Significant Kisses

I am a big supporter for gay marriage and gay rights. Actually, I'm just a big supporter of people living their lives to the fullest without societal or cultural restraints. When I saw the article on Marine Brandon Morgan's kiss with his partner, Dalan, I thought it was beautiful. And strangely, it wasn't because it was two gay dudes sticking it to society. I actually never saw their sexual orientation. I saw them as two human beings who love and missed each other.

Let's be real. Brandon was deployed 3 times over four years during their relationship. That's rough no matter if your gay or not. He could've been killed any one of those times. Now that he's home for good, you bet your sweet bippy he's gonna show his partner how much he missed him. It would be no different if my husband had done the same. Hell, we kiss each like that when I've only just gone to the market.

I often find myself floored when I hear someone make the insensitive, almost immature commentary that "it's gross" or "nasty" for two guys to kiss, yet be perfectly fine with women doing it. Really, folks? Really? It's two thousand freaking twelve, get over yourselves. We're adults (some of us) and human (some of us). Either dislike the same sex kissing thing as a whole or don't. Either way, there's nothing wrong with it.

Nowadays, you are bound to have at least a couple of gay friends, and they will have significant others who they are going to smooch around you. Are you going to stare wide-eyed and appall? Are you going to ha-rumph about it? No. You'll probably bristle and try to look away. I usually get sappy and romantic about it, personally, but what do you expect from a romance writer? To me, if someone means that much to you and you want to show some PDA. DO IT!

Life is too short to dwell on propriety. In this day of posting and sharing, this is what's happening. Maybe one day two gay dudes smooching on a dock somewhere will no longer be news. It'll  be just another day to celebrate love. I'm looking forward to it.

Pray for me y'all.

Seeking a Widow's Advice

Twenty-eleven was a really tough year for our community. We lost a lot of good, black men too soon. However, no two deaths touched me more than those of a rap icon, Heavy D, and funny man, Patrice O'Neal. Although they achieved fame in two different entertainment mediums, they both shared common elements. They both were highly respected in their fields. They were both very big men. And sadly, they both died in their forties from ailments that could have been prevented.

Heavy D died of a pulmonary embolism that formed from a blood cot in his leg during a long flight from London, where he had performed in a tribute concert to the late Michael Jackson. Now, skinny folk are septible to this, too, but Heavy was a big man with a history of heart issues. No matter how roomy you think first class is (if he was lucky to be there), you're still cramped up if you're big. I know when I fly Southwest I am forever having to stretch my leg or do something to keep the blood flowing; and I'm 5'4". Can you imagine a 6-foot plus brother with extra meat on his bones? Not to mention, he was also your quintessential yo-yo dieter. Going from extremes of weight loss and weight gain. Who knew that one flight would kill him so soon?

O'Neal died of complications from a stroke and long battle with diabetes. Again, a disease that can be managed and practically erradicated with a healthy diet. What was so tragic about Patrice's death was that he had predicted it. He had a comedic routine he did where he joked that 40 for a black man was like "177 years." He joked about his diabetes and made light of his serious health conditions. He basically said that if you hadn't set up the ground work when you "should have did it" than it was a waste to start now. That's a cop out, people. Now, I won't lie to you. The first time I heard the routine, I laughed hysterically at the sallies. They were funny! Then after he died, I tried watching that same routine again and found myself crying. Crying for him, his wife, Vondecarlo, and his daughter.

All I kept asking myself is why are our black men dying so young of these awful, yet preventable conditions. They were in their forties, for Godsakes. I mean, if this was 1900, fine. I can see it happening, can except it. But, damnit, it's 2012. They should be alive. We have the knowledge and access to better health. Good foods are readily available. We don't have to wait for the harvest. Why couldn't they be saved? My bigger concern is how are their wives/girlfriends and children coping? Is Vondecarlo blaming herself?

After the news of their deaths came my way, I began to look at my Big Man differently. Fear clamored my spine. He's 36 years old, 6 six feet tall and about 390lbs. Maybe more since he refuses to get on a scale for me. His belly is not so jolly and he complains of back, knee and foot pain constantly. My mind started to calculate how long I have with him. Patrice was 41. Heavy D was 44. Does that mean I have less than 8 years to enjoy my husband? Does that mean my son won't have his dad for his teen years, the most crucial years?

