I just love them

See them, how they go?

Together.

Unmatched strides on different footing; but they get to the same place at the same time.

Together.

It works.

Is he guiding her or is he following? Is she allowing herself to be lead or steering with him in the way he would go?

A hand at the center of her back. A gentle and a firm weight that says, “I’m here. I know you got it, but I’m here.”

The slight curve of a graceful neck that acknowledges, “I know.”

Good Girl Gone Bad

Everybody at work thinks I’m a badass.

How I know this is ‘cause they gave me an award that had a Skull & Bones on it, with the word BADASS and my name underneath. 

I was minding my own business (meaning, not paying any attention) at our quarterly all-staff meeting when I heard one of our VPs say, “This next award goes to a person who just takes the lead and gets sh*t f*cking done.”

I’m pretty sure that’s what was said, but I wasn’t listening closely so don’t quote me on that. The next thing I think I heard was, “Shemika, get your badass up here.” Which took me back to my childhood days of breaking stuff that didn’t belong to me. Fortunately, Bigmama wasn’t standing there with a switch, so I knew it was all good.

I received the award for planning and executing our volunteer day at a local Boys & Girls Club. I was glad to do the planning, and get the sh*t f*cking done for the kids. If you want to meet some real badasses, though, spend a day at the Club.

Wait, stop right there! I’m not talking about the kids. I’m talking about the 8 men and women who provide afterschool care, snacks, tutorials, and yes, even love and caring to nearly 150 low-income kids in a rundown, understaffed and underequipped building. The paint and plants I bought are nothing compared to what they do on a regular Monday before 3 p.m.

When the announcer called my name at work, I grabbed the mic Kanye-style and said, “Hold up, hold up, I’ma let you finish but... the staff over at the Club are the real badasses.”

Okay, I didn’t really say that. I didn’t even think of it. My friend DG did, and it was just too good of a line to waste. 

The Club staff really do deserve all the credit, so I dedicate my award to them. The $150 gift card and free hotel room that came with the award? I’m keeping them for myself.

'Cause, I’m a real badass.

The weather outside is frightful

The skies are so not delightful... How much longer can this go on? I'm all for Lake Lanier reaching it's full level and all, but enough already with the rain, overcast conditions and low temps. I am developing a serious case of the S.A.D.s over here (that's Seasonal Affective Disorder, by the way), and that means it's gonna be a long winter.

Year's ago, I, with the help of WebMd.com, self-diagnosed me as S.A.D. (I also diagnosed myself as having an enlarged prostate, which may have been slightly inaccurate, but whatever). That's right, when the seasons change and the sun goes on vacation, things get rough for Mimi.

I know for a (un)scientific fact that I am S.A.D., because I experience:
1. Mood swings: Check. I hate leaving my house and coming back to it in the dark. It pisses me off, and I don't want to smile.
2. Oversleeping: Check. If it's dark outside, I should be asleep, even if it is for 12 hours during my regular workday.
3. Low Energy: Check. Who in the name of a cold winter's morning has the energy to get up and go out when it's 10 degrees, wet, freezing, and oh yeah, DARK.
4. Increased craving for sweets and starchy foods: Check. I want some gumbo, some turkey dressing, some sweet potato pie and some yeast rolls.

According to the experts who do not work for webmd.com, the trick is to turn on plenty of lights, stay active, and take supplements enriched with Vitamin D. But how am I supposed to do that when I'm battling all these symptons? Does shopping for sweet and salty foods count as activity? Does the glow from the TV count as extra light?

I got problems, serious problems. And I'm determined to figure them out... just as soon as I wake up from my nap.

S.A.D.ly yours,
Mimi

Holy Hellacious Hoarding

What in the name of complete, total, filthy, nasty, germy, trashy, bug-infested, dirt, garbage foolishness could possess a human to live like this? 

 
Last night, when I should have been sleeping or at least reading a chapter of my new book, I stumbled across “Hoarders” on A&E. This is the mother of all train-wreck shows, masquerading as semi-reality/documentary TV. 

Hoarding is a compulsive mental disorder whose sufferers literally cannot get rid of anything. Not. One. Thing. Nothing. Not a bottle top, sandwich bag, 3^rd-grade coloring sheet, Pepsi bottle, newspaper, paper clip….nothing… They keep it all. And on top of that, they like to go out and get more stuff, like an armadillo handbag and 17 empty coffee cans.


It’s so sad to watch. So imagine how it must be for them to live like that.

Last night, the two people had it so bad that they were on the verge of getting evicted. One guy was literally sleeping on a mound of empty Pepsi 2-liter bottles and old pizza boxes. He said it was protection, so that if anybody broke in the house, he’d hear them. Dammit, if a burglar was stupid enough to kick that door in, the smell would run them off!

The other hoarder, a lady, had gone through a divorce and needed to clean and move out of her house so it could be sold. She couldn’t do it. She got upset. She threw stuff, she kept stuff, she cried, she snapped, and she just could not do it. At the end, she had to leave the house as it was.

I tell you what, I already have hygiene issues. I do not like clutter or filth. I do not like to keep plastic bags, receipts or anything. And have, in fact, been known to throw away plastic bags with receipts in them.

After watching that madness, it made me want to get up at 2 a.m. and clean. But then, sheer laziness set in and I drifted off to sleep, dreaming about comet and bleach and empty closets.

Look for this show. I promise, it will change your life and your attitude toward junk drawers.

Blah, blah, blog

My last post was over a month ago? That can't be right. How did that happen? How did I get so distracted?

Oh, I know, what happened... my life got in the way! 

Recently at work, my co-editor was let go for underperformance. So I've had to step up with OVER-performance and make it all happen. 

