The Most Beautiful Day

I know most girls talk about having an Ugly Day. You know the one. The kinda of day where that back fat looks a little more pronounced or that front flesh, fanny pack is hanging lower than normal. You get so caught up in that ugliness that it practically runs your day. Your shoulders slump, your feet drag, your lips pout. You get to thinking, "Ugh! I got to expose this to the world. WHY?!"

But then there is the Beautiful Day that no one dwells on or talks about. You hide it behind a sleek little smile and coy blush. It's that day that you wake up and feel the sexiest you've every felt. The kinda of day where you hear Prince crooning, "Could you be, The most beautiful girl in the world."

I'm having that kinda of day.

I woke up feeling big on myself. As I rose from my bed, after cuddling with the Big Man, I sauntered (that's right, sauntered) into the bathroom to get ready for work. For a split second, I caught my reflection gleaming back at me from the wall mirrors. Then I really looked. It was the first time, in a long time, that I stood in front of the mirror to admire the stock I possessed. It had definitely rose overnight, prompting me to think, there was no way I was trading or selling it.

My skin glowed a gorgeous light caramel with tiny tinges of rose hues in the right places. My eyes were the perfect shade of Brazel (lil light brown/lil umber). My second chin had taken leave and just the one chin remained, jutting out haughtily. My hips were like the S curves on I-95. Swervy. My thighs were smooth with the right amount of roll. My booty was breaking zero gravity. I was fit to make love to myself, I looked and felt that good.

Now, this was no passing fancy. Even after I clothed myself, it felt like my swag got deeper. I strutted (that's right strutted) out my house got into my truck to head to the station, playing LL Cool J's "'Round A Way Girl" in my mental. As I lounged on the train ride, I could feel all eyes on me (in a good way). The eyes kept following me right off the train, on to the escalator and on to the Orange Line.

At this very second, clicking away on my keyboard, I'm still feeling like the Most Beautiful Girl in the World. I hope you all do to... Pray for me, y'all!

Ebonics and the DEA

Approximately 13 years ago, the word Ebonics fell into our culture like a lead brick. Websites dedicated to urban slang terms popped up like gang busters, a school district in California lobbied to make it a language taught in our schools, and everybody and their momma was using the Jive Dictionary to be hep. I have to admit I had done a whole news article dedicated to informing folks on the "new" school of speaking, which later was picked up by a radio station that announced a Slang Word of the Day for at least a month.

However, with Ebonics, there came a serious debate. Were we teaching our children to dumb down their speech? Was Ebonics a smarter way to communicate with our urban youth? And mainly, why was urban slang such a target when every youth group had their own lingo (i.e. skaters, goths, jocks)? It kind of reminded me of that scene in the slapstick comedy, Airplane, where the stewardess couldn't understand the two black passengers. Suddenly, another brother popped up and said, "Excuse me, I speak Jive." Then he proceeds to translate the quandary. Part of me laughed, the other part of me said, "What are you saying? You mean you can't understand us?"

Now my cackles have risen once again as I learn that the Drug Enforcement Agency is looking for 9 expert Ebonics translators (you heard me) to help them decode language used by drug dealers in the Southeast region of the country. Seriously? Fo' real? I don't know if I'm angry or just dumbfounded.

I am notorious for utilizing slang in my everyday life. Those who are fortunate (possibly unfortunate) enough to carry on a conversation with me know that I crisscross slang and SAT-type vocabulary like a double dutch pro. I love soaking up new words. I've read the dictionary because I never wanted anyone to use a word I could not translate. I was glad to take Latin in high school, because it taught me to breakdown language. I speak a language which, in itself, is a dialect of five to ten other languages. You would think I would be glad that there was a branch of the government utilizing this language for the good of the people.

Not necessarily.

I think what has me annoyed about this prospect is that once again our world, our culture, our lifestyle is being singled out for scrutiny. I rarely, if never, hear about how the government's need for translators who can interpret Neo-Nazi propaganda language or special code used by Wall Street-types embezzling our hard earned dollars. Aren't they just as dangerous? Don't they have their own lingo and slang terms to be deciphered and broken down?

Much as I hate to admit it, you got to give credit to the drug dealers for coming up with a language so hard that the DEA has to budget a portion of its $2.6M to crack it. What I find even more annoying is that the DEA shoots itself in the foot by making such a request because now those same dealers will know their codes are being tracked and will switch it up like a well phrased verse in a freestyle. So, they're translators will be obsolete before they even get started, which means once again our tax dollars are wasted.