Don't get me wrong, people. I've looked in a mirror myself. I have my own demons to conquer. I battle with my weight and health problems. In fact, back in 2009, I realized this weight was not worth it anymore. So, I started to rebuild the Temple God gave me. I've slipped here and there, flatlined, but I have stayed focused on the priorities. I tried encouraging my Big Man to join me on the journey. But he waves me away with "yeah, sure, babe." I can't tell you how frustrated I get when I try to feed him good food and he balks. He is strictly a meat and potatoes kind of man. Salad. He'll nibble a salad, but no other veggies. Arg!

However, that is not the worst of it. He physically looks ill. It makes me afraid. One night, I watched him while he slept. Then I had a full-blown panic-attack, because he looked like he was drowning in his own body. If not for the haunting noise of his snoring echoing back at me through the dimness, I would think he was dead. I told him the next morning about the incident and he merely waved it off again and said, "You and Ockie will be fine if anything happened to me."

What?! Did I just hear him correctly? Did I just hear my husband, father to my son, love of my life, soul mate, just throw in the towel on his life? I could feel my head spin and my heart slam in my chest. Panic began to choke me and all I can remember was yelling at him like he was a lunatic. He couldn't understand why I was so upset.

"I don't want to grow old alone, P! I don't want to be a WIDOW at 40, or 50, or 60. I want to have you for as long as God will let me. I want to experience grandparenthood with you!"

He gave me a hug, and assured me things would be alright, but nothing's changed yet.

I know what some of you are thinking. He's a grown man. He needs to make this decision for himself. Well, it's not easy to stand by and watch someone do this to themselves and say nothing or do nothing. It was easier when I was single and had no real attachment to the big lunk next to me. But now, we have a marriage and a son and the playing field has changed. I have to fight to save him, even if he won't save himself. I don't want to be a widow in my forties. I don't want my son to grow up without his daddy because he could not control his weight. There's no honor in dying because you're fat!

The last couple of weeks of 2011 I began to think of Patrice's wife. Did Vondecarlo feel like me? Did they have the same arguments and fights? I would give anything to sit down with her and ask how she dealt with his weight, his diabetes, his stubbornness. Did she nag him everyday? Did she beg him to change? Did she hide veggies in his chilli? Did she try to regulate his sugar? And more importantly, what are her reflections now that he's gone?

I refuse to lose this fight with my Big Man. I refuse to let him go into the ground a fat man. He may have lost his mother to this awful epidemic (she was in her 50's), but I will be double damned to let my man go down like this. Y'all, 2012 is gonna have to be a year of change for Big Man.

Pray for him (and me), y'all.

Love and War

Ok, so Demi finally gave Ashton das boot. C'mon, the Bastard was cheating on her with some lowly heifers repeatedly. I consider that Che's Golden Ground for Divorce, along with putting any type of hand on me. Now, all this other foolishness - (I said I wouldn't bring it up, but I done lost my mind today) Kim and Kris, Velvet Teddy Bear and his lady - "irreconcilable differences" and "complete incompatibility of temperament" is just ridiculous. I'm sorry, call me old school, but what the hell ever happened to working it out. People need to stop treating marriage like a dating game.

I had a moment to look up the legal terms of these two grounds for divorce and was appalled. Irreconcilable differences are defined by the courts as "differences between spouses that are considered sufficiently severe to make married life together more or less impossible." If that were true, then I would've snipped the Desir off my name years ago. What makes a marriage fun and frustrating is the differences you experience with your husband or wife or life partner (gays/lesbians you ain't absolved either). My take on it is this: if you knew he was this stubborn about leaving his dirty drawers in the hallway when you were dating, then why did you ever think that would ever change when you got married? And inversely, do you think he enjoys catching a glimpse of your discarded tampons in the bathroom trash? No, he don't. But that doesn't mean he or she doesn't love you an less. As long as you agree or have a mutual understanding on the important things (finances, disciplining the kids, retirement, etc.),  you can totally hate each others guts over dishes in the sink and bras hanging off the fan blade.

Complete incompatibility of temperament is defined as “not [being] able to live in harmonious or agreeable combination. When there is conflict in the pattern of behavior and reaction it is said to be incompatibility of temperament. This is due to the different manner of thinking and behaving of a human being." Really? So, because I have a human reaction to P eating the last of my peanut butter Oreo's, the stress of it gives him the grounds to divorce me. Uh-huh. So, why couldn't he just let me be mad and then go buy me a new bag to make it right? Why couldn't I look on the bright side and think that was 70 calories less than I needed? Everyone has a temper and a mood. As long as it is not violent or emotionally/mentally damaging, then there is no reason two adults can't talk stuff through. Really talk stuff through.

