasurable joy. You each have traits that shock and amaze me. Ashlee, your ability to “cut through the crap” will serve you well as you grow into womanhood. Daniel, you are kind, loving, and sensitive. These traits will make you an incredible father. Adam, your fearlessness scares me and makes me jealous that I’m not as fearless as you. As your birthdays roll around this year, I wanted to let you all know I am glad that I am your Mom.
I got to spend my birthday with MeMaw. I knew on that day it would be the last time I would ever see her on my birthday. I was filled with pain and sorrow and joy. Grandma Ella was special to each of you, as she was to me. If you put her life in perspective, she was an extraordinary woman. She was the three worst things a person could be in Alabama when she was born in 1941: poor, black, and female.
She taught me some very valuable lessons about life and love. I want to share some of them with you:
Never say no to love. Love comes in so many different forms. Grandma never flaunted her romantic relationships for the world to see, but she never hid the fact that she loved her children and her grandchildren with great abandon. She never rejected people for being gay or white or rich or poor or crazy. She always had a plate to feed hungry people. She always found a dollar to give, even when she didn’t have enough for herself. She loved everybody. She treated every single person like they were a child of God. Approach every aspect of your life with love. Sometimes people may hurt you, but often times they won’t. I’m not saying put yourself in a situation where you can physically or emotionally be hurt. There are times, too, when you must love someone enough to walk away.
Never think you are alone. I am here for you. If I can give it to you, I will. If I can’t, I will do everything in my power to help. Mama opened her doors to me, and let me come home when things got really awful for me. She never made me feel bad. She never made me feel like I had to beg or be ashamed. As your Mama, please know, you can always come home to me. You are not alone.
Never underestimate the power of prayer. Mama walked a groove in the floor in our apartment on Edgemont. She would walk and pray. We came to Montgomery with literally the clothes on our back. She prayed that God would bless her with nice dresses to wear to church. She had one dress when we came to Montgomery. She wore it every Sunday for 4 months. When she died, she had three closets filled with beautiful dresses, hats, shoes, and purses. She always believed in looking good to go see Jesus. She prayed to see each of her children graduate; we did. She prayed that we always had a roof over our heads and food in our bellies; we did. She prayed that we would have happy marriages and happy children… sometimes things don’t work out, but Miss Ella wanted the best for us all.
Never pass on a chance to laugh. Mama loved to laugh. She loved to make people laugh. She never let anything stop her from finding the humor in everything. Her favorite comedy bit of all time was that crazy parody video “We Miss Robert” by Ricky Smiley. She told me to see if I could find a spinning rim to put in her casket like they did in that video. She was dying, but able to find something funny. We must have laughed at 100 things over those 4 days. We laughed about 3 year old Ashlee going to my college graduation in a fancy dress and no underwear. We laughed about Daniel singing and dancing to his favorite song “Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones. We laughed about both the boys trying to put a stop to me and their Daddy getting married. We laughed that Adam told her on the phone, “Look, MeMaw, I’m busy. I can’t talk to you.” She thought that was hysterical. When I look back on the time I spent with her right before she died, I will always remember the laughter. Her favorite old school saying was, “Sometimes you have to laugh to keep from crying.” She was right. So laugh, kids.
Your Grandmother was an amazing woman. She raised 4 kids of her own and 6 that were not hers. She loved music. She baked the best sweet potato pie and pound cake you ever put in your mouth. She’d whip your butt if you needed it. She’d hug you and wipe away your tears, if you needed it. She made us all feel like we were special. She was proud of each of us for different reasons.
When I close my eyes, I can see each of your little faces looking up at me the first time I held you. Each time, I thought my heart would burst from the love. Your Grandma Ella was there for each of your births. Ashlee, the way you took care of Mama during her cancer and while she was dying was a very heroic act. You were there the day she died. One day, I will die. I hope on that day, you will each be able to say what I say about my Mama: “She did the best she could with what she had, and I know more than anything; that lady loved me.”
Happy Birthday, Babies!
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The Question Lady
If you came here thinking I had answers for you, you came to the wrong place. My head has been filled with random questions. Sure, I could Google the answers, but that would just lead to more questions. Some of these questions keep me up late at night long after the McBrothas have gone off to dream about the destruction they can cause tomorrow.