The sadder fact is the DEA may be stifled in their efforts because those who know the language best may live by the code of no snitching, which means they will never tell no matter the pay you give them. It's the age old duel between authority and rebels, which leaves the folks in the middle ducking and weaving to avoid the crossfire.

It's a battle of words, everyone. Where do you stand? Pray for me (us), y'all.

Don't Rush. Flush.

This month Ockie started potty training, but before the tyke was even a year old, he was flushing the toilet like a pro. Sah-wish! Unfortunately, it seems grown folks have an issue with this simple act of kindness. Namely, folks at my job. On my many adventures to the lavatory to handle mine, I am bombarded with the visual evidence of some people's poor house training. You know, the Elmo Potty DVD is not just for kids, grown ups can take some notes, too.

Do you realize not flushing a toilet is a gateway act to other impolite stuff, like no hand washing, nose picking (possibly eating), public belching, pooting? I know the bathroom is the right place to relax, but it is not the place to shirk your duty to your fellow co-workers. How hard is it to pull the handle? I mean we work in a theatre, for God sakes! Those are industrial Johns we're sitting on, made to handle whatever the public throws at it.

I am not ashamed to admit that I check and make sure my business has evacuated the building before I step out my stall. Some cats don't even know the damage they're leaving behind, but poor Maria (our trusty, yet disgusted cleaning lady) does and she is not pleased. And, people, this is not the time, nor the place to be green. A double flush is just necessary. Forget the water bill, forget the planet, people's sensibilities are at stake! We all can't afford to be Sheryl Crow in this piece.

And I don't know about you, but I really don't want to know that it's that Special Time for my co-workers. I already picked up on your PMS last week and really didn't need the confirmation this week, thanks. That's why the job supplied you with a bucket. Use it.

So, in closing, I impart to the nasty-ass individuals at the job a simple motto that I think can help. "Don't Rush. Flush. Take a Moment after a Movement."

This has been a public service announcement of the Lady's Relation Blog. Pray for me, y'all!

I'm Slippin, I'm Fallin'.....

So, Friday the 13th was a jump off of minor catastrophes. Aside from having to deal with the RI bureaucracy that can work the late Mother Teresa solid, I had weakness like you wouldn't believe. Like a wino to drink and a crackhead to pipe, I fell for my addiction - and wicked hard. As most of you know, I am on this journey to rebuild the Temple of Lady Cheena. This is not an easy undertaking and so with it comes many challenges. But I found myself completely derailed this weekend, so much so that I don't know how to even explain what happened. So, if you are reading this, Jay, I humbly accept any and all punishments for my behavior this coming Tuesday.

Below, I kindly recount how I fell from grace and continue to hear the DMX song, "Slippin", on repeat mode in my head.

Fall from Grace #1: A 'Naughty' Breakfast
So there I was standing at the counter of the Tufts cafe waiting to put in my order. Everything is smelling like roses, or better yet, home fries and sausages. Steve, my breakfast man, is asking me what I would like. I step up and say, "Steve, I am feeling naughty today. Whip me up some egg whites, spinach, mushrooms, CHEESE and BACON!" I bolded the last two to stress I should not have had that in my damn omelet! Steve, ever the proficient cook, makes my meal to order and I bounce on my way. What could possibly go wrong on a sunny day like this?

An hour and a half later, I get a call from hubby telling me indeed something can go wrong on a sunny day like this. With paperwork in hand and some cussin' and carryin' on in the other, I rush back to RI to verify that I really am Mrs. Desir. After my lovely stay in the Social Security office, I took Mr. Desir to work. But, wait, let me rewind and discuss what happened in the drive. P decides that he is hungry. sounds fine with me because I am too. He keeps throwing out these restaurants people have suggested (buffets, mostly). I'm not too keen on those options, but hey! Realizing he doesn't have much time to dawdle, he decides to take me to this restaurant close to his job. Why not?

Fall from Grace #2: Give me all the Calamari
So, while at the restaurant, P and I decide to share a grilled chicken salad with balsamic vinegar on the side. Let me describe the dressing to you. It looked like pudding. I'm not kidding. Pudding! Yet, I used it. Munched up my salad like a pro and that should've been the end of it. Oh, but no! Did I neglect to tell you that I also put in an order of FRIED calamari with banana peppers and marinara sauce? Yep! Having gazed at the picture and witnessing a plate sail by me, I placed the order almost by rote. I'll have about 4 oz., no biggie. Folks, I hang my head in shame when I say I ate just over half of the damn plate. What happened? Why did I do that? Did I mention I also jacked a wing of P's plate? Ugh!