Now, I know some of you out there are probably saying, but "Che, it's more than just that. We grew apart. We weren't talking. We were living separate lives. He/She just doesn't get me anymore." Who's fault is that? Look, P and I can go for an entire week not saying one word to each other, maybe a "Mornin'" or a "G'nite". But eventually, one of our dumbasses realizes this and says, "Hey, I have a wife. Where is my wife? What she doing?" and vice versa. And wait, people, a conversation ensues, maybe even a date. The great thing about a marriage is that you can still be an individual and do things that don't include your husband or wife (except cheating. Thank you, Jesse James). P is a hockey coach and is forever on the road doing tournaments or recruiting. I write and have my choir. But you know, despite my aversion to my husband's hobby (Che don't do cold, people), I actually get a kick out of hearing him relate stories of crazy parents and the politics of the game. On the flip side, on long car rides, P will ask me to whip out one of my blogs and read it and then we discuss it.

Kids, hate and discontentment comes with a loving marriage believe it or not. My parents will crack me up, because as many times I've heard them argue about something or other. I've seen them be loving to one another. Also, I've never seen them fight unfair. Now, some of you may have heard me give this advice, "Fight fair." I'll tell you what I mean. When you have a disagreement with your husband or partner or wife, don't start bringing out shit from the way back. If you're mad at him for not taking out the trash, don't bring up that time he was late picking you up from the train. One has absolutely nothing to do with other and only breeds resentment. Ladies, I hate to say it but we are notorious for this, not to say you brothers don't do the same. Just we take it to another level. Our marriage councilor (yes, we saw someone before we got hitched) said that if you fight, fight about the subject at hand and leave other issues out. And if it gets hot, walk away for 30 minutes, then comeback and resolve the issue. And if there's no resolution, then don't go running to the first divorce lawyer you see, table it for another time, until you can respectfully agree to disagree.

I can wholly admit that P and I have had outrageous, knock-out, drag-out fights (stuff that would destroy a Hollywood marriage in 72 hours), but I think what keeps us going is that we actually like each other, not just love, like. When you like someone, you actually care about making amends. It actually hurts you to see them upset. So many of these couples fly high on the love aspect of things that when they actually fall back down to earth and realize, "Oh, I don't really like you at all." Suddenly, it's over and he's walking out the door with your Robin Thicke CDs.


Look, young bucks, let me break this down to you simply: Marriage is tough. It's supposed to be. Sometimes it even sucks! Sometimes really sucks. But you can't keep treating it like a pair of last year's Jimmy Choo's. Unfashionable, therefore unwearable. The best shoe is the one you've worn in real good. Sure it's got smudges on it and a strange funky smell, but it's yours and it fits. So screw all this irreconcilable differences and complete incompatibility of temperament crap and actually talk to your partner. You might like them if you do.

Pray for me (and them), y'all!

Really, Man...

So, I've been following this End of the World, Judgement Day business for the last week and I can tell you, these crack pots are giving Christians a bad name. Now, be aware, I have no strong religious compass. Let's just say I was dedicated Nazerene, grew up with Jews, educated Catholic, baptized Baptist, palled around with Muslims, and know the difference between a Buddhist and a Hindu.  In short, my view on religion is slightly skewed.

What I always find so fascinating are the people who try to predict the will of God (or insert your deity here). Now, people, this higher power has to be the most gangster entity known to man. He's got more aliases than the late great ODB. She's got more VIP standing in mostly every religion than P. Diddy does in NYC. It's the only cat that can carry a grudge and forgive all at the same time and it's cool.

Based on the readings in the Christian bible, God's convinced a man to take his people through the desert for 40 years, convinced another old man to build a boat cause She was thinking about flooding the earth for about 40 days-40nights, helped an old woman conceive way past her childbearing years, convinced another man to sacrifice his own son, only to turn around in the last second and change his mind, sent Her own son down to the earth to get mauled by these ig'nant fools, just to show us She ain't playing. I don't know about you, but that sounds like a gangster if I every did hear one.

But I digress.

Back in the day (we're talking robes and sandals, people), apparently, God was real talkative. She'd show up as a burning bush, dust cloud, lamb, whatever and start telling people her plans. In fact, He'd have a laid out precise plan that was as easy to follow as Aunt Jemima's Complete Pancake mix (just add water and stir). If It was dead set on destroying someplace, you best believe there would be dust and pebbles in your path. But somewhere after Jesus, God got real quiet and subtle, or really man just became real idiotic.