Recently in life, I had to let go my co-snuggler for his own underperformance (no, not THAT kind of a performance! Back away from the gutter!!). All I have to say about him is, the phone lines are NOW open and I am happily accepting new applications for 2010!!!!

With all this underwhelming underperformance, I could barely find time to sleep, much less blog. I hope you understand.

But now I'm back! I missed ya, and we're gonna make up for lost time.

So, tell me, please, what have you all been up to?

change my name to silly e. badu

Can a man and a woman ever go back to being just friends after they've been so much to each other?

And once that so much more goes horribly, awfully, irrevocably wrong, is there even any point in trying to go back to the beginning?

A Special Place

I've been feeling out of sorts lately, as my "Jesus Birthday" approaches. The big 3-3 is coming friends and I don't exactly quite like the way it feels. Single. No kids. Most of the time, that's a very good life for me. It just works, but there have been recent days when I found myself wondering if I made the right choices. If I'm where and who I'm supposed to be.

Today, a 5th grade writing assignment dedicated to me, proclaimed very loudly, "Yes. You are EXACTLY who and where you're supposed to be."



Just in case you can't read the image:

A Special Place

My favorite place to be is, at my Aunt Mimi's house. We always have fun together. Every time I see her, I get excited! We get to play cards, watch TV and look for red tree frogs in her backyard. I also get to help clean sometimes and talk about things.

Every year she helps me pick appropriate school clothes and supplies. She helps me with things I do not understand and I enjoy hanging out with her, especially when we have dinner together, we go get ice cream to top off the night!

I love her because I will always have fun and feel safe and loved. I can get advice, and practice at beating her at cards. I can always talk to her about school, friends and so much more. I don’t know what I would do without her!


I Love You Mimi !

Nia Simone Allen
5th Grade

From the SU yard to the World

I remember it just like it was yesterday. May 1998. I'd just graduated from Southern University and my partner-in-crime GB had another year to go. We cried like babies...fearful, I guess of what the future held. No more living in the dorms or meeting for lunch and dinner in the cafe. 

I went off to Louisville. And time passed. She graduated, and eventually we found ourselves back in the same city and up to our old tricks. Together again. For good. Or, so we thought.

Then, life presented her with a chance to go to Qatar for a year. She had a blast. And shortly thereafter, life showed up again with another offer. Pack it all up and move to Turkey. And so, she did. But there are no tears this time...just expectations of grand adventures and, yes, a few butterflies, because it is a long way from home, after all. 

I say, you go girl! I say, that we take home with us. I say, that you can come home again, when you're good and ready. I say, have a blast! I say, when you least expect it, a little piece of home will manage to find you wherever you are. 

I will see you soon!

U done made me hit this car

I ventured out on my lunch hour with nothing but edamame and spicy thai soup on my mind.

Outside on the street, I walked over to the crosswalk, and proceeded to cross when the little white fluorescent stick man said I could. 

Halfway across the street, I heard a muted, but definite thud. The sounds of a small fender-bender in progress. The driver in the front car looked annoyed, hot and late for an

 appointment. The driver responsible for the accident looked mighty sheepish when he jumped from his car. 

Rather, than approach the front driver, he turns to me, shakes his head and says, "See what you did? I was looking at you, and you done made me hit this car."

I wonder if AllState's Accident Forgiveness will forgive that?

Just Shemika is Just Sweating...from here on out.

Holy Mary Mother of Thermostats!

I just opened an electric bill from Walton EMC, and I'm convinced they accidentally sent me the bill for the Governor's Mansion, because I KNOW my little ranch does not cost this much to cool. 

I mean, there was that one week in late July when I went on vacay and left the A/C running like the plants, TV and floor needed to be cooled off. And there was that one night, I was having hot flashes so I turned it down to like 68-degrees...but surely, surely this bill has to be wrong. Right?

I'm about to call Mr.-Charge-Shemika-Way-Too-Much-Walton-EMC right now and ask him to put me on a layaway plan. Cash for Clunkers is fine, but what about Cash for Cooling?! 

If Walton EMC says this bill really belongs to me and not to Sonny Perdue, I'll be forced to pay it, but my neighbors are gonna be so upset when every window in my house looks like this:

Thursday update

Breakfast: Pepsi
Lunch: 4 Chick-fil-A Nuggets from coworker 1, half-chicken salad on wheat from Co-Worker 2, the other half of the now room-temp Pepsi from breakfast.

If we are what we eat, then what am I?

Deep breath...without further ado... here's what I put in my mouth this week.

And before any of you even ask, no I didn't forget the breakfast items. I just didn't have any.

Monday
Lunch: Dr. Pepper
Dinner: Lemon Pepper fish (Tilapia, I think), collard greens (boiled, not braised), sliced tomatoes

Tuesday
Lunch: Turkey Burger Patty, Potatoes, leftover collards
Dinner: Popeyes Strips, Cajun Fries

Wednesday
Lunch: 1/2 California Roll, 1/2 Crunchee Roll
Dinner: Oatmeal

Tell the truth and shame the deviled eggs

I'd like to start this post with a short story.

Yesterday, I went to the dentist for my 6-month cleaning. He found a small cavity...yikes!!!

Doc was astonished, because my teeth were so healthy just 6 short months ago. He asks, “Have you been eating a lot of chewy candy or something?”

I reply, with a look of absolute innocence as I think about the Starburst and Laffy Taffy habit that has turned into nearly a crack addiction, “No, doctor.”

The End.

Also yesterday, a blog visitor asked what was I doing differently with food to achieve the new body I longed for in the "Farewell" post. It got me to thinking a lot about what I've eaten since I started working out so hard, and the truth is... I really haven't done anything different.