After that shameful fiasco, you'd think I'd decline doggy bagging the rest. Oh no, pack up those bad boys that was dinner tonight! And true that, I had calamari in my mouth at din-din.

Fall from Grace #3: What do you mean you ain't got Flatbread!?
Saturday morning, I was determined to right my wrongs. However, not really. I got my work out on by cleaning out our bedroom closet, tossing old clothes into a sack for the donation bin. Feeling a bit famished, I decided to take a break and get some cafe. I strolled over to the Tim Ho's up the block and ordered coffee... hot, EXTRA CREAM, butter caramel and no sugar. My usual nowadays was an iced, butter caramel, no sugar and extra skim milk. Why the other? 'Cause I felt like it!

Drove over to the DD (yeah, I know I left one coffee shop for another, no judging) to order a flatbread sandwich. The gal on the intercom kindly informed me that THIS DD did not have the flatbread but they did have plain egg whites, instead of the nasty veggie egg whites the other DD had. Sighing, I ask for the sandwich with ENGLISH MUFFIN and CHEESE. Get off me, there was no flatbread! And since I already fell, why not keep going?

Fall from Grace #4: Burned bad at Fire and Ice
As I sat in the Fire and Ice at Providence Place Mall, I wondered how I ever got here. Oh, yeah, P wanted to go there and I thought, should be safe. I make my own portions, I can avoid rice and pasta and bad things. Unlimited salad. What could possibly go awry? So, my first meal went on without a hitch. I had some broccoli, cabbage, mushrooms, and chicken (approx. 4-5 oz.), seasoned with some Thai red curry sauce. Did I mention that was my FIRST meal? Yep, that did not seem to stop me from going up on Round Two and picking up a 1lb slab of BURGER with mushrooms and Greenberg Teriyaki and, of course, SWISS freakin' CHEESE.

I had the sense to decline the bun, but yet none to decline the meal. I sat at the table and just mowed (rhymes with ow) that puppy until I could feel my discipline snap. P, in trying to be supported, said, "Honey, you didn't do that bad." Oh, God, that meant I was going to hell. I was even too ashamed to plug that into my Lose It! Sigh.

Fall from Grace #5: The Final Freakin' Straw! Put down the damn sandwich!!!!
Sunday had pretty much started like Saturday, with the exception that I was working myself crazy with the plan Jay had laid out for me, hoping to God that I was redeeming myself. P and I were heading to Boston to do some marketing for my father-in-law, when for breakfast I inhaled a FLATBREAD EGG WHITE AND CHEESE sandwich from DD and a Tim Ho's iced coffee (with skim milk this time). I seemed in control. Until later on in the night, when P made me a STEAK and CHEESE sandwich with a BUN. WTF!!!! I hoovered that puppy like a Death Row inmate.

For the love of God! Why was I on this tear? Who was working the gears back there? I sat on my couch post-food coitus and thought, "I got to stop this beast before it reeks havoc in the temple." I could feel the bread in my esophagus choking my dignity and filling me with shame. DMX kept playing in my head: "Ay-yo, I'm slippin', I’m fallin', I can't get up. Ay-yo, I'm slippin', I’m fallin', I can't get up. Ay-yo, I'm slippin', I’m fallin', I gots to get up. Get me back on my feet so I can tear sh** up!”

I hear you, X… Pray for, y’all!

When the spring breaks...

Every girl has her favorite hair-bob. Some have a trusted do-rag they wrap about their head at night, holding them like a lover. Some have a much loved barrette with Swarovski crystals that tells the world, "I'm fancy and polished." Others have the all important scrunchy (clothed or unclothed), caked with what hair product you had on that day. My mother has her set of old school rolls that have seen more curled follicles than a stylist and have gone through at least three presidents. For me, it was my black Clippy.

My black Clippy made me feel secure. She held my unruly crop in place like a fist. It was like an eagle claw with a squirrel in it. My curls would bounce behind my head confidently, proudly, away from my face to allow whatever expression I chose to don to shine unfettered my a stray strand. She was my ace in the hole. My salvation, when the club got to hot, my neatly done do would not be wrecked by sinful sweat. She was my beach buddy, making sure that after I had frolicked merrily in the sun and sand, I could wrap that nest about my head into something presentable.