Every century and religion has pretty much predicted the End of the World. That God has "spoken" to them and said that this date, this time is when it's all going to be over. And pretty much, we're all still here. I don't know about y'all, but they're making God out to be a punk bitch. Yeah, I said it. Instead of playing the wait and see approach, reading their bibles, praying, tithing, they keep putting God on front street and mouthing off like a playground instigator, "Yeah, God's gonna destroy the world on May 21st, we rising up and you staying here to suffer."

Uh-huh. May 21st was Saturday. It's freaking Thurs-day, May 25th. What have you got to say? "Well, uh, God got His dates mixed up- He's really gonna end the world October 21st." Brother, please, God did not mix up the date. She just didn't tell your ass and he's not gonna tell your ass. Like I keep saying. God ain't a punk; It's a gangster. She's gonna roll up on this Earth one day with His crew and poof: DE-STROY! End of story. No rapture. No Celine Dion serenade up into the Heavenly clouds. Just poof.


Now, you want my take on this End of Days business. You remember how the dinosaurs departed this world? Oh, that's right, we aren't really sure how they died. Was it tar, a meteor, deep cold? Maybe, maybe not. All we know are those big beasts are extinct and eventually, this world is gonna evolve again and only the strong  survive. Till then be strong in your own convictions and stop listening to fools who think they got an in with this higher entity. They'll still be in the line outside the club - with the rest of us.

Pray for me, y'all.

A Letter to Octavian - From the Book of Che

Dear Ockie,

I made an adult realization today. It was something I voiced but had voiced in times of annoyance and frustration and couldn't hold it in water because the vase it was in was so full of holes. As your father drove me to the train station, his one simple statement about my not complaining about work made me realize that I was a square block mercilessly jamming myself into a triangle shape. But what I said was one of the most selfless things I could have said, "I think I serve my job an injustice by being there."

Let me tell you what I mean, Diddles. Sure, I show up on time, I do what I need to do for my department, I offer the best customer service to my customers and colleagues, but my heart is not here. I don't spring from my bed saying, "Yay, I'm going to my crappy ass job!" I drag myself there because of my responsibility to you and your father. Without said job, you and I wouldn't be able to see the doctors. Without said job, I can't pay for you to have fun at play school or the house over our head. But, baby, I am not being a good role model to you.

So, I hope when you get older and read this, you'll take with you these lessons I picked up (or more oftentimes failed at) along the way.

* Dreams are just life plans with glitter on it. Don't be afraid to actually put some flesh behind them.
* For as much as you put into plans, be able to let go and have fun. If you get so hung up on the details, you miss out on the fun.
* Don't wait for someone to tell you to do something (i.e. pick up your toys). Do you know how much joy you bring someone when you just do something. Oh, here's a tip, try not to get annoyed when they sarcastically say, "Wow, you're doing dishes!"
* You're only alone if you stay alone.
* Be you. Know you. Prove it to you. You (and maybe the Man Upstairs) are the only person you have to impress, because if you wait around for other humans to recognize and adore you, you're gonna be disappointed everytime.
* Know when to Cuss and Carry on. Sometimes it's the thing to do with a few choice friends.
* Laugh. 'Cause if you don't laugh, you'll cry.
* All things die, baby. But memories don't - hold them closest to your heart, but be inspired by them not saddened.
* Fight for the one you love. Even when the world says it won't work. If you believe it, then only God can part you.
* Sometimes love ain't got a lick a sense. I know, boyo. Trust me, I know.
* No one ever runs on time.
* Learn as much as you can from your mom and dad about your history. You'd be surprised at how bad ass your ancestors were.
* If your parents come from a foreign country, make it your mission to touch that Earth at least once before you go.
* If you're gonna be wrong, be wrong strong! Don't be afraid of making a mistake or being embarrassed. You gotta learn somehow.
* Don't be afraid to say I'm sorry. If your words hurt someone, if your hands hurt someone, if your silence hurt someone, be man or woman enough to say I'm sorry.
* It takes two of you to argue, but it only takes one of you to be the bigger person. Calmer heads will always prevail.
* By the way, you're not always right!
*And, honey, momma has always failed this, but hopefully you won't, don't let your emotions rule your features. Have a poker face, when it's necessary. Humans are humans and they will use your emotions against you.
* Giving up is the worse thing you can do!
* You can live a normal life with a chronic disease.
* At birth, you were given a temple to take care of. Don't be cruel and let your house of flesh and blood be overrun with weeds and ill-repair. In order to maintain your land, be good to it and fill it with only good things.
* Drugs are highly overrated. Trust me, you're wasting your time, money and life trying to feed an addiction.
* Oh, by the way, anything is an addiction. If you don't learn moderation now it will haunt you.
* Once in a while, stand completely naked in front of a mirror and check yourself out. Now wait, don't look at your flaws. Look at the things you like. Be proud of the framework you have. So many people are unhappy with themselves because some person or magazine or show done told them how to look or dress. Baby, beauty is how you perceive it. If something makes you happy, then it's beautiful and let no one tell you different.
* Treat everyone you meet with a clean slate, unless they prove themselves otherwise. No one race is better than the other. No sexuality that supersedes the other. There are assholes in all cultures and social circles, just find the good ones and avoid the bad ones and you'll be fine. Stereotypes are just fodder for comedians.
* Love for the right reason. Grandma once said, "Love with interest, doesn't yield a thing."
* Pain is like rain. If you don't have it, you don't appreciate the sunshine and happy times.
* Education is a right and you should learn as much as you can about everything, but try not to be a know it all. Remember, know-it-alls get kicked out Smurf Village.
* When you know it's time to leave someplace, always leave on good terms. It wasn't all bad, so don't make it like it was.
* There is no shame in a man crying, honey. You are human and you have a right to feel. 
* And if you can't please yourself, you can't please anyone.
* This one's for when you get older. Learn how all your parts work, and don't be afraid of your sexuality. Whether gay or straight, be comfortable in your skin to share yourself with someone who will respect you in the morning. Life is too short and too dangerous to be sexually naive. Don't be afraid to be selective about your partners. Don't be afraid to try new things - that you're comfortable with. Don't be afraid to love yourself. There's nothing wrong with that! Learn to be an unselfish lover - and teach your lover to love you.
* Lastly, be a spirit of the Earth, and don't get caught up in man made religions. Every Creed offers a lesson about the High Power of this world. God (whatever form you take him) is everywhere. He'll be there for you when you need guidance. Life is a classroom and a chapel. It's up to you if you want to attend.