My work days are hectic, and I'm legendary for making a lunch out of say, Skittles, homemade deviled eggs and peanut butter pretzels scrounged from co-workers. It's not that I love those food combinations, it's just that they were nearby. And yes, that IS what I ate today. 

Clearly, with the cavity news and the diet inquiry, the Food Angels are trying to get me to take a closer look at how, when, what, and why I eat.

I pledge to all of you -- my three blog readers -- that I will document in this public forum, everything I eat and drink for the next week. 

If I know I have to tell all of you the truth about what I eat, maybe I'll make better choices out of shame, which will lead me to making better choices out of desire. We'll see.

Farewell to arms (and butts and hips and thighs)

Now that my armpits have returned to normal, I am on to obsessing over other parts of my body, specifically my hips, thighs and upper arms which have all somehow taken on a life of their own.

I’m not gonna beat myself up about it (or allow anyone else to do so), but I am going to wage war against the wideness like I’m the U.S. and my hips are N. Korea. (Or, would I rather be N. Korea, because they can probably win….?) Either way, it’s on! And by “on,” I mean the wideness is coming off.

I hereby declare that between now and some vague day in early Spring 2010, I will:

I can do this. I know I can.

The plan is already in full effect. I ran two very slow, very sweaty and very painful miles yesterday, but I felt great when it was all done. Except for the sweating part, but I guess that’s what N. Korea would call collateral damage.

I didn’t even care that two little barefoot babies streaked by me like 10 times with their ponytails just bouncing like running full speed was nothing to them. Or, that a size 2, geriatric grandmother with silver hair swooped past me, walking faster than I was running. Nope, none of that bothered me. Because I was out there, slowly but surely, one step at a time, running my way closer to bidding farewell to arms (and butts and hips and thighs).

Trying not to sweat it

I’ve been in a fight with my own armpits ever since the outside temps rose above 68 degrees.

For reasons unknown to me, I turned into sweaty girl when summer came, and, if you know me at all, you know that I have a thing for being clean. I bathe frequently. And by bathe, I mean, fill the bath with hot, steaming water, scrub forcefully until the skin tingles lightly, then stand up and rinse in the shower. On hot days, I have been known to do this at least 3 times.

I love it. Probably was a mermaid in a past life. Or, a glutton for punishment.

The pits sent me on several trips to the local Wally world on a mission to find something, anything…to beat the heat.

I must have spent about $59.62 on different products before I found THE ONE. Degree Clinical Strength. Powder scented, with TRIsolid technology, and a 20% drying ingredient that I can’t pronounce or spell. Even the $12.00 price tag for deodorant was irrelevant, because I needed to be dry. I had to be dry.

Common sense should have told me that any deodorant with technology probably was a bad idea.

The box said you get the best results when you apply it night and morning, so I did just that for about four days and nights before I awoke to something odd. My right armpit was not…feeling…quite…right.

And by that, I mean, the whole area was hard and swollen, like the Yellow Jacket Boyz had gotten in there and had a stinging contest. What tha fuh….? AAwwwwarggghhhouch! Sweet baby Jesus, it hurt. Sweet Father Lord in heaven, it was bad. Merciful Father of Creation, I was in pain.

But dummy me, I got up that day and applied more deodorant. Because I can take the pain, but I can’t take the sweat. Hours later, at work, I Googled my armpit situation and learned that superduper strength deodorant can sometimes have adverse effect, you know, like, clogging up your sweat glands.

Needless to say, I took to the bath as soon as I could, scrubbing and exfoliating with all I had. I went about a week without deodorant, and guess what? I didn’t need it! That’s how serious that stuff is.

It finally went away and I went back to my regular scheduled program. Unless my armpits open up and a waterfall pours out, you can bet I’m never doing that again. 

Life is always teaching

Tall, dark and handsome approaches me after lunch. Chocolate skin, pretty smile. Well over 6 feet tall. I like!

He's wearing hospital scrubs. I like that even more.

I'm having an exceptionally good look day. Cute, wispy hair; fuschia pink blouse showcasing my waist and my own dark skin. Feeling good. Looking good. 

We flirt.

He jokes.

I laugh.

He asks, "Would you like some dental floss?"

Without blinking, I say, "Yes, thank you."

He does a teeth check for me after I floss and asks for my number anyway.

In life, sometimes you need a little spinach tooth.

Talkin' Trash

Ever since I bought my little green house on the hill, I have had a problem with trashcans. Nobody ever told choosing the right trashcan is serious business. And over the course of almost three years, I have paid and paid and paid for not making the right choice.

Trashcan after trashcan has come into my life. Lightweight ones, rolling ones, plastic ones, Rubbermaid ones, eco-friendly ones… And just like trash collection on Monday and Thursday, they just come and go.

The Family Dollar trashcan melted in the Georgia heat.

The WalMart trashcan lid blew into the Nature Preserve across the street from me, and since my neighbor swears she saw a red fox riding a 10-foot owl over there, I certainly wasn’t going in after it. (Yes, you read that right.)

A hand-me-down from Daddy JB rolled into the street and got killed by my neighbor’s Suburban. It was all just too much.

After a little research and a BIG gift card from J-Beezy, I found the perfect trashcan! It was, like, the Rolls Royce of trashcans. Big, extra heavy duty, with a lid that was attached by metal hinges AND wheels… I double-dog-dare this trashcan to get away from me.  It weighed 95 pounds and was really supposed to be used for medical waste disposal, but whatever…

So, I got it on the weekend. It took three grown men to load it in my truck. Then, me and JB spent 40 days and 40 nights getting the wheels and the security lock on. But finally it was ready to go.

Monday, I rolled it out to the curb and broke a sweat. Monday night, I came home and my trash was still there. I figured I must have set my trash out too late. I almost got a hernia pulling it back up to the house, but that’s the price you pay for Rolls Royce.

