Beloved Samsung, May It Text In Peace

Switch-on: September 2005
Switch-off : December 19, 2008

My cell phone died this morning. I’m comforted in knowing there was no struggle or pain. I'm sure it went peacefully.

I keep remembering our last moments together...the last time I dialed out, the last text I sent, the last time I checked movie showtimes... It really gets me in the gut, but I’m glad we had such a good life together.

That old Samsung was good to me. I flipped it up and I flipped it sideways. I dropped it on the floor. I dropped it in the sink. It got nicked and scraped countless of times, but that old phone was faithful.

I get choked up when I look back. When I think about how I could have spent more time on it, just taken better care of it.

Everybody says that I will move on, that I will find another. They may be right, but for now, the loss is just too fresh. Really, it’s almost more than I can bear.

When it’s meant to be, the right phone will come along. I know it will. But for now, if you need to reach me… try smoke signals, messenger pigeons or the Pony Express…if those don’t work, just call me at home.

Ahh…books

I’ve been scrounging around for some great new reading, without much luck. Since devouring the absolutely fantastic Twilight series just in time to see the not-so absolutely fantastic movie, the pickings have been mighty slim. In this book drought, I think I’ll just dust off a couple of my girlhood favorites—revisit the places where the love affair first began.

Anne of Green Gables
by L.M. Montgomery. I first caught this as a movie on PBS. I drove my family to such madness by hogging our only TV whenever it was on, that finally my daddy went out and found the books for me. I can't say what it is about a little redheaded orphan from PEI that touched me so. But we’re kindred spirits, she and I, and I have the collected works to prove it.

Constance: A Story of Early Plymouth
by Patricia Clapp. When I was a fifth grader at J.E. Harper Elementary School, my teacher used to choose books for the class (talk about book censorship). We’d dutifully line up and pick a teacher-approved reading off this rickety library cart. Once, ALL of the Judy Blume books were gone by the time it was my turn; somebody else got to read about Margaret’s search for God inside her training bra. I got stuck with a tale about a girl living in early Plymouth…and it’s one of the best stories I ever read.

Jane-Emily
by Patricia Clapp. This book scared the holy sh*t out of me. A girl moves into a house where another little girl dies and foolishness goes on—straight haunting style. I don’t know if I’d recommend this one for young readers, but man, oh man, was it good.

Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret
and just about anything else by Judy Blume. There wasn’t much in the way of African-American literature for a little black girl bookworm in 1980s elementary school. But Margaret and Deenie and all the others helped me make it through. If I ever have a daughter, Ms. Judy will certainly take a place of high honor on her bookshelves.

Honorable mentions go to:
Sassy, brave Ramona
Nosy Nancy Drew
The Sweet Valley High twins
Jo and Beth and Meg and Amy…and dear, dear Laurie

The Return

Gloria is back. Her return was heralded at 7 a.m. this morning with a vat of perm and some rollers.

It felt like slipping into an old familiar pair of shoes. The scents, the sounds and the sass of the shop felt like homecoming. In the chair, in the bowl, under the dryer...and away we go.

It had been a year since Gloria last was seen. When the stylist turned the chair around, there she was...a little shinier, a little more mature...but it was her.

We're back in business, and that's a good place to be.

I'm a Georgia Voter

I'm not known for my sunny morning disposition; quite the opposite, in fact. But give me a great cause...some powerful motivation, and I can rise and shine with the best of them. This Election Day, that’s exactly what I did.

I was up and dressed well before 6 a.m. so that I could get to my polling place early and beat the predicted crowds. Apparently, 100 or so of my neighbors had the same idea, and I arrived at the precinct to find a pre-dawn election party in full swing. There were stadium chairs and blankets, voters were sharing coffee and doughnuts with those of us who lacked the foresight to bring our own, and when that ran out, quite a few people made cappuccino runs to the convenience station nearby.

There was an energy and celebration in the crowd that made me finally get it…THIS is what 40 years ago was all about. I saw the elderly standing patiently with their walkers and canes, and then graciously accepting jackets or chairs from young black men in full hip hop regalia. Those same men, who asked awkwardly but without shame, how to operate the voting machines inside. They were there, baby, and there was no turning back. Now, watch them yugh!