Ockie, I certainly would never vote myself World's Greatest Mom. I know there are times where I feel like I've failed you, but I can only keep trying and learning how to make this work. Baby, I promise to try to be a better role model for you and prove that if you do put your mind to it your hard work does count for something. Life is a scary ass journey, but it's so much fun trying to get to the end. Always know that momma loves you with every fiber of her heart and soul, even if it doesn't seem like it.

Love and smoochies,

Momma

P.S. Pray for me, y'all!

Anxiety...

So there I was last night exhausted as all get out, when a dreadful thought claimed me. I vaguely recalled a show joking about a cubicle being half the size of a jail cell. My God. That is so true. Believe it or not, I actually began to panic. Yes, people, I panicked like a ho in church. I began to sweat. Then I began to pace. Is this what I signed on for when I signed on to this thing called Life? Jesus, this is a horrible assignment.

I know some of you are reading this and thinking, "She's gone bananas." But I know there are good number of you who feel my pain. You wake up, get dressed, eat/don't eat, catch a bus/drive, get to work, sigh, do your job, eat/don't eat, try to finish out your day, get back on the bus/drive, get home, eat/don't eat, sleep. Repeat. Pepper in some bathroom time and that's it. 

Today, as I strolled through the train station, I compared everyone around me to a herd of gazelles, bumping and trotting to their destination. We were all moving through the valley and I just wanted to break from the pack. However, I didn't want to be the one mowed down by a lion. So, I kept moving along the line. Ugh!

There is this piece of me that wants to make a difference, but another piece that could really care less. God, that sounds so shallow. I want to pursue the things I love, but they sound so silly. I know what I'm good at, but continue to do the things I am horrible at.

THAT'S IT!

I am tired of being so bloody wishy-washy with myself. I got two ovaries (because I don't have balls, people, follow me) and a lot of gumption. How do I not wake up on Sunday morning, worried about Monday morning? Hmmmm.

I'll get back to you when it kicks in... Pray for me, y'all.

Stop Work Order

It has taken me a long while to actually realize that my brain has apparently put a stop work order on the rest of my body. The holidays had been sweet and fun with little lapses here and there on the work outs, but January and February, things came to a grinding halt. The tools were starting to gather dust. The resources and materials were growing mildew and mold. I glanced around one day and said, "What happened?" between mouthfuls of Funions.

Oh, dear God. My body has gone on strike.

I recently just finished an eight week rehearsal for the famed Providence Newspaper Guild Follies, where I had killed it as "Lizzy Gaga". However, during the process I had let me regime and eating habits fall by the wayside. Cast members had been kind to bring treats to get us through the long rehearsals, but it was stuff like cupcakes, cakes, breads, etc. It wasn't their fault. It was my freaking will power that went into low drive. I was housing this crap, despite bringing healthier alternatives like protein bars and shakes.