Thursday, I rolled the even heavier can back out to the curb. Thursday night, the trash was STILL there.  I missed trash pickup again? I seriously thought about hiring immigrant labor to pull it back up to the house, but I made it.

The following Sunday night, I set the can out again. A day early, just in case.

Monday night, I come home to a week’s worth of trash still in the can and a big fat, hot electric fluorescent pink tag tied to my Rolls Royce ‘s handle.

The tag said, “Hello from Dekalb County Sanitation. There is no way in sam hell that we will ever pick up this effing trashcan. Not even if God told us to do it. So you and your trashcan can both go sit down somewhere. And, if you don’t take this thing off the curb, we’re going to fine you for being stupid. The end. Have a nice day.”

Okay, the tag probably didn’t say that. But that’s what they meant….

We won’t even get into what I had to do with the nasty, spoiled, liquefied trash that had been laying around for a week, but please believe I cleaned that trashcan up real good and took it back for a full refund. I got enough money back to keep me in groceries for six months. That’s all we’re gonna say about that. 

These images don't really do it justice, but here’s pics of the 95-lb. Rolls Royce and the 14-lb. Corolla that replaced it. Pray for me.

Happy Birthday!

Every little girl should be so lucky as me to have her own personal giant. A protector, a teacher, a best friend, a confidant, a father.... 

Happy Birthday to my American Idol! 

The Yellow Jacket Boyz Take Over

My front yard is being run by the mafia right now. More specifically, a gang of Yellow Jackets moved into the plant bed under my mailbox, without asking my permission or even telling me they were there!

Thursday night after the rain, I was out doing some light gardening. My tiger lilies died inexplicably (and by that I mean I accidentally sprayed them with weed killer), so I was out pulling them up in prep for planting new ones. I figured…the ground is wet, they’ll come out pretty easy and I’ll be back in the house in no time.

Everything was going good until about halfway through the uprooting. That’s when the middle toe on my right foot started to sizzle. I looked down and saw 2 or 3 of the Yellow Jacket Boyz dive-bombing my foot! 

The thing about yellow jackets is they plan well-coordinated attacks. They are smart and fast. So, I quick-switched into ninja mode, hopping, stomping, screaming and flopping around. I kicked my foot straight out with so much force that my flip flop flew off and landed on the other side of the neighborhood.

[Flip Flops + Gardening = Not Smart!]

My ninja moves scared them away – sort of – and I took that as a sign to get inside ASAP.  I looked back and saw they had called in about 20 or 30 of the other YJ Boyz, so I put some extra pep in my step, but then I slipped on the wet grass.

There was no time to think so I just frog hopped/waddled/scrambled on all fours up the hill until I got to the driveway. I ran into the garage, closed it and dove into the house. I made it to the kitchen window and just stood there huffing and sweating, watching the YJ Boyz just flying and diving. Like they were congratulating each other on running me up out of my OWN yard.

They got me. My middle toe looks like a fat Vienna sausage, and it took two benadryl and some aloe vera to make it feel better.

But this ain’t over. They might have their little attack plans and stingers, but I have a secret weapon: Daddy JB! And, when J-Beezy gets on the case, they’re gonna wish they never even flew past my mailbox.

Two words: Gasoline and matches.

Two more words: Stay tuned.

 

When bad cruises happen to best friends

My best friend, T, won a cruise a while back and we’re all set to take to the high seas in just a few days. I’m all packed – but I’m not ready.

There’s a tiny problem. See, me and T have been friends – sisters, in fact – for damn near 30 years, and in that time we’ve learned something very crucial about ourselves:

We can only stand to be together for about 2 days at a time.

After that, we need a break – like, weeks. We can talk, but we don’t need see each other.

The last time we tried long-term togetherness was the summer of ’91. We spent a painful week at my aunt’s house sharing a bedroom and a bathroom, and we both were on the same moon cycle. All I’ll say is, “Things got ugly. “

It probably took us about 3 months to get over that vacation, and once we did, we agreed that weekends were the most we should ever try to do – and even then, one of us takes the couch.

We are night and day.

It takes T a week to choose between a v-neck white tee or scoop neck white tee – and even then, she needs a committee of 10 to help her decide. I can get completely dressed in the dark in 10 minutes.

T does not like to do things on her own. And, in fact, will sit and do nothing if she has to do it alone. I like space and cherish independence. Even on vacation. If I want to read a book and she wants to learn salsa, she is subject to not dance if I don't take the class with her. And, folks, let me say this now: she just won’t dance.

Last night, she asked me to text to her a list of toiletries that she’ll need on the trip. I assumed she was asking me to suggest a motion sickness pill or something. No, she actually meant a LIST OF TOILETRIES. My response was, “So YOU want ME to make a list of what YOU need to clean YOUR @ZZ?! Does that sound…right...to you?”

Her classic response, “Well….so, will you do it?”

No. I won’t. In fact, if she forgets toothpaste, then she deserves to have stink fish breath. We’ll just tell everybody it’s the sea air.

Don’t get me wrong. This is my sister, and I will fight you to the death if you talk about her.

I’m just worried that I will fight her to the death after so much time together. I’m praying that the presence of a third friend will be enough distraction to keep us from turning the ship into this:

If you don't hear back from me in a few days....please send the bail money in small bills and and cashiers checks to the nearest cruise ship police department.

Ships -- and best friends -- ahoy!

Crank Calls

I have been getting lots of crank calls lately. They started slowly a few weeks back, but have fast become a near-daily occurrence. I'd call the the CSI Crank Caller Special Investigation Unit, but I don't know if even they can handle the sort of tomfoolery caused by such a sophisticated prankster. 

I did manage to find the perpetrator's picture, as well as a call transcript....