1. Where the hell is Kristy MacNichol?
2. Why can’t Jennifer Anniston/Rene’ Zellweger/ Halle Berry find true love?
3. What was so wrong with shoulder pads?
4. Why do all the men of pre-school shows look like creepy child molesting arsonists? Have you ever seen The Upside Down Show? It comes on Nick Jr at 10pm…long after bedtime for the demographic. I think it’s some sort of Morse code show for freaks. It “cweeps” me out, as my son says.
5. If I deleted my Twitter account, would Kanye West care?
6. If I actually used my Myspace, would Justin Timberlake notice?
7. How can I turn a sex tape into a money making machine without having to get my smack madam anywhere near nasty ass Ray J or brain dead Tommy Lee?
8. Can you die from eating salsa that’s old enough to have green fridge fuzz all on it?
9. How come no one told me after I turned 40 the hair on my legs would stop growing, but the hair on my face would get all militant? Seriously, if I didn’t keep the chin hairs in check, I’d look like an old, black Amish man, for real. Just call me Jebidiah Tyrone Ekhoff.
10. Is there really a market for plus-sized strippers, and would I be the skinniest one on the pole? Think about it, nobody wants to be the fat girl even at a fat girl freak fest.
1. Where the hell is Kristy MacNichol?
2. Why can’t Jennifer Anniston/Rene’ Zellweger/ Halle Berry find true love?
3. What was so wrong with shoulder pads?
4. Why do all the men of pre-school shows look like creepy child molesting arsonists? Have you ever seen The Upside Down Show? It comes on Nick Jr at 10pm…long after bedtime for the demographic. I think it’s some sort of Morse code show for freaks. It “cweeps” me out, as my son says.
5. If I deleted my Twitter account, would Kanye West care?
6. If I actually used my Myspace, would Justin Timberlake notice?
7. How can I turn a sex tape into a money making machine without having to get my smack madam anywhere near nasty ass Ray J or brain dead Tommy Lee?
8. Can you die from eating salsa that’s old enough to have green fridge fuzz all on it?
9. How come no one told me after I turned 40 the hair on my legs would stop growing, but the hair on my face would get all militant? Seriously, if I didn’t keep the chin hairs in check, I’d look like an old, black Amish man, for real. Just call me Jebidiah Tyrone Ekhoff.
10. Is there really a market for plus-sized strippers, and would I be the skinniest one on the pole? Think about it, nobody wants to be the fat girl even at a fat girl freak fest.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Where Were You?
There are tragic moments in history that are seared into the American consciousness. These moments can galvanize a generation into action or apathy. These moments can spring forth spontaneous memorials and public mourning. These moments make us true citizens of the United States. In playgroups and daycares and parents’ day out groups all over America, tragedy has struck a new generation: Nick Jr. has REPLACED the actress that played Marina in the tour-de-force pre-school program, The Fresh Beat Band.
Where were you the day the music died? I was in the kitchen sneaking me an ice cream sandwich. (When you have pre-school aged kids, you never get to ENJOY treats near them, because they are like crayon-wielding sharks. They can smell a snack from a mile off, and they have no problem with “sharing” your snack.) I remember this moment like it was yesterday. Because it was yesterday when Adam let loose the scream heard round the world, “That’s not my MaWeena! Gimme my MaWeena back!” He then dissolved into a screaming, snotting meltdown that ranked up there with “The Great Wal-Mart Hissy Fit of 2011.” I actually had to put my ice cream sandwich back in the freezer, because I knew this wasn’t gonna be one of those temporary freak outs. ( Sidebar: Dontcha just hate it when the first ice cream sandwich you eat out of the box is the perfect temp then you leave the box in the freezer and you grab another one a couple of days later to find those yucky ice crystals?) Damn you to hell, Marina! I wonder if I can sue somebody, and get the child some college money because of this trauma ?!?!