I think where I went into serious fail mode was the week of the Follies. Good Lord, the amount of food that I crammed down my pie hole in the midst of two days coulda fed an Ethiopian village. Here is just a breakdown (cover your eyes or ears if you have a weak stomach):

Thursday
- Eggs (about a quarter plate), sausage link (1 mind you) and a handful of potatoes. On top of already having a breakfast sandwich earlier that morn.
- Venus wedding soup about 3 to 4 bowl fulls.
- Venus bread slathered in specially prepared Venus olive oil and tasty fixin's about 4 or 5
- Seafood Scampi (large chunks of lobster, scallops and shrimp) oh wait, and pasta.
- Reisling wine

Friday
- Hoards of snackies all over the place
- Housed some serious chicken salad (minus buns - I did have some sense) wrapped in lettuce and cheese.
- Pre-show glass of Reisling wine (be aware, folks, a cup of Reisling is like a slice of cake) and nibbles of beef.
- Post-show housed a bowl of Lobster Newburg (a Venus tradition), salad, a slab of roast beast, 2 1/2 pieces of breaded cod fish and Chardonnay.

And you would think somewhere in this mind of mine, I would have said, "Ahem, don't you think you should check you caloric intake at this time and STOP CRAMMING YOUR PIE HOLE!" No. You see, apparently, I had gone off the deep end, because it did not stop there. No, sir. Come Saturday I was hot in the kitchen brewing up my White Chili and putting the finishing touches on my red velvet cupcakes with the butter cream cheese frosting. You heard me... BUTTER CREAM CHEESE FROSTING!

The only thing that may have saved those cupcakes was the simple fact that I accidentally used wheat flour instead of white flour. Needless to say, that became null and void when, as my good friend, William, pointed out at the party, the cupcake to frosting ratio was 50:50. However, it was not my contributions to the party that appalled me. No. It was my contribution to housing everyone else's pot that appalled me.

Once again, here is the breakdown:


At home:
- 8 oz. of a protein shake with a banana in it.

- Half a steak and cheese sandwich I shared with P.

At the party
- Mini roast beef wrap
- A plate full of salad drenched in a tasty/tangy dressing
- Chips and guac
- An off the hook, someone-put-their-foot-in-it curry dish that I slathered over some dirty rice (not once but twice)

- A scoop full of my own White Chili (over some dirty rice)

- I can't even remember how many, but let's say I housed a quarter of the Fried Wonton plate
- Two cups worth of Merlot wine (remember, kids, that's like two slices of cake)

- One of my own cupcakes (actually one and a half since I had tested half of one back at the house).

It was Sunday when I woke from this disasterous  meltdown of will power that I realized, "Oh God, I have derailed my efforts." Shame and disgraced just filled me. I was doing so well. I was watching what I was eating and not going overboard. But like an alcoholic you are truly never reformed.

I looked at the calendar on my wall and realized that I had let The Brain continue this "stop work order" on my Temple for far too long. That's when I called a Summit meeting. Sitting down at my mental table with my staff (The Brain, The Heart, The Stomach and The Muscles), we came to a resolution.

We all knew what needed to be done and we all knew how it needed to be done. Stomach kinda blanched at the idea of going back to square one, but she knew that the current materials in the warehouse had to go. The carbs were putting a dimple on the Temple facade and the lack of fruits was causing a flap in the right and left wings. The Muscles were in on the ground work and were ready to get beat up to re-strengthen the foundations. The Brain and Heart came to an understanding that halting the progress was going cause the Temple to deteriorate to itself dilapitated state once again and both had agreed they liked the clearer space.

So, tonight, I will be joining a group of gals in the same boat as myself and trying to get back on track. Pray for me, y'all.

Soap Box: You butter believe it...

A few weeks ago I was on a hot search for butter. Yeah, I said it. Butter. Look, readers, butter is not the horrible enemy you think it is. Let me tell you what is - veggie oiled based faux butter is your worst enemy. That Fabio-endorsed crap with the apropo title is your worst enemy. Let me tell you why.

A year ago, a co-worker hipped me to a little food logic that has been sticking with me through this whole rebuilding process. If a product has more than 5 ingredients, none of which you can pronounce without a science book, then this should not go into your body. Wow! Simple and yet it makes a whole lot of freaking sense.

