Days of My Life

Real men have Southern genes. I miss men with sense. You know, the ones who know how to treat women in accordance with age old chivalry and a 21st century twist.

The Mid-Atlantic has been getting pummeled with snow. I am in the Mid-Atlantic. Let’s use our logic lessons to deduce that I am under and, oh, so over the snow.

During the three hours that I devoted to shoveling snow yesterday with my neighbors, I saw far too many a young whippersnapper walk by as we were digging without nary a shovel in his hands or an offer to help pass his lips. I can only assume that they have no fathers because if they did they’d have taught them better and they would’ve been shoveling some snow of their own and not on the way to play. Also, they would’ve known that they needed to at least offer to help.

I live on a block with a lot of older people, some of whom had their children and grandchildren digging out snow. Hard work never killed anybody. Just ask a slave or two. (I kid.) Most of the women are too old to help. I technically have no real business helping but have to do my part. It IS my street too, so I went to help clear a path for cars. While so doing, a neighbor said, “Hey, she needs her car dug out too,” and she came and started to dig. She was the only other young lady not living in my house out there helping. The several men from her family didn’t offer to do a thing. Of course, there’s I can barely tolerate you-neighbor history there.

The men who have helped me through the storm? All but one have Southern roots. The day the storm stopped my neighbor had his godson shoveling my steps. He was the only non-Southern raised helper I had. The other two men were both at least over the 45/50 mark and dang near wanted me to just sit down somewhere. One I met for the first time yesterday and the other is a regular helper whenever he sees something that needs to be down outside my house. He cleared my steps while I was away during the last big storm and helps me when he sees me in my yard in the Spring. In return, I bake and cook and give liberally. No one from the South that I know accepts or expects money.

Southern men that I know are not allergic to manual labor, even if they regularly sport top dollar suits. That whole chivalry bit? That’s not dead either. I’m a feminist who believes in chivalry and a gendered division of labor where each stays in his/her perspective lane without trying to rule over the other.

I pen all of my hopes on Southern men,* but the truth of the matter is that the men who don’t know better are usually the products of I-had-no-real man daddy-so-I-don’t-know-how-to-be-a-man-ness. All Southern men don’t grow up with fathers either, but there just must be something in their genes because if I meet one more afraid of grass and dirt no yard growing up as a child excuse for manhood trying to graze in my grass I may cut somebody.

That is all.

Note: The Mid-Atlantic is not Northern but thinks it is. Certainly, though, it is not the Deep South.

* I am incurably biased towards Southern men and nothing may ever change that. I am waiting on a Northern man to prove me wrong. In fact, I want one to.

“It’s a poor frog that don’t praise his own pond.”-my Papa quoting his Pa.

If you’ve been tipping around here, you may have noticed my absence. I’m alive and well. I took some time off to deal with me and the one year mark of my dad’s transition. 2009 has been quite a year, and the best thing that I can say about it is that I survived. After surviving the last 13 months, I know that I am unstoppable. I had some major losses, ended some things, and began some others.

I am finally regrouping and making plans for my life. I’ve enjoyed my family and made new friends while repositioning some others. I’ve been working on my writing and taking charge of my professional development. I’ve completed a short story and am positioning myself for some other professional milestones as well.

I guess I just don’t think enough of what’s in my own pond. As I’ve shared the draft of my short story that I wrote in 30 minutes, I’ve gotten rave reviews. I’ve also shared the beginnings of a book I started years ago and never completed because I didn’t know where to go. Rave reviews again. I thought it flattery when my sis told me I am her favorite writer. I guess I never thought my writing was “all that.” I’m starting to suppose I was wrong. Whether I’m right or wrong though, I have a mandate to publish, so publish I will, or professionally perish, I will.

This space here tends to be shaped to whatever purpose I need for the moment. Lately, it has been more of a journal than anything else so not much fiction or autobiography is posted here (for copyright reasons, of course). This is pretty much where I clear my throat before the real work begins. Even still, I will try to tend this space a little better as well. There has been just so much I didn’t want to put into written words. Some pain, some anger, some hurt—is just too much for words.

I have cleaned my room. That’s MAJOR. The rest of my house pretty much remains in order with little to no effort, but my room has been allowed to reflect my inner me for the past two years. It’s been straightened but not cleaned like I like it in a very long time. My funk is FINALLY over. I have a new found appreciation for that “f” word because it means “it.is.finished!” I may never stop missing my dad, but the worst part is over–the sickness, the worrying, the death, the first holidays without him, and much more. Tears, they will come…and go, but love I will have with me always.

As I told one of my students who had been raped, sometimes you have to accept that your life will never be the same and stop trying to get back to what used to be and move on to what will now be with choices that will still allow you to be you. I’m making better choices. I have clarity. I have peace.

Hopefully, in the days ahead I will be sharing more of me with all of you.

Best wishes for a glorious holiday season from my heart to yours!