Transcript:

Caller: Hey, Mimi!
Me: Hey.
Caller: Bye, Mimi!

Click.

One down....

I was supposed to meet Pretty Ricky for drinks and playoff games on the big screen last Friday night. We talked about it Wednesday, we talked about it Thursday, we even talked about it Friday morning. The time was set for 8 p.m., but he was to call me back with a location that was central to both of us. Sounded good to me.

Imagine my confusion and utter pisstivity when I found myself at home. At 8, then 8:15, then 8:41...on my couch...drinking sangria.... and watching the game on my 27" box TV. What tha fuh?

He called and texted me before 9, but I didn't pick up. We never spoke. And we never will.

The men all pause

KLYMAXX MEN ALL PAUSE -

I must have a MALE VACANCY sign attached to my head. Everywhere I go these days, I am getting accosted, propositioned, sidetracked and generally adored by the male population.

Not that I’m complaining.  

I will admit that I've maybe...possibly...probably... been disinterested, lazy, nonchalant and too content with my own company for far too long. And, I guess the great matchmaker up above decided it was time to get in my business. Because men are falling outta the sky and landing right in my lap.

Introducing:

The Haute Haitian
Met him on the patio at El Azteca. Tall, slim, dark and dangerous. He’s a New York-based accountant who travels here often for business. His biggest drawback is that he’s a huge fan of textversations. Can we get him to actually pick up the phone and speak into it, rather than letting his thumbs do the talking? Stay tuned.

Pretty Ricky
This one is a blast from the past. We spent a lot of time together in 2006-07. A LOT of time. But then we went to the mountains for a couples weekend, and I realized he would much rather play basketball and watch TV with his little friends than spend QT with me. Fast forward to now and those same boys all have real women in their grown-up/big boy lives. But not him. He calls daily. And swears he never stopped thinking about me and wants another chance. We’ll discuss it over dinner this weekend. (And it’s going to be a very expensive dinner.)

Mr. Self-Involved
He is what happens when you mix way too many cocktails with not enough food at a Halloween party. Plus, he smelled good and was kinda cute. Only problem was, he also thought that he was kinda cute and spent more time looking at himself than looking at me. Met him in October, by February he was a ghost. That was a year ago and now he wants to go out for drinks and make it all up to me. Mirror, Mirror on the wall… he don’t even stand a chance at all.

My Bad Habit
He’s so sweet. And he loves me. But he just can’t get it together (or keep a job).

Big Truck Driver
One day, I was outside my office building waiting on CP to bring me some Girl Scout cookies. He pulls up in this big ole shiny truck, rolls down the window and says, “You wasn’t waiting on me too long, was ya?” That was too clever. I had to give him my number. But I suspect he’s a workaholic, because he’s always at work whenever he calls me. He has asked to see me several times, but again, it’s when he’s at work, so I’d have to stop by on his break.

Wait just a d@mn minute…could he be married?

B.H.M. a/k/a Big Handsome Holy Man
He smelled good. He looked good. And he had been Transformed to spread the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I’m sure by now he’s well on his way to wedded bliss with some girl he met about 20 minutes go.

So, that’s the shortlist. If nothing else, it oughta be an interesting summer.

The Date End

Last Sunday, I found myself without much on the agenda. I eventually ended up at the Dogwood Fest, and then got a call from B.H.M.

BHM: Hey.
Me: Hey.
BHM: What are you up to?
Me: Leaving the park, thinking about getting some food.
BHM: Oh, I was just about to go eat, too.
Me: Okay.

[Insert daytime minutes-wasting silence here.]

Me: Okay, well, enjoy. I guess I better go now.
BHM: Oh, well what are you going to eat?
Me: Not sure yet.
BHM: Yeah, me either.
Me: Do you wanna meet me? Is that what you’re trying to say?
BHM: Do you want me to meet you?
Me: Ummm, you ‘bout to make me---
BHM: Okay, I’m just playing.
Me: Oh, I was about to say....
Me: Where do you want to meet…
BHM: Umm, I’m not sure.

Notice the amazing phone skills? We eventually agree on a mall parking lot as a central meeting point. I get there and he’s just standing around, looking quite dapper for a Sunday afternoon (i.e., he’s dressed like a preacher—blazer, silk shirt, pleated slacks, silk stockings and square-toed shoes). Now, it’s late afternoon and church has been over long enough for me to take a nap, change clothes and go walk around the park for a few hours. Plus, he observes the Sabbath on Saturday, so I have no explanation for the haute coutoure.

He comes over to the car and asks if I wanna go to a pizza place that was back in the area that I just drove from. I tell him no and suggest a pizza place right across the street that he can follow to me. He says, “Well, I don’t drive.”

[He doesn't what?]

“Well, how’d you get here,” I ask.

“The bus.”

[Rolling my eyes and sighing real loud.] “Just, get in the car.”

Over dinner (which he tried to order without asking what I liked), he picks up right where he left off, telling me about his religion and how he would like me to visit his church so that we can see if we “fit.” Telling me he’s searching for a wife this year. Telling me he doesn’t just date for the sake of dating. Telling me if I think the path of Holiness is something that I can follow, then we can be married in 3 to 6 months.

Know what I told him?

“Check, PLEASE.”

B.H.M., Part 2: The call

So, he called. And as soon as I recognized his voice, I screamed, “Yew no pay,” and hung up the phone.

Okay, I didn’t really do that, but I should have. That way I could have saved myself from what happened next.

BHM: Hey Shemika, it’s D---.
Me: Oh hey, your ears must have been burning. I have been talking about you.
BHM: I hope that’s a good thing.
Me: Umm, no, not really. I told everybody how you only paid half that check.
BHM: Half?
Me: Half. [And then I explained how we almost got beat down by the Tiny Asian Lady].
BHM: My bad, I told the lady I wanted to pay for your food. I didn’t know.
Me: Hmmm….