Who the hell is the Fresh Beat Band? For enlightened parents, who actually care about real issues in the world, they are an annoying pre-school version of a pre-fab TV show band-- an updated, multicultural, “Monkees” without the dreamy Davey Jones for four-year-olds. They even have a Latina as the lead singer. Old Marina is not the lead singer. Old Marina has fiery red hair, and she plays (insert laugh track here) drums. Old Marina manages to look like the grown- up version of that little girl from the Partidge Family who could give less than a damn about “acting” or staying on beat. But my son loves Old Marina. For four-year olds, the Fresh Beat Band ROCKS!!!! Their songs speak to my son’s soul: Let’s Go Bananas, Great Day, Quack Shoes, are like Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On to little Adam.
According to “sources,” Old Marina has left the show to get married and start a family. But, I did some cyber stalking, and it appears Old Marina may have been moonlighting as a singer- songwriter. Damn you to hell, Old Marina. Parents have taken to the interweb to loudly reveal their displeasure. And here I was thinking my kid was the only stalker-in-training. Twitter is atwitter with calls for the beheading of the Director of Programming at Nick Jr. Facebook posts on the official Fresh Beat Band page are scathing and down-right ugly. As my friend Tara said, “Those parents are ready to riot.” I wish these people would find a life.
After much thought, I have decided not to “take it to the streets” over this new, Miss Clairol- assisted Marina. In the stay at home mom community, I bet that makes me a bad mother. As if I care. I’m old-school. I believe this is a teachable moment for my distraught toddler: change happens. You may hate it, but it does happen. I wonder if losing “his MaWeena “will be to my sons’ childhood what the Challenger Explosion was to mine. That was the day I learned to never watch another space ship launch live. I wonder if in 20 years, a group of young people affected by this Old Marina/ New Marina thing will get together and pen a moving, hip-hop anthem to commemorate the day the music died?
Ever the subversive, I am part of that shadow group that prays that the New Marina adds a Ted McGingley cancel curse to the damn show, BECAUSE I HATE IT. I hate every vapid song. I hate every jerky dance move. I hate every scratch of the turntables by “The Real MC Twist,” or is he Shout? Hell if I know.
I do feel bad that my child has lost his first character on a TV show, but if he would stop beau-guarding the damn TV, I could introduce him to the world of soap operas, where character replacement is high art: one day you are seven years old, and poof the next day you’re 32, and head of Jabot Cosmetics, like Victoria Newman on The Young and The Restless.
I will have to endure another old black lady all up on the casket moment with Adam, because I just cut the TV on, and wouldn’t you know it, the channel is set to Nick Jr. I feel a meltdown in 5,4,3,2,…
Where were you the day the music died? I was in the kitchen sneaking me an ice cream sandwich. (When you have pre-school aged kids, you never get to ENJOY treats near them, because they are like crayon-wielding sharks. They can smell a snack from a mile off, and they have no problem with “sharing” your snack.) I remember this moment like it was yesterday. Because it was yesterday when Adam let loose the scream heard round the world, “That’s not my MaWeena! Gimme my MaWeena back!” He then dissolved into a screaming, snotting meltdown that ranked up there with “The Great Wal-Mart Hissy Fit of 2011.” I actually had to put my ice cream sandwich back in the freezer, because I knew this wasn’t gonna be one of those temporary freak outs. ( Sidebar: Dontcha just hate it when the first ice cream sandwich you eat out of the box is the perfect temp then you leave the box in the freezer and you grab another one a couple of days later to find those yucky ice crystals?) Damn you to hell, Marina! I wonder if I can sue somebody, and get the child some college money because of this trauma ?!?!
Who the hell is the Fresh Beat Band? For enlightened parents, who actually care about real issues in the world, they are an annoying pre-school version of a pre-fab TV show band-- an updated, multicultural, “Monkees” without the dreamy Davey Jones for four-year-olds. They even have a Latina as the lead singer. Old Marina is not the lead singer. Old Marina has fiery red hair, and she plays (insert laugh track here) drums. Old Marina manages to look like the grown- up version of that little girl from the Partidge Family who could give less than a damn about “acting” or staying on beat. But my son loves Old Marina. For four-year olds, the Fresh Beat Band ROCKS!!!! Their songs speak to my son’s soul: Let’s Go Bananas, Great Day, Quack Shoes, are like Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On to little Adam.