So, fast forward to the Wal-mart's butter section where we join our heroine (yours truly) in a search for real butter. People, I spent 10 minutes reading the back of every butter tub and every one I picked up sickened me to no end. I picked up every variety of butter brand there could be (the Blue Bonnet, Smart Butter, I can't Believe it's not Butter, Wal-mart 'Good Sense'). First off, practically all those butters had 100 calories per 1 tablespoon! One hundred freaking calories! And these were the "health conscious" ones. Seriously! Oh, get this, every single one of those I picked up was a veggie-oil based spread with stuff like homegenous-something something for chemicals.

What the eph am I eating, Butter Bureaucrats?! Laymen terms, puhleeze! The oleo one really freaked me out, because nothing goes better with your bran muffin than crapping your pants. There's a WARNING LABEL, people! A WARNING LABEL on a FOOD PRODUCT! Something is wrong with that.

However, it all makes sense now. Have you ever left butter out of the fridge? Do you ever get around to studying the melted mess? It has an oil ring on the butter dish. I mean leave it by the oven and you got the Exxon Valdez spill on your kitchen counter. Yowsers! Oh, and by the way, real butter is made from cream, which means you can't leave it out for too long or it spoils (learned that the hard way). Also, if you can spread it easy right out the fridge, you have an imposter. Real butter is not easy to spread out the fridge unless you let it sit for a minute or two.

So, what did our heroine do? I actually came up on a tub of Land o' Lakes Unsalted Sweet Cream butter. Already jaded by the last 10 tubs of butter (one of them being a package of LOL SPREADABLE butter), I had lost all kinds of hope, but to my immediate surprise the tub of sweet cream fulfilled my want. Get this, all the ingredients on that back of the tub were sweet cream, milk and natural flavoring. Really?? Oh, wait, I compared it to the LOL Spreadable butter, which listed Canola Oil as an ingredient. So, what was the calorie count on the lovely spread of the Unsalted Sweet Cream, it was only 50 calories per 1 tablespoon. FIDDY, people!

Why, in a sea of "healthy" butters, did I have to turn to an original butter source for the fewer calories? And it cost me two dollars cheaper than those other liars! This is just more proof that just because Corp U-S-A has a cracker jack marketing team throwing the words "healthy", "low-fat", "reduced calorie" on ev-very-thang we eat, doesn't mean it's good for ya. This is just another lesson I've been learning as I learn to read labels.

Seriously, people. I mean you can look at an apple and know what it is and what's in it. Packaging is food camoflage that we have to strip down and figure out. Jim Gaffigan made a great joke about packaging, where he described a great meal of "savory chunks of beef in a savory sauce" and turns out it was dog food. He ends the bit with, "Thank God for packaging." Well, sometimes we have to go one step further and read the back of the label to see what the hell makes up some of this stuff.

Foods got to be useful, not hindering. I hope y'all have a butter moment in your local grocery store. Pray for me, y'all!

Soapbox: Fat Children

I was a fat kid.

Recently, I peeped old photos of me when I was about six or seven and I noticed that I was real husky. However, upon further inspection, I saw that I was not a sloppy fat kid, but a solid fat kid. I was in a situation where mom coulda (and don't think she didn't try) withheld a Ho-Ho or two. In fact, the whole family remembers (and resents) the low sodium diet she had enforced that fateful summer back in the 80's.

I was just one of those children who ate a parent out of house and home, but apparently worked some of the stuff off. Lil' Debbie's could not stay in the cabinet without my having consumed every last cake; much to my sister's dismay. However, I was also a child that played a lot outside. I rode my bike in the tiny thatch of driveway allowed me like a hamster in a wheel. I loved jumping rope (for real, not fake). And I nearly tumbled my parent's livingroom to the basement with my "dancing" (ask mom about the Lassie statue).

Fast forward to the new millenia, I was walking around the store the other day and was just freaking horrified by the site of this little girl. She couldn't have been more than 8 years old, but she looked bloated and round like when Violet in the 70's classic Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory turned into a blueberry. Her lil' belly was poking out the bottom of her stretched out pink shirt, her face was tired and haggard, and her feet - ugh - she was killing a pair of ballet slippers. I wasn't sure where her ankle ended and her thigh began. Dear God, she had a thankle!!! She's too young to carry all that. It made me so scared for her. Then I saw her brother and was equally scared. WHY!?!?!?

What has happened to the food we are giving our children? Something is wrong out there. Seriously! I peeped old school class photos of friends and myself and was hard pressed to find that same lil girl and her brother in the photos of my classmates. In the last couple of years, fat kids have started to look gross. It ain't baby fat no mo', it's grown folk fat strapped on a lil' body. As I try to work on myself and rebuild my own ruins, I can't help thinking, how do I make sure this doesn't happen to my Ockie Diddles?