[We spent the next few minutes, playing getting to know you, i.e., where you from, what do you do, etc.] And, then…

BHM: So, do you go to church?
Me: Yeah. How about you?
BHM: Yeah, I go to Way of God of Light and Truth and Discipleship Holiness Church of the Almighty God (or something like that).
Me: Oh O-kay. Well, I’m a Methodist.

[For the next 45 minutes, he proceeded to testify and evangelize to me in the hopes of saving my immortal soul. Which is fine, don’t get me wrong. I’ll take all the help I can get, but not on my daytime minutes. So, that’s when I interrupted and asked...]

Me: How old are you, anyway?
BHM: 25
Me: Oh O-kay. Well, I’m…..NOT 25.
BHM: It doesn’t matter when two people are spiritually connected and focused on God’s plan for eternal li--
Me: [INTERRUPTING] Okay, well, look it’s getting late and it’s been nice talking to you. Gotta go.

Click.

And that should have been the end of it. But…we all know I’ll do anything for a laugh (and a free meal), which is why I agreed to meet him for dinner when he called back a few days later.….

Yew no pay (or B.H.M., Part I)

During Thursday’s Mental Health Day Off From Work, me and my sorta-stepmother (don’t ask) stopped over in Tucker for lunch at the Cheap Chinese Buffet.

I noticed Big Handsome Man watching me when I went to fill my plate, so I tried to look as alluring as possible while carrying a mound of greasy lo mein and fried chicken wings on a chipped plate.

It worked.

Big Handsome Man came over on his way out to introduce himself and present me with his business card. Only problem was, for all his bold intentions he forgot to ask my name.

So I (of course) pointed out that fact and made him squirm for about 45 seconds while I pretended to be insulted. I eventually told him my name, but gave him back his business card saying he could call me if he wanted to talk. (‘Cuz that’s just how I roll.)

B.H.M. says no problem, and asks for my number. I say no problem and write it down on our unpaid ticket, which I then hand to him. He laughs and takes our check to the front.

He pays, waves at us, does a lame call me gesture and walks out.

By now, I’m feeling good. We just ate the $5.50 lunch buffet for FREE, baby!

We finish eating and stroll on out the door, laughing at B.H.M. About 2.1 feet from the front door, Tiny Asian Lady jumps in front of us in a hai-karate pose, screaming, “Yew no pay. Yew have to pay.”

Excuse me?

I correct her, saying, no the gentleman in the blue shirt paid our check. She shakes her head, still blocking the door, saying, “He only pay one. Yew (points at sorta-stepmother) still haf to pay for yew food.”

And just like that, my bubble was burst.

What kinda man only pays half of an $11 check?! I know we’re in a recession people, but if you’re handing out business cards, surely you have enough business to cover the whole check.

So, I ask, what do I do when he calls?

Longing

For:

An office window that opens

Coconut cake with lemon drizzle from Wahoo! Decatur

The answer to: “Why?”

An all-expenses paid weekend at the hotel I’m writing about

An empty I-20 for my ride home

Workout clothes so that I could walk in Piedmont Park, rather than sit on I-20

A new, unscratched Lauryn Hill Unplugged CD

The old Mary J Blige (the songs, not the drama)

Him

Well, if you ARE reading this...how 'bout a FREE snack?

Is this thing on?

I’m stressing because I have nothing to write about today, and I’m wondering if it’s even worth the effort to keep going.

It’s helping me keep writing, but is anybody even reading this?

Let me know.

Resurrected and ready to go

Easter Weekend is hands-down my favorite holiday weekend. It’s the time spent with family and friends, tulips on sale at Kroger, permission to wear white, chewy gooey candy and—best of all—the story of the ultimate sacrifice made for me.

“And he hung his head and died…” That part gets me EVERY time. (Even while I write this.)

This past weekend was as nice as any I've ever had. Friday night, I had a rain-soaked burger dinner with one of my nearest and dearest and her mini-me, then stayed up late reading Oprah and eating sunflower seeds.

Saturday morning, I resurrected my kitchen doors (entry, pantry and laundry) with a fresh coat of Behr Premium Paint in White Snow. They’ve been looking dingy and grungy for months and my lovely Fabuloso just wasn’t getting the job done anymore.

I patted myself on the back with a big cup of Mickey D’s $1 sweet tea, some Lifetime TV and a long nap. Saturday night, I headed out to get a late dinner and ended up at AMC watching The Fast and the Furious 4 (welcome back, Vin Diesel!).

Sunday, I missed the Sunrise Service (Vin kept me up late), but I caught the 11 a.m. edition. I’m glad I did. The babies did an Easter play that had me cracking up in church. Big ole, deep belly guffaws. It was funny just because it wasn’t supposed to be.

Sunday afternoon, I resurrected my family ties and friendships ones with a big, ridiculous Easter dinner in Conyers. I ate way too much pound cake, then beat everybody at Phase 10 and headed home around 7 to get ready for the week.

With weekends like that one, those pesky little whirlwinds just don’t matter much at all.

10 things about me you probably never cared to know

1. I secretly wish I had been named Diane, rather than Shemika.
2. My family never calls me Shemika; they call me “Shug” (short for sugar) or “Sistah.”
3. When I was 6 or 7, my brothers once invited me to play Hide and Seek and then never came to find me. I hid for hours (okay, maybe 20 minutes)!
4. My grandparents’ real names are Avery Lee and Ivory Lee. That was a match made in heaven!
5. I have a mole on the inside of my right wrist. And one on the bottom of my foot.
6. I like to eat ranch dressing on sweet potato fries.
7. I talk to myself all the time.
8. I can’t pronounce the word “asked.”
9. My eyelashes have a painful tendency to grow in upside down, so I pull them out and have bald patches. (GB hates this habit).
10. I would love to own one of those stripper poles.