Well, on Sunday, Clippy met with an unfortunate demise when her trusted spring crumbled attempting one last hold. Snap! and she tumbled into hands, spent. My mouth hung open in sadness. My eyes stared in disbelief. Sure I knew this day would come, but... I thought I had time! Sigh. 'Fraid not, Cheri. She has gone to the hair exchange in the sky, leaving me with my curls hanging in shame and uncouth.

For those of you who know my hair's fame, may know that not just any clip can tame these locks. I've recently been trying to find a hair-bob replacement, but have been coming up with goose eggs. I tried the bear claws, but the stupid things can't even latch on let alone grip. My hair laughs at it talons and moves on in disdain. I've tried a scrunchy but it takes me back to my more unfashionable decade where my retainer reigned my oral region and my eyebrows asked, "What the hell is Threading? And why are you suggesting such a thing?"

Alas, my search is on and I am desperate. For now, I've been hiding my hair beneath do-rags and ProStyle gel hoping to get to a Sally's or BeautyWorks to find a new hair-bob that can withstand the strands of Lady Cheena. Pray for y'all.

P.S. What is you favorite hair-bob? Do you recommend any good ones?

Bundchen and Her Boobs Need to Cool It

In my daily perusal of the news, I came across supermodel, Gisele Bundchen, trending on Yahoo! Por qua, I thought. Little did I know that both me and my boobs would be raped of our womanhood. Gisele, in her high on mommy hood soap box, declared [insert snooty, Brazilian accent here], "I think there should be a worldwide law, in my opinion, that mothers should breast-feed their babies for six months."

Well, Gisele, write me up a ticket or toss me in the local pokey, because, unfortunately for me, I cannot breastfeed. That's right! Not because I don't want to, but because the doc's told me I can't. I take certain medicines that could be potentially harmful to my child and so I was banned from lending my kid the boob. But that makes no never mind, my mother never breastfed me or my sister, by choice. I have a friend who cannot breast her child 'cause the bugger won't latch. Are they all subject to the New World regime according to a high-paid supermodel? Heck no.

See, this is why I hate celebrities who all of a sudden caught on to being a mom like it's new. They start talking mess like "breastfeeding helped me get my shape back" or "look at me, I just popped out home skillet last week and now I'm in Playboy." F-You! Where's Brook Shields to keep it real right now? I'm crawling out of damn near two years of post traumatic self-loathing and bodily crashes. Currently, my son is a bouncy toddler with the stamina of the entire New England Patriots teams - and just as strong - without a teat.

Don't get me wrong. I can understand the benefits of breastfeeding. There are the immune benefits, the vitamin benefits, cancer fighting benefits, weight-loss benefits, the bonding between mommy and child benefits, etc. But let's also not forget that latching that pup to your boob has some adverse effects mentally and physically to you. First off, there is the pesky leakage that can happen anywhere, anytime when you forget to bring the pump or child (i.e. working moms who breastfeed). Second, the biting - enough said. Third, the misshapened, almost barely recognizable thing that used to be your nipple. That is gonna take a while to comeback, gals. Fourth, shenanigans in that area will never be what it once was with hubby or boyfriend until you've both gotten over the trauma. I've got stories - mine and others!

Believe it or not, there are mammy farms out there for women like me who have issues breastfeeding but would like their kids to benefit from it. You can check out Craigslist for it, I heard. Don't know how I'd feel about grabbing boob milk from someone else, but then again we drink regular animal milk without personally knowing Bessie the cow. But formula is not the evil empire, despite charging like they are. You just have to make sure you are feeding your child the right stuff and have a good report with your doctor to make sure Lil' Johnny or Lil' Susie is on track. DON'T TAKE PARENTAL ADVISE FROM CELEBS! CALL YOUR MOTHER OR AUNT OR GRANDMOTHER. SOMEBODY WHO HAS HAD A CHILD MORE THAN A FREAKIN' DAY.

Another part of the article that worked my solid was how Ms. Bundchen dared to claim [once again, insert ditsy, Brazilian accent here], “I think breastfeeding really helped me keep my figure.” No ma'am, that contract with Victoria Secrets kept your body in check. Although breastfeeding has been linked to weight loss, it doesn't work for everyone. Plus, it helps to be a high paid celeb with access to the best trainers (her husband's a football God for goodness sake!), best food, best doctors (plastic or otherwise), and best support system money can freakin' buy. Let me tell you something, Gis. We all ain't got it that way! Nor need to have it that way.