According to “sources,” Old Marina has left the show to get married and start a family. But, I did some cyber stalking, and it appears Old Marina may have been moonlighting as a singer- songwriter. Damn you to hell, Old Marina. Parents have taken to the interweb to loudly reveal their displeasure. And here I was thinking my kid was the only stalker-in-training. Twitter is atwitter with calls for the beheading of the Director of Programming at Nick Jr. Facebook posts on the official Fresh Beat Band page are scathing and down-right ugly. As my friend Tara said, “Those parents are ready to riot.” I wish these people would find a life.
After much thought, I have decided not to “take it to the streets” over this new, Miss Clairol- assisted Marina. In the stay at home mom community, I bet that makes me a bad mother. As if I care. I’m old-school. I believe this is a teachable moment for my distraught toddler: change happens. You may hate it, but it does happen. I wonder if losing “his MaWeena “will be to my sons’ childhood what the Challenger Explosion was to mine. That was the day I learned to never watch another space ship launch live. I wonder if in 20 years, a group of young people affected by this Old Marina/ New Marina thing will get together and pen a moving, hip-hop anthem to commemorate the day the music died?
Ever the subversive, I am part of that shadow group that prays that the New Marina adds a Ted McGingley cancel curse to the damn show, BECAUSE I HATE IT. I hate every vapid song. I hate every jerky dance move. I hate every scratch of the turntables by “The Real MC Twist,” or is he Shout? Hell if I know.
I do feel bad that my child has lost his first character on a TV show, but if he would stop beau-guarding the damn TV, I could introduce him to the world of soap operas, where character replacement is high art: one day you are seven years old, and poof the next day you’re 32, and head of Jabot Cosmetics, like Victoria Newman on The Young and The Restless.
I will have to endure another old black lady all up on the casket moment with Adam, because I just cut the TV on, and wouldn’t you know it, the channel is set to Nick Jr. I feel a meltdown in 5,4,3,2,…
Friday, November 12, 2010
Bosszilla
(If you are a potential employer and you’re stumbled upon this blog, Tangela is in no way responsible for today’s content. My, uh, her evil twin hacked into the blog. She’s a horrible typist.)
As I litter the Tulsa Metroplex with my resume, I pause to reflect on past bosses. I’ve had a couple of great bosses and quite a few really bad bosses. I have bosses that I don’t even remember. I loved that dude who was manager at Lane Bryant when I worked there during the 2000 Christmas season, but I can’t remember his name to save my life. I can remember almost every stinking detail about the bad ones!
BossZilla
The worst boss I ever had had cancer twice and it didn’t killer. Either time. She’s still alive and kicking. Evil must be the secret to a long life. She would roll up at the school still glowing from chemo and go into a shrill hissyfit. Who in their right mind would leave chemo and come to work? Who would leave chemo and start cussing people out? BossZilla. Instead of thanking teachers and students for their prayers, she’d say something like, “That bulletin board looks like s#%^” She was principal at the last school I ever taught in. She was the bile flavored icing on the cake that soured me to teaching in Montgomery County. I watched her peel a little first grader off of her when he hugged her- not because of the chemo, but because” his hands are nasty.”
There was only one thing me and this one could ever agree on: WE HATED EACH OTHER. She embarrassed me and my co-teacher once so badly in public that it brought me to tears. After that, the gloves were off. I tapped into my inner ghetto girl, and it was on and poppin like bacon grease in Granny’s cast iron skillet. I became walking defiance. More like sauntering, electric sliding defiance. The woman had a proven record of not tenuring black teachers. The school board knew it, the unnamed lobbying association knew it, and the three black teachers at the school knew it. Unlike the other black teachers at the school, I wasn’t afraid of her. I wasn’t afraid for my future. I wasn’t afraid for my job. I knew that she was going to non-renew my contract, but what she didn’t know is I had a copy of a memo she had written to an unnamed Administrator that specifically asked how she could get me moved without her having to deal with the “race issue.” Sidebar: Always be nice to the cleaning people, they can be your greatest friend or your worst enemy. I filed a complaint with the Justice Department and the US Department of Education. There were at least 11 complaints filed against her for the same thing in 3 different school districts. I was offered 6 positions the following year; I turned them all down. She is now an Administrator in the Montgomery Public School System.