Mimi the Bee

I’ve had a few rough days at work. In the ad business, sometimes the job you do ain’t necessarily the job you signed up, got hired and get paid for. That’s just how it goes.

Around here, I’m known for being game to do the jobs that other people run from. But today, I was feeling extra bitter about it – wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into and plotting how was I going to get out.

Ten minutes into my pity party, I noticed a bumblebee outside my office window. Not really unusual to see a bee, given that it’s springtime, but my office is on the ninth floor of a tall building. Pretty high up for a bumblebee, I’m thinking.

That bee was just whirling around in chaotic circles and dipping high and low like crazy. It took me a minute to realize that the bee wasn’t flying under its own steam; it was caught up in a whirlwind that probably just came by and swept it along.

I felt sorry for the bee. It was flapping its wings as fast as it could, trying to get back on its original path, until it finally got tired and just let the wind take control.

Eventually, the wind did let go. I bet that old bee was glad to get back to its regularly scheduled business, whatever that may be. I pointed it out to my co-worker, who said, “Well, if it hadn’t been for the wind, that bee never woulda known it could fly up this high.”

And just like that, it all made sense. I’m Mimi the Bee and this is my whirlwind.

The Idiot's Guide to Swallowing a Tooth

What to do if your swallow your porcelain crown:

First, PANIC. Using lots of curse words during this stage is good. I like ones that start with the letters S and F.

Then, run to the nearest mirror to confirm that you are, in fact, the world’s biggest idiot since that AIG guy.

Now, let your very weak stomach run amok – at least three times, before you text, call, IM and send smoke signals to every friend you have to tell them you are the idiot who swallows her own fake tooth.

Immediately after, dash to the nearest WalGreens to find ipecac and call Poison Control from your car to tell them you have a belly full of enamel. Have a mild heart attack when they tell you vomiting was the EXACT WRONG THING TO DO, and then speed drive yourself to the ER in case you aspirated the tooth into your lungs.

Feel like an idiot during the x-ray, drive home, crawl in bed and imagine what your family and friends will say once they discover your cold, dead body the next day.

You’ll spend a sleepless night and go to work grumpy the next day, but you won’t die – and it’s no more than you deserve for accidently eating your own tooth.

FOUR...

...The number of times I burned myself curling my hair this morning. That includes one direct burn straight to my brow bone. The universe is speaking to me.

Happier Nappier

I may have made a mistake. 

This morning as I was waiting on my curling irons to heat up, I realized my straight, permed hair isn't doing it for me like I thought it would. All those months of whining over the growing-out process, only to perm it and realize that I was happier nappier.

What am I going to do now? I can't start from scratch. That just takes too long. Should I just try to let it revert back to natural from its current length? Will I be able to manage it in the summer heat? Should I try braids again? And where the hell were my friends when I decided to put perm back in my hair?! I blame them.

I gotta figure this thing out before I go for my next application of sodium hydroxide to the scalp. In the meantime, here's to remembering nappier days.

Tiny little things

Some days it doesn't take much to make me happy. 

Yesterday, it was the 15.00 Starbucks gift card left at my desk by a secret admirer. 

Last night, it was the free drink from a potbellied not-so-secret admirer. 

And this morning, it was the sight of my Dogwood tree in bloom. 

I'm feeling good.

Weekend Adventures, Part I: Drowning the Scorpion King

I killed the Scorpion King, and I don’t feel bad about it. It’s no less than the sucker deserved for making itself at home in my bathtub…in my bathroom…in my house where I live…alone.

I spent this past weekend clearing off my flower beds. By late Sunday, I had seven full compost bags, and dirt, grime and sweat to show for my efforts.  I also had a brand new, poison-tail intruder just lounging around in my tub when I went in to bathe.

I was scared, then I was horrified, then I was terrified, then I suffered a moderate cardiac incident. How did it get in there? Did it crawl through some unseen, unknown hole in my walls? Or did I ---- OH MY EFFING GAWD --- bring it in on my  clothes?!  

And by the way, did I mention it was a SCORPION?!

I stripped naked, imagining other creepies clinging to me, all the while keeping an eye on the Scorpion King to make sure he didn’t crawl out of the bath tub. And then I thought, "Wait, I'm  butt naked in a scorpion pit," so I hid in the laundry to get dressed. On my way out, I grabbed the spray starch, as a weapon.

Starch didn’t work. Neither did lemon Lysol. Neither did Fabuloso. Or Listerine. All that did was give the damn thing a fresh-breathed, lavender-lemon scent.

I finally just filled the tub and drowned the little bastard Hurricane Katrina-style.  Got ‘er done, then, yes I did.

Coop the Exterminator responded to my Scorpion 911 call, and even the professional couldn’t figure how it got inside. Great.

So now I’m terrified. I'm just gonna walk around with a can of Faultless until I can figure out how to get away with burning down the house to get the hell away from Scorpion King Lane. Any ideas?

Life after Daniel and other dirty little secrets

So I made it all the way through my Daniel Fast with minimal to no food cheating, and I’m so proud. I melted away a little belly, and my metabolism is back in  working order. Even all these weeks later, when I have one too many bites, I feel it….

And now for the grand confession….

I have a BIG dirty little secret.  And I’m almost too ashamed to admit.

Okay, here goes…

On any given day, my little green house on the hill is usually in clean to impeccably clean condition. If visitors were to unexpectedly drop by the casa that I call the bat cave – which I do not EVER advise by the way (unannounced callers are just a big fat no, and this means you, Teacher boy!) – they’d probably see nothing more than my purse draped across a dining chair. Or, at worst, a pair of shoes just inside the door.