My son is doing just fabulous sans the breast milk. I respect, even envy gals (a little mind you), who breastfed their kids, but I think my boy is right on track to take Gisele's man's job in 2028. Til then, please just shaddup, enjoy your boy and stop working the rest of mothers.

Secrets Suck... Live open!

I've noticed a distinct social networking site backlash in the last month that seems to be growing. My father recently begged of me and my sister, "Why don't you like secrets?" Which cracked me up a bit, because what he was really trying to say was, "Why on earth do you kids keep telling the world your business?" The other night, a friend, in his own words, was "paranoid" about a recent photo post I had made that could possibly be taken out of context. My sister was slightly annoyed that her dog got put out on front street for some bad behavior. And, you know what, they may be right, for God sakes - mostly.

I had recently posted a photo of my son in my sister's dog's cage, which I thought was hysterical, because he had put himself in there and closed the door behind himself. Once I had posted the photos, I actually had a moment where I thought, "Good God, did I just do that? What will people think?" Then I quickly got over myself with a horrible flashback of my parent's own photo albums of me frolicking nakey in the bathtub with my tickle-biddies exposed. Now, that photo album has been seen by just about everyone who was handed the dreaded collage (friends, family, boyfriend (now husband), his family, his friends, bosses, etc.). Do people think my parent's are pedophiles? Heck no! Matter of fact, their parents will share the same embarrassing photos with me. Sigh! Wow, I never knew Lil Bob dressed up as Wonder Woman that Halloween, explains a lot.

Now, when I log onto my FB page, I am bombarded by how everyone is feeling and their own personal thoughts on whatever is happening in the world. Sometimes their thoughts mirror my own and sometimes they don't and I move on. But I can tell you, I've learned more about my family in the last year and a half then I have in freaking 32 years of my life going to their houses for visits. I feel like I know when kids are being born, people are getting engaged or married (wondering maybe why I wasn't invited?), the death of a loved one, someone falling ill, etc. Heck, I have kindled a friendship with family clear across the U-S-A that a phone would never have done. However, sometimes, there are times you just don't want to know that Uncle So-and-So is currently at the doctor's for a colonoscopy and the scope is in. That's just way too personal. Lord knows, I am a habitual offender (sorry, people). But I do want to know that his test results came back great and maybe off-line I'll check in, if I am so curious.

Nowadays, I think people want to be so open, yet they want absolutely no one knowing about them. It's the classic Go Daddy.com case, they reveal just enough of themselves before they say "Ah, I'm not gonna show ya!" I hate those people. They get you all kinds of emotionally involved and then they tell you nothing when you begin to probe for answers. Damn it, don't hustle me. Either come with it or shaddup!

I'm an open-book, sad to say. Not to say I don't know when to cram my pie-hole shut. But I know when to make an observation or reveal something about myself that I deem funny or just plain wrong (mostly funny). As many of you know, I discuss my Rheumatoid Arthritis openly. Not cause I want you all in my diagnosis, but it is in the hopes that someone, who maybe suffering in silence with their own chronic illness, may feel consolation that if you can have a bad day and freakin' laugh at yourself after you've shed some tears, then the situation ain't so bad. It's not a disaster if your left arm goes dead, you still got the other one - and sometimes maybe not.

My dislike is people who suffer in silence. I can't tell you how many of my family members suffered from pretty hardcore stuff and only when they pass on you learned, "Oh so-and-so had this" or "So-and-so had been ill for so long". Then you feel the proverbial guilt because, dang, I could of helped them through this or hey, wait, I have that illness maybe we can gab about it. So, I feel my daddy's pain about keeping secrets, but I look at it this way, stories have a way of coming out. Whether we cough up the gritty details over Holiday dinners, parties, etc., someone is bound to know about that one-time in the attic with the cigar or that trip to the Foxy Lady that one or more times.

People, here is my advice to you all about these FBs, MSs, Tweets, Linkdins: just keep talking about yourselves and no one else, be real, know your boundaries, keep it kosher (no swearing or get creative with that), block your co-workers, and remember, in a hundred years we'll all be mentally and telepathically connected anyway so nothing will be hidden from anyone. So, enjoy your edited version of the story and stop second guessing yourself. Pray for me, y'all.