And when it was time, when the 7 o’clock hour approached, every person there gathered their things orderly and expeditiously -- in a way that most think black people can’t -- straightened their shoulders and stepped through the polling doors, right into a place in history.

This is the day.

Ex the Text

I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the way good old traditional telephone communication went the way of snail mail. And I have to say, while I don't miss licking stamps, I'm pissed about the text talk.

It is not, nor will it ever be, appropriate to have important relationship discussions via cellular technology. Sending me HEY U messages every morning is not the same as a wakeup call. It just doesn't induce my panty-dropping mechanism. And given the fact that umm, words are my profession, said texters lose even more cool points for piss poor spelling!

IDK...SMDH...RFLMAO...

What is that, anyway? Yiddish? Morse Code? I speak the honest to God truth when I say I have had to Google some of the text messages I get.

For the record, SMDH means Shaking My Damn Head. And that's just what I do when people start with the textversation.

A text from him: wz thinkin I would fly up 2 C U this wknd. Whatchu got up.

My response: Busy.

In the time it took him to misspell two sentences, he could have called. In fact, he should have. I bet if we timed it, he could speak those words faster than he typed them.

It's sad times when we've all become too busy to just pick up a phone, and say Hello. But I gotta run, so...TAFN. TTYL.

LOL.

Funny

Sarah Palin makes my teeth hurt

Any day where the nation’s collective attention is focused almost solely on Sarah Palin is just going to suck. So, when I broke a molar around 4 p.m. last Thursday, it’s no more than I should have expected for the day.

It was just like any other day at the office. Until I bit down onto some snack nuts and the earth shook. Or, at least my jaw did. Something happened.

I made an emergency doctor’s visit for Friday a.m. (which I’m still too traumatized to talk about), and headed home to get ready for the Biden-Palin debacle. Later that evening, I doped myself up with some Aleve—partially because of the tooth, but mostly in prep for Palin watching—and settled down for what had to be the single most lacklustre non-event of my entire human existence.

Did that debate really not happen right before my eyes? Did I waste away precious seconds of my life watching Palin neatly sidestep any attempt at real engagement by the moderator and Dem. VP candidate Joe Biden? Please tell me it was the drugs. Somebody please tell me I did not see what I think I know I saw. (How's that for Palin-speak?)

I am more frustrated with this woman than any minimally intelligent person should ever be. I want to like her. Lawd, knows I do...but, I just can't. I am over her. I cannot believe that she chose not to answer one single question directly. Over and over and over again. Nothing happened.

I can’t wait for November 4. That day, when she asks Americans to vote for the McCain-Palin ticket, I hope they’ll all take a cue from little ole Sarah…redirect the nation’s attention to something else, preferably a vote for Obama.

Gloria...my Gloria

I used to have a hair alter-ego. Her name was Gloria, and she had fabulous hair. Gloria usually showed up on salon day with a to-die for cute crop, hair all shiny and bouncy, ends neatly trimmed, perm freshly applied. It was glorious being Gloria. I loved her.

Last year, after my skin and hair rejected the perm, Gloria packed up her sh*t and left. Taking with her the heady scent of fresh no-lye relaxing. Gone were the days of admiring glances at my trendy, closely cut flyness. Gloria was just gone. All I had to remember her by was a cabinet full of Gold n’ Hot curling irons in assorted sizes, an old silk head scarf and half a stick of Paul Mitchell slick pomade. Now, I’m the one who glances sideways at other women on salon day. Their hair all sleek and chic; mine twisting and curling, knotting and napping and doing just about any damn thing it wants whether or not I agree.

I am not this hair. But what hair am I? Is it Bonquisha, Ms. Clairol, or Shenappy-happy? I don’t know, but I’m having an ongoing hairdentity crisis and my hair SOSs have so far left me SOL. Man, I miss Gloria.



I never considered myself to be that girl…the one who ties her identity to her hairstyle. I laughed secretly at women–-strange ones and known ones--who felt long hair is the only it…smirking in arrogance because I had the cheekbones and the flair for barely there hair. Rolling my eyes as they flick born or bought hair over their shoulders, hair which honestly made them look way too old. But that was then, when I was in control of my hair.

Now that my locks are firmly in control of me, the joke is on me. This wild, wiry mane laughing outright. Taunting me to try, just try, to do something about it. And so I do, tussling and twisting and detangling with all my might, for hours on end. Only to be reminded minutes, hours or days later, that, yes, I am in fact this hair, so we might as well settle down and get to know each other.