I love to clean. I love it. Give me some Fabuloso, some Windex and some tunes and I am ready to scrub, rock and roll.

The truth, though, is that it’s all a façade.  See, hidden inside my closets is a mishmash of coats, blankets, yoga mats, Christmas paper, old answering machines, a dried cinnamon potpourri wreath that smells like dust and other items of untold foolishness that I can’t seem to get rid of. 

What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just let my high school letterman jacket go to a good home? Am I really going to listen to Jodeci’s first album… on cassette tape?

Why do I keep promising I’ll cancel my AT&T voicemail and put that TX5900XZT answering machine, circa 1991, back into rotation? (You know the one. Everybody in college had it and they all had the same passcode, so that you could easily check your cheating boyfriends voicemails at any time….but I digress.)

If a woman’s home is a reflection of her life, then what in the hell does mine say about me? Clean and shiny on the outside…jacked up on the inside? Or, am I just hoping K-Ci will call and finally make me “Forever his Lady” via answering machine?

It’s a problem, it’s a sickness….and I need help. Somebody better get Niecy Nash and the Clean House team over to my house. Just… make sure they call first….

Breaking up with Daniel

I'm thinking hard about giving Daniel the boot. It's only been a few days I know, but I feel like we're not compatible.

A life with no Dr. Pepper is really no life at all. Day 4 and all I can think about is those luscious 23 flavors.  The flipside is that the caffeine headache is almost gone. If I start now on the Dr. Pepper, what will this mean for my caffeine rehab?

Stay or go? Feast or fast? It's too many decisions, I tell you. Life with Daniel isn't at all what I expected.

See Shemika Cook

The hardest thing about Daniel is that I can't have any sugar....and Lord knows, I love me some refined, processed, extra bleached, extra fine, high fructose, powdery, sugary sugar. 

Last night, to pacify the beast, I blended together 2 small Gala apples, 1 Danjou pear, 4 strawberries, cinnamon, a bit of lemon juice and bit a of water.

It was my first ever homemade apple sauce...and it was fantastic. Better than any baby food I ever had. I can't wait to have a bowlful after tonight's dinner of brown rice with Boca crumbles.

Doing it with Daniel

This whole deal with Daniel started when a gal pal of mine posted a most unflattering image of me to her FB page. And just to be clear about the issue, in this case FB stands for Fat Butt. Now I have a pretty healthy self image, but not even that was enough to prepare me for the shock of seeing myself looking really extra healthy. 

After staring at FB Shemika for about three days, I packed away my shock and started looking for real, achievable solutions that fit my life and my acute lack of motivation. 

By chance, I stumbled on http://www.daniel-fast.com. Okay, actually it wasn't by chance. I harassed one of my co-workers so thoroughly with that FB photo--"LOOK at this, just look at THIS"--that she suggested the site to me. I'm sure she did it for her own self preservation, but whatev...

Fasts, by their very nature, are contrary to my own nature. Denial, restriction, self control. I don't do those very well. FB gets what FB wants, and she orders bleu cheese on the side. At least she did until the aforementioned pic was posted.

The Daniel Fast seems to be a less-traditional take on physical well-being through spiritual exploration. For starters, I am allowed to eat during the day. With other fasts I researched, food is a no-fly zone from dawn to dusk. I just can't see myself setting my clock for the wee hours just to make sure i break my fast before sunrise. That was disaster waiting to happen. Daniel seems doable, though.

And so, Feb. 1, I committed to doing it with Daniel for at least seven days, and hopefully for a full 14. To hold myself accountable, I'll blog about fasting, cooking and just saying no to bleu cheese. 

If, no WHEN, I make it to the end, I plan to celebrate V-Day with a nice piece of dark chocolate. I"ll deserve it.

A view from the front door

A real, live dream walked down Constitution Avenue yesterday. And today, a few of my friends can only talk about how our new President is inspiring them to be better, go harder in their own lives. Losing weight. Pledging greater civic and community action. Recycling. Turning the lights off. Building a marriage like the one we all imagine the Obamas share. Folks around me are fired up for change, and I have to admit it’s having an effect on me.

Today, I pledge to turn off the TV and open the front door. I pledge to change my mind. Make it sharper, more focused, more open. I’m on a hunt now for all the things I read about in books but never quite get around to experiencing for myself. We’re in a recession, so I doubt I’ll be heading off to Dubai or Bora Bora on a whim…but there must be some amazing vistas and funny stories and brand new memories just outside the door.

So, that’s it. I’m off. To find what's out there and “become the change I want to see.” I hope I’ll see you somewhere along the way.

There are no words...

Places to go...

Every now and again in this crazy city, I find some small thing to delight me. Recently, my friend D.G. invited me to a Wine Down Wednesday event at Urban Flats in Buckhead.

For 20 bucks and a bit of patience for refills, you can enjoy half glasses of select white and red wines, along with delicious flat bread pizzas and a chocolate fondue dessert from 5 p.m. to 8 p.m. I’d done Urban Flats before, but somehow the energy was much nicer inside the city limits.

Fortunately, D.G. went early and secured us a bit of premium real estate on a cozy couch near the bar, providing us easy access to the sommelier for refills. I stuck with the sparkling Brut most of the night, holding on, I guess, to some last vestiges of New Year’s cheer. D’s fave was a mellow Chardonnay…and her friend J.E. was good with red. [I just realized how closely our wine choices matched our personalities…]

It’s a nice vibe. Just enough of a crowd to make things interesting. And, at 20 bucks, a real entertainment value. You can find me there on the cozy couch closest to the bar most Wednesdays from now on.