Tort Waiting to Happen Zilla
He called me “Nipples.” I was the most educated person that worked there, and he called me “Nipples.” I explained that I didn’t like to be called “Nipples.” I still can’t remember why I didn’t sue him.
FriendZilla
You can’t be friends with your boss. It’s a recipe for disaster. You really don’t want to be getting all Jacked up with the person who can decide your fate. I had a boss who was very friendly at first. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for me at first. I was her favorite at work. It was no secret. I took advantage of our relationship, at times. Everything was fine-- until it wasn’t. She became jealous of the success I was having in our industry. She found out a company in Atlanta was scouting me to come work for them, and she got mad. She found out I was asked to present at a conference about African-Americans in the industry, and her not- black-at- all ass was furious! Then she fired me. I was crushed. I got over it, eventually.
Getting fired was the best thing that ever happened to me. Yes, I was a snot ball for a few weeks, but I learned a lot. I learned to be resourceful. I learned that I was strong. I learned that I don’t do well in captivity. I learned that after all those years of thinking I was a bad employee; I really was a bad employee. I’m from the era where you graduate high school, if you’re lucky enough to go to college-you go- and then you take the first job you’re offered, and stay there until you die. Nobody retired in my old hood. I was trained to play the game, but the training didn’t take. No one ever told me I could own my own business, when I was growing up. No one ever told me I could be an artist or actor or anything that required creativity or individuality. I raged against the machine from childhood. I had no idea why I was always in trouble for speaking my mind. I became a true threat in 6th grade when I did my first and only impersonation of my music teacher. She had it put in my permenant record that I was “smart and devilish and I had an attitude problem.”Pfffffft. (Eye roll, tooth suck, cobra neck)!!!!!!!
Armed with the knowledge I have now, would I have done things differently? Probably not. I see people that started their careers the same time I started mine, and some have really great jobs and lives. Others have fallen prey to greed and power. If I had changed a thing, I wouldn’t be where I am now. I have never been able to play the game well. I’ve never been able to just shut up and go along. I’m dyslexic which makes life hard for an avid reader and even harder for a secret writer. I’m a horrible typist. I’m impatient with people over 18 and under 65. I can do just about anything, but nothing that pays the bills. But, I’m great on the phone. I could always be a telemarketer, if I can get rid of this accent.
I believe one day I’ll be rewarded for doing my own thing. Funny is the only true talent God gave me. I don’t try to be funny. I just am. I try not to offend people. I try not to curse like a sailor. Shut UP! I try not to make my Mama ashamed. I try not to come across like one of those folks on Comic View. Trying to make a career out of making people think and making people laugh is a full time job. It’ll pay off. I’ll make it. And when you see me dressed to the nines, looking like a fluffy Halle Berry, sitting beside Oprah talking about my one-woman show on Broadway; you can say you remember when they used to call me nipples.
In the event I don’t make it on Oprah next week, and I have used you as a reference, just say the following things about me: She types 100 words per minute with 99% accuracy. She has a great attitude. She is a team player. She has never filed an EEOC complaint against anyone. She has never been in Girls Gone Wild. She would be an asset to your university/firm/strip club/convenience store.
Until next time, YeeHaw!
As I litter the Tulsa Metroplex with my resume, I pause to reflect on past bosses. I’ve had a couple of great bosses and quite a few really bad bosses. I have bosses that I don’t even remember. I loved that dude who was manager at Lane Bryant when I worked there during the 2000 Christmas season, but I can’t remember his name to save my life. I can remember almost every stinking detail about the bad ones!
BossZilla
The worst boss I ever had had cancer twice and it didn’t killer. Either time. She’s still alive and kicking. Evil must be the secret to a long life. She would roll up at the school still glowing from chemo and go into a shrill hissyfit. Who in their right mind would leave chemo and come to work? Who would leave chemo and start cussing people out? BossZilla. Instead of thanking teachers and students for their prayers, she’d say something like, “That bulletin board looks like s#%^” She was principal at the last school I ever taught in. She was the bile flavored icing on the cake that soured me to teaching in Montgomery County. I watched her peel a little first grader off of her when he hugged her- not because of the chemo, but because” his hands are nasty.”