Day by day, I’m learning. And that’s all I can do, really. But if you see Gloria, if you spot her turning a corner, hair gleaming and looking fly, tell her don’t forget about me. I’m waiting anxiously for her return.

Winter come hither

I don’t ever need a thermometer to tell me it’s getting cold outside. I know the temps are dropping because I start getting random phone calls from old (and cold) flames. Every year, after the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer, dudes just start calling me…wanting to see me. Telling me how much they miss me, and how they want to try again. What they really wanna do is lock down a snuggle buddy for the holidays. But I’m hip to the game.

Me and my friend Lynette joke about this all the time. We spend all summer alone, no dates, no prospects…just dinners with each other at Picadilly, and then at the first hint of chill—the phone starts ringing.

Maybe it’s some primal winter survival instinct known only to men. When I start to get cold, I just drag out the heavy blankets and put on some socks. But these guys, when they catch a chill, they whip out the old phone roster and start dialing. Enticing unsuspecting women with dates to the movies and to dinner.

I admit that I’ve fallen for the old winter come-hither a time or two—okay, maybe three times, but definitely, no more than four times. And it was great…pure bliss. Lighting fires and watching movies and wearing his sweatshirt…it was all good from about mid-October until the week before Christmas.

That’s when things start to get a little tricky. He’s trying to figure out how to not buy you a gift, but still get the goods. And you’re trying to figure out if the two of you should wear matching sweaters to Christmas dinner. Faster than you can say Valentine’s Day, he’s gone.

Oh yes, I’m hip to the game.

Sure, you’ll see a resurgence of interest for New Year’s. After all, who wants to go home alone after drinking too much? After that, be prepared to pack it all in along with the Christmas ornaments and your New Year's resolutions. Spring is on the way, Sister Kate. And with the first appearance of buds and tiny green plant shoots, it’s in with the new and out with the you.

Save yourself some trouble this winter….just stock up on some thick socks and send the phone to voicemail when it rings. You’ll be glad you did.

Cornrows and other nonsense…

Last week, my scarefro was getting on my nerves, so I made an appointment with braider Habibah. If braiding was an Olympic sport, Habibah would be a frickin’ Gold Medalist. I don’t know what genetic pool produced her agile and nimble fingers, but she had every hair on my head braided in no time flat.

She worked so quickly, in fact, that I had paid her and was back in my car before I noticed the awful, stabbing, mind-numbing pain radiating from my scalp. My friends all warned me that the first few days would be a tad uncomfortable, particularly for a first-timer. They failed to tell me it would feel like a swarm of killer bees landed in my head for some target practice. This was bound to turn out bad.

I suffered through five whole days of that foolishness. Five whole days of being unable to squint because my hair was pulled so tight. Five whole days of not being able to even nod my head.

Five. Whole. Days…of cornrow terrorism.

On Day 5, I stopped by the local beauty supply in search of a product called Braid Ease. It’s supposed to help. A professional hairstylist who was shopping on the same row as me took one look at my irritated scalp and said, “Oh, that’s not right,” as she eased away from me, looking like she was about to call the CDC on me for whatever was eating away at my head.

I rushed home and performed an emergency braid evacuation. I ripped out some hair in the process, but we’ll just call that acceptable collateral damage.

The scarefro is back…and it’s back getting on my nerves….but when I think about what it could be, I just whip out my pick and go with the ‘fro.

4:03 p.m.

In my next life, I want to be an albino peacock. If that doesn't get me noticed, nothing will.

PETA is being run by the mentally impaired. They have asked Ben & Jerry's to use human breast milk, rather than cow's milk, in all its icecream products. It's true: www.wptz.com/news/17539127/detail.html

Cinnamon Mentos might just be the greatest food ever invented.

The Hair Up There

For the past 20-odd years, I have waged an epic battle of control against a most formidable opponent: my own hair. The war has been fierce, each victory against the nap hard worn. Utilizing a considerable arsenal, I kept my hair not itself using presses, Jheri curls, Kool-aid color (Fruit Punch, thank you), Peroxide, Bantu, black gel, etc. to fry it into submission. I was so fly...it's true. But, it was exhausting!