Dear Jay,

You asked about the follow-up to Candy. Well, I made a radical departure and got.a……….CAT!!! Yep, Candy is somewhere flipping cartwheels in the afterlife. I haven’t given the new employee kitty a place on the blog yet, and I’m not sure I will. If his antics today are any indication of the blog fodder he may provide, then I may reconsider and even post some pics. He is he-larious!

Today, he somehow got his 25-pound body in a sun visor and walked around like everything was normal. He even posed for a pic in it….until he figured out that it was stuck on him. He rammed himself under the bed until he got out of it. That cat is ridiculous, and we’ll just call him Carroll. An odd name for a cat, I know, but if you knew his real name, it would make a lot of sense.

Thank you so much for reading, and if it is at all possible through warm wishes and high hopes, I will pass your joy of reading her stories along to Miss Candy…in the afterlife.

Sincerely,
Me

I’m still here. There are so many things that perplex me that I want weigh in on.

I’m saddened, disturbed, and disgusted by the treatment of runner Caster Semenya, but since I am scheduled to give a talk on her situation, I’ll save my comments for that.

I want to thank everyone who participated in the secret surprise baby shower. Thank you sooooo much for your contributions.

I am elated about the revamping of the prayer ministry at my church and my participation in it. I may not be one to offer too much counseling, but I can send up timber and get a response.

I have no idea in which direction my life is headed and I’m becoming more peaceful with not knowing all of the details. If I knew what I’d have to go through to get where I want, I’d probably tell God never mind, so it’s for the best that I know not everything.

I am all over the place because I have so much to say and no clear plan for saying it.

Have you ever had a relationship with someone that was unremarkable and you later wondered, “What did I ever do that for?” That’s how I feel about my summer fling. Completely unremarkable. We barely chat now even though I think he believes that we will potentially reconnect again. I know for certain that we will not. IF he only knew.

Oh yeah. I want to weigh in on Whitney and how proud I am of her for re-emerging back in her right mind. I am happy for her daughter as well who is for the first time meeting a drug-free mommy. God ROCKS!!!
I also thought it funny how Oprah just gave up on rephrasing Whitney’s references to God and the Holy Spirit to say “Spirit.” LOL Whitney knew what she meant and that’s exactly what she said. I’m glad God and reading His Word got her through, and I’m also glad she went through and came out to be a beacon of light to so many others. I pray that she can maintain her victory. And I thank God for praying mommas because I know my own has seen me out of many a bind as Whitney’s mother’s prayers saw her through.

Hooray for Whitney!!!

Also, I think it ironic that my cousins and their children call me Cousin A and feel some kind of way when they hear me reference my sister as my sister–who shares no parents or familial relationship with me. To me, she is my sister, period, and that’s a closer relationship than cousin. My children will call her aunt. Additionally, my bff’s children were trained to call me auntie before ever meeting me and I’ve already committed to do more for them than I probably will for any in my own family. It’s all about relationship, and to them, I am their aunt, which is a closer kinship than cousin. Some family members take relationship for granted as though it’s not something that has to be developed, but if you want special favors and treatment, it definitely does. In my family members’ defense, I was raised like a step-sibling to my cousins because of my only child status, which was closer than the average cousin but still not the same as a sibling. My sister’s mom treats me like another daughter–period. I get presents just like my sister at holidays.

As my uncle said last week when I called out of the blue, he can’t expect me to call him on the regular when he never calls me. Such is life. I am known for being a child whisperer of sorts, so it’s quite an accomplishment that comes with bells and whistles when I take a liking to someone’s child because (as my bff knows) I don’t like everyone’s children…and I will tell their parents this. Most of my friends and I have similar child rearing practices, so it’s mostly in my family where I take a hands off approach to ill-mannered youngins. I ramble, but my point is that who is closest to me is determined on my own terms. That just is.

I am honored that I have four godsons and one more on the way. I also have my bff’s two daughters and a co-worker’s daughter as nieces. I have four special younger cousins that with the exception of one won’t share many of the memories that my adopted nieces and three of my godsons will. That’s quite enough for me. The more children you add, the deeper one’s pockets must be.

I must laugh as I type.

One of my girlfriends asked me yesterday for one of my eggs. Yes, those eggs. She’s older than I and just wants to be pregnant again. She’s funny.

She says she’ll be my surrogate and give me the child when she’s done, but she just enjoyed being pregnant. She has one child.

I laughed–hard, and said sure thing. You want to get all stretched out of shape and carry my child just for the sake of carrying one? Knock yourself out and save me the physical trouble.

The irony is that she is not the first to offer to carry a child for me. And I have no fertility problems. I’m quite fertile and all things work as they should. I just put that on a shelf with men who would want to procreate with me because they believe we’d have beautiful babies. Whatever.

I don’t get it, but if the person is responsible, I don’t think I’d have too much of a problem with it–the surrogacy, not the random dude procreation. Guess I’m odd like that.

Would you donate an egg or be a surrogate?