There was only one thing me and this one could ever agree on: WE HATED EACH OTHER. She embarrassed me and my co-teacher once so badly in public that it brought me to tears. After that, the gloves were off. I tapped into my inner ghetto girl, and it was on and poppin like bacon grease in Granny’s cast iron skillet. I became walking defiance. More like sauntering, electric sliding defiance. The woman had a proven record of not tenuring black teachers. The school board knew it, the unnamed lobbying association knew it, and the three black teachers at the school knew it. Unlike the other black teachers at the school, I wasn’t afraid of her. I wasn’t afraid for my future. I wasn’t afraid for my job. I knew that she was going to non-renew my contract, but what she didn’t know is I had a copy of a memo she had written to an unnamed Administrator that specifically asked how she could get me moved without her having to deal with the “race issue.” Sidebar: Always be nice to the cleaning people, they can be your greatest friend or your worst enemy. I filed a complaint with the Justice Department and the US Department of Education. There were at least 11 complaints filed against her for the same thing in 3 different school districts. I was offered 6 positions the following year; I turned them all down. She is now an Administrator in the Montgomery Public School System.
Tort Waiting to Happen Zilla
He called me “Nipples.” I was the most educated person that worked there, and he called me “Nipples.” I explained that I didn’t like to be called “Nipples.” I still can’t remember why I didn’t sue him.
FriendZilla
You can’t be friends with your boss. It’s a recipe for disaster. You really don’t want to be getting all Jacked up with the person who can decide your fate. I had a boss who was very friendly at first. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for me at first. I was her favorite at work. It was no secret. I took advantage of our relationship, at times. Everything was fine-- until it wasn’t. She became jealous of the success I was having in our industry. She found out a company in Atlanta was scouting me to come work for them, and she got mad. She found out I was asked to present at a conference about African-Americans in the industry, and her not- black-at- all ass was furious! Then she fired me. I was crushed. I got over it, eventually.
Getting fired was the best thing that ever happened to me. Yes, I was a snot ball for a few weeks, but I learned a lot. I learned to be resourceful. I learned that I was strong. I learned that I don’t do well in captivity. I learned that after all those years of thinking I was a bad employee; I really was a bad employee. I’m from the era where you graduate high school, if you’re lucky enough to go to college-you go- and then you take the first job you’re offered, and stay there until you die. Nobody retired in my old hood. I was trained to play the game, but the training didn’t take. No one ever told me I could own my own business, when I was growing up. No one ever told me I could be an artist or actor or anything that required creativity or individuality. I raged against the machine from childhood. I had no idea why I was always in trouble for speaking my mind. I became a true threat in 6th grade when I did my first and only impersonation of my music teacher. She had it put in my permenant record that I was “smart and devilish and I had an attitude problem.”Pfffffft. (Eye roll, tooth suck, cobra neck)!!!!!!!
Armed with the knowledge I have now, would I have done things differently? Probably not. I see people that started their careers the same time I started mine, and some have really great jobs and lives. Others have fallen prey to greed and power. If I had changed a thing, I wouldn’t be where I am now. I have never been able to play the game well. I’ve never been able to just shut up and go along. I’m dyslexic which makes life hard for an avid reader and even harder for a secret writer. I’m a horrible typist. I’m impatient with people over 18 and under 65. I can do just about anything, but nothing that pays the bills. But, I’m great on the phone. I could always be a telemarketer, if I can get rid of this accent.
I believe one day I’ll be rewarded for doing my own thing. Funny is the only true talent God gave me. I don’t try to be funny. I just am. I try not to offend people. I try not to curse like a sailor. Shut UP! I try not to make my Mama ashamed. I try not to come across like one of those folks on Comic View. Trying to make a career out of making people think and making people laugh is a full time job. It’ll pay off. I’ll make it. And when you see me dressed to the nines, looking like a fluffy Halle Berry, sitting beside Oprah talking about my one-woman show on Broadway; you can say you remember when they used to call me nipples.
In the event I don’t make it on Oprah next week, and I have used you as a reference, just say the following things about me: She types 100 words per minute with 99% accuracy. She has a great attitude. She is a team player. She has never filed an EEOC complaint against anyone. She has never been in Girls Gone Wild. She would be an asset to your university/firm/strip club/convenience store.
Until next time, YeeHaw!