Then last year.... my skin and hair staged a coup. They turned on me! I was betrayed...not so much by my actual hair...but by my super, ultra, extremely sensitive skin that refused to be chemically burned again just so I could look like I have Indian in my family. And so, September 18, 2007, I waved the white flag -- or in my case, headrag. I let it go. Chopped it off. And, it felt great....for about 3 months.

Then, began another battle...to keep it soft, to keep it tamed, to keep it neat...and this time, this time, oh, my nappy hair is kicking my butt. It's a thing possessed. One day, soft, sassy, touchable ringlets. The next, a tangled, dry, brittle dragon's nest. Payback, I presume, for the Super Strength Hawaiian Silky circa 1996....or maybe it was the Kwame' blonde streak and finger waves, est. 1992.

Either way, I just need help! I admit it. This is my hair SOS...and somebody better help me soon.

I just want to live in perm....I mean peace.

Going Public

I'm thinking of taking my blog public.

This really has been a forum for me to just dump my thoughts and forget about them... but, really, what is the big deal? Truly, one woman's ramblings can be someone else's workday entertainment. I should know, I spend most of my workday dropping in other's people's business. Baby blogs, cooking blogs, travel blogs...you name 'em, my nosy ass reads em.

Who am I to deny others the pleasure of doing the same to me?

So, I guess that about settles it. Coming soon to a blog near you.... it's just Shemika.

Pimento Cheese....here I come

So, I'm prepping myself for the Great Reception Event. I'm please to say I vanquished the pimento cheese, but I'm just not sure what to expect. Lord, please give me the strength to deal with Martha Nell Benton Britt Rogers for a whole night! She is not gone worry the sh*t outta me. I mean this. I'm looking forward to seeing my Bigmama and getting that feeling I get each and every time my spirit finds itself home again.

The Bee does Beantown

Boston is only 12 miles wide. How can that be? I've encountered at least 10 nationalities just by hailing cabs. The drivers have all been wonderful though, and we've talked about everything from hybrid cars to the merits of a good cigarette...I'm still not buying that last one. I've run into some really nice people...who ever knew a New England town could serve up some good ole southern hospitality? And, then there have been a few not so nice ones... Shout out to the biotch in Mickey Ds who would not refill my sweet tea! But we won't let the tea nazi ruin this trip. The lobster at Legal was worth getting lost for, and I still want to get to Harvard and Paul Revere House.

By the numbers

I did the math today on my paycheck. $543.38 is the amount of deductions that I pay every two weeks. That's around $1100 a month. That's more than $12,000 for the year.

Nearly $600 bucks gone every two weeks and the IRS thinks we should be happy that they gave us back $600 for the whole damn year. Stimulate deez!

I might as well laugh. With the cost of tissue, who can afford to cry?

La-la-la-la life goes full circle

Sometimes it's not what happens in times of contention but what happens later that tells the tale. A long, long, long, long time ago, I lost a friend re:bullshit. And since I was innocent of blame, I chose to walk away and never look back. Maybe not the best solution when a friend is involved, but it worked for the girl I was at the time...What can I say? I'm a Virgo. Fast forward to now, and the friend who once was now is reaching out to me. The Olive branch of choice being our shared love for books. So what do I do? If I could walk away from a friend for so many years, is it worth turning back now? And is it worth calling that person a friend? Are there enough words in any book to make up for what we never said back then?
It takes a thought to make a word/And it takes some words to make an action/And it takes some work to make it work/It takes some good to make it hurt/It takes some bad for satisfaction/Ah la la la la la la life is wonderful/Ah la la la la la la life goes full circle --Jason Mraz, Life is wonderful

La femme Noire en Paris

I had lunch at La Madeleine today. I always feel like I've left home when I go there. Cute bistro tables, slightly rustic in decor...tres chic for a moderately priced, American interpretation of what French dining should be.

As it often does, my mind began to wander and my heart beat just a bit faster.

I'm getting a bright idea... Why not Paris?
[Black Girl in Paris by Shay Youngblood is one my favorite books.]

...keep on moving

move. vb. 1. to change or cause to change position or posture. 2. to go or cause to go from one point to another; also: depart. 3. to stir the emotions.

GB is moving to Qatar. I'm moving to yet another new job. This relationship is moving like molasses, and traffic this morning on 285 just wouldn't move at all.

Good ole Mr. Webster hit this one right on the head.