Monday, November 8, 2010
The McBrothas: Preschool Pariahs
They told me I couldn’t have any more babies in 1997. They lied. I found myself inexplicably knocked up in 2005 and 2006. Ok, it’s not inexplicable, but it is surprising since I am the proud owner of a prolapsed this, half-torqued that, a scrambled egg, and Frankenwomb. Hell, I should get sole Executive Producing credit on “I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant!” Once again, I find myself robbed of a reality show, but I digress. Anyhow, after finding about the impending miracle babies, I set about finding names for the children that wouldn’t be too ethnic, too granola, or just plain cringe worthy. So, Debrickashaw, Earthflake, and Shirley were out of contention for the boy name coronation. My name drew a butt load of teasing for me as a kid. I was an Orange Bowl float without a parade. And, my husband’s name is cool for a man in France, only in France. The one thing we bonded over from the very beginning was we’d never give our kids names that would get them a front row seat on the Wedgie Express or a special dispensation by the National Bullying Association as Ass Kickees for Life. Mr. Rene and I know a thing or two about being jacked with because of names, and we were duty bound to protect them.
We settled on Daniel and Adam because they were biblical, practical, and no one would ever make any assumptions about their race, gender, or awesomeness based on their names. We thought we got it right. Daniel would grow up to be brave and faithful when faced with life’s lion dens. Adam would be man enough to listen to his woman, even when she’s telling him to do something downright stupid—I love that in a man. Theologically the kids would be alright.
In hindsight, we were wrong. Jim Bakker crying on t.v. wrong. Jersey Shore being on the air wrong. No playoff in college football wrong. We should have gone with more Nordic names: Daniel the Destroyer and Adam the Abolisher. As they have grown into toddlerhood, one thing has become very apparent: these little wonder twins can tear up anything. Theologically, the kids may be alright, but the husband and I are about ready to remove everything from the house, and force them to live and play in cardboard boxes until we can ship them off to college or boarding school. Mr. Rene looks at me with distrust after the inevitable 5pm crash—not when the stock market closes, but when one hoists the other into the kitchen cabinet to get down a plate. I think Mr. Rene thinks that he may not be the father. Well, he is their damn daddy. He is brute force incarnate. Any man who can pick up a washer and dryer without a dolly and carry it is a bit of a damn heathen.
I have a recurring nightmare about my husband taking me on Maury Povitch demanding a DNA test on me and David Banner of the Incredible Hulk Banners. I see the husband sitting there all smug, telling Maury the kids have superhuman strength, so there is no way he is the father. We cut to a commercial for Binder and Binder, while I rack my brain, “Did I do shots with that dude at Bud’s? Damn you, bartender for overserving me, again! “
Back from commercial, Maury is waving the DNA result packet around like it’s a flag on Puerto Rican Day in the Bronx. And I want to go upside his head something fierce. Old David is sitting there chameleonizing from lime green to spring maple leaf. Maury makes on last ditch effort to get me to come clean about creeping with David. “Maury,” I say, “ There is no way I had relations with THE HULK. I’d remember that, even after the Jager!” Maury slowly opens the envelope, looks at Mr. Rene, “YOU ARRREEE The Father!” I get my cobra neck roll on, as only the animated baby mamas on this show can. The audience is shouting, the Hulk is sweating green food color everywhere, and I wake up to the sound of something breaking. It’s not the Hulk, it’s one of my beloved, beautiful cherubs, knocking a picture frame off of the mantle. The Mantle. What kind of lizard toes does a kid have to climb up on a damn mantle?
Since we’ve been in OK, the boys have taken a ceremonial leap off of their bunk beds onto their ceiling fan, leaving it minus a blade. Five minutes after my new to me sofa arrived in the house, Adam bled on it. Daniel, in an effort to prove asthma can be contracted by an entire family in one sitting, sprayed an entire canister of Glade all over the bathroom to mask the smell of a heinous stinky.
There is no reason why I should have to seek employment. My children are baby model beautiful, but I don’t take them on model calls, because I’m afraid of them drop kicking a photographer or burning down a modeling agency. I think it’s a cruel joke that the big guy has given me such cute kids, yet, I’m unable to profit from them. Hell, the Lohans ain’t as cute as my boys, yet the Deena gets to spend all of her young ‘uns earnings on new clothes…I want a chance, too! In the words of Daniel the Destroyer, “Not Fair!”
Beat them. I know that’s what you’re thinking. Beating them only makes them stronger, and turn a strange shade of chartreuse. Mr. Rene says that’s all the proof he needs. I tell Mr. Rene’ it’s a side effect of race mixing. It happens to all biracial kids. It’s what the klan tried to warn you about. Then I remember sitting next to a green dude at the World Famous Johnny Zip Lounge.
We settled on Daniel and Adam because they were biblical, practical, and no one would ever make any assumptions about their race, gender, or awesomeness based on their names. We thought we got it right. Daniel would grow up to be brave and faithful when faced with life’s lion dens. Adam would be man enough to listen to his woman, even when she’s telling him to do something downright stupid—I love that in a man. Theologically the kids would be alright.
In hindsight, we were wrong. Jim Bakker crying on t.v. wrong. Jersey Shore being on the air wrong. No playoff in college football wrong. We should have gone with more Nordic names: Daniel the Destroyer and Adam the Abolisher. As they have grown into toddlerhood, one thing has become very apparent: these little wonder twins can tear up anything. Theologically, the kids may be alright, but the husband and I are about ready to remove everything from the house, and force them to live and play in cardboard boxes until we can ship them off to college or boarding school. Mr. Rene looks at me with distrust after the inevitable 5pm crash—not when the stock market closes, but when one hoists the other into the kitchen cabinet to get down a plate. I think Mr. Rene thinks that he may not be the father. Well, he is their damn daddy. He is brute force incarnate. Any man who can pick up a washer and dryer without a dolly and carry it is a bit of a damn heathen.
I have a recurring nightmare about my husband taking me on Maury Povitch demanding a DNA test on me and David Banner of the Incredible Hulk Banners. I see the husband sitting there all smug, telling Maury the kids have superhuman strength, so there is no way he is the father. We cut to a commercial for Binder and Binder, while I rack my brain, “Did I do shots with that dude at Bud’s? Damn you, bartender for overserving me, again! “
Back from commercial, Maury is waving the DNA result packet around like it’s a flag on Puerto Rican Day in the Bronx. And I want to go upside his head something fierce. Old David is sitting there chameleonizing from lime green to spring maple leaf. Maury makes on last ditch effort to get me to come clean about creeping with David. “Maury,” I say, “ There is no way I had relations with THE HULK. I’d remember that, even after the Jager!” Maury slowly opens the envelope, looks at Mr. Rene, “YOU ARRREEE The Father!” I get my cobra neck roll on, as only the animated baby mamas on this show can. The audience is shouting, the Hulk is sweating green food color everywhere, and I wake up to the sound of something breaking. It’s not the Hulk, it’s one of my beloved, beautiful cherubs, knocking a picture frame off of the mantle. The Mantle. What kind of lizard toes does a kid have to climb up on a damn mantle?
Since we’ve been in OK, the boys have taken a ceremonial leap off of their bunk beds onto their ceiling fan, leaving it minus a blade. Five minutes after my new to me sofa arrived in the house, Adam bled on it. Daniel, in an effort to prove asthma can be contracted by an entire family in one sitting, sprayed an entire canister of Glade all over the bathroom to mask the smell of a heinous stinky.
There is no reason why I should have to seek employment. My children are baby model beautiful, but I don’t take them on model calls, because I’m afraid of them drop kicking a photographer or burning down a modeling agency. I think it’s a cruel joke that the big guy has given me such cute kids, yet, I’m unable to profit from them. Hell, the Lohans ain’t as cute as my boys, yet the Deena gets to spend all of her young ‘uns earnings on new clothes…I want a chance, too! In the words of Daniel the Destroyer, “Not Fair!”
Beat them. I know that’s what you’re thinking. Beating them only makes them stronger, and turn a strange shade of chartreuse. Mr. Rene says that’s all the proof he needs. I tell Mr. Rene’ it’s a side effect of race mixing. It happens to all biracial kids. It’s what the klan tried to warn you about. Then I remember sitting next to a green dude at the World Famous Johnny Zip Lounge.
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