People, I actually have nightmares about this stuff. My husband and I are both children of fat. Big Man used to be called Fat Pat as a child. I held the honored distinction of Miss Piggy through elementary and junior high. Sure, I'm getting control of myself, now, but I'm a recovering fat kid, who is struggling to make sure her son doesn't fall victim to the same addiction. It is not encouraging to see the younger generation surpass our fat numbers.

Beat me in intelligence. Show me up on the basketball or football field. Learn the newest gadget. But, for God sakes, don't beat our fat stats.

I was actually tempted to ask the kids' mom about it. But fear of a sound thrashing and a "how dare you point that out" kept my mouth shut. But mothers out there with this problem, what do you do? How do you deal with this? Do your children come home crying from being teased? Do you argue with the children about what they're eating? Do you know what their school gives them access to? Do you feed their habits at home? How do you fight this battle without feeling like a horrible person? Do you blame yourself? I got questions and I'm scared of the answers.

Nowadays, life is not like 1985. My mom would come back from work, cook us dinner, let us play outside (cause Nintendo was not in the house yet), and get us ready for bed by 8:30pm. Now, a "normal" house looks like mom buying some KFC, hours of XBOX or Wii, and bedtime is like whenever. I know this, because there are some days I live like this. Where the eph did we go wrong? How do we get on track again?

I remember when my mom saw that my weight had gotten out of control. She had placed the entire family on a diet, not just me. She made it a family problem. She worked her hardest to get my weight down considerably, because she had felt responsible for putting me there and didn't want me to suffer for it. But she also let me know that I had a fair share of the blame as well. She stopped buying snacks or actually took to hiding them from me. Folks, my mom went as far as locking the freezer door so I could not get ice cream without her permission. Was I mad? Yeah, I was. Do I appreciate her efforts? Yes I do. Now.s

Sometimes, I wish parents would take the Ulda route with their fat kids. Lock up your fridge. Educate your children about fruits and veggies. Don't make them out to be bad things. I commended a woman on the train who was feeding her 8 month old peas like potato chips. I try to do that with Diddles and cucumbers. Some days I win, some days I loose, but I at least try. I almost disgusted when I see a hefty lad or lass mowing on a chocolate Hostess cake like it's a scene out the Cantina in Stars Wars. (I don't have to say which character their playing. You can guess.)

All I guess I'm saying is don't feel bad about taking away horrible snacks. Doritos are not a part of the food pyramid. There is a big difference between Fruit Juice and Fruit Drink (see Dave Chappelle). Scare your children. It's embarrassing to admit, but I have heard rumors that family members have told they're children, "Don't eat too much or you'll be fat like Cristy..." Yoswers! Now, I don't know if that is clearly a deterrent, but I do know that several close family members, who may or may not have received said advice, are not as "voluptuous" as myself.

If you are offended by what I am saying, good. Maybe it'll get you to think. Our future is gonna be riding a motorized scooter to school because they're too fat to walk a block. Save our kids! I'm begging you. Please. Pray for me, y'all.

Runnin'... Runnin'! And I'm not tired yet!

I was running late for the train this morning. After a restless and sleepless night, I had kept hitting the snooze like it was a buzzing fly. Bolting out of bed, I tried to hurry through the "beauty" routine. By the time I had left the house it was 7:10am and I needed to get money at the ATM and get coffee to make change to park. Mind you, my train was at 7:22am and it takes a minute to get there. That's when I decided to go to the next station, hoping to out run the train.

Lord knows, I was sweating worse than an alcoholic in a bar at happy hour. After fighting through a weird flow of traffic, I finally arrived at the station. As I parked my car, I was dreading having to scurry. Prior to working out, I had never been able to run fast enough to make the train. In fact, there had been a couple of times where I had plumb given up before even making the effort. It was rough. It was sad. It was heartbreaking.

Today, however, I had no time to dwell on the past. I had to get on that train. Grabbing my bag and my coffee, I quickly locked my door and proceeded to book it down the row of cars. My steps were even as was my breathing. Nothing felt tight or hampered. All I kept thinking was make this train, make this train. I dumped my dollars into the slot and proceeded to run across the street to the set of stairs that so often foiled me. Rounding the corner and up the ramp, I made it onto the train with seconds to spare.

That's when I took stock of a few things.

Each step I had taken was a run. I didn't drag behind. The breathing I was doing was neither a huff or a puff, it was even. My chest didn't heave nor did my heartbeat slam into my breastbone as it had done many times before. To sum it up, people, I wasn't dying like I had before. It was daunting not to feel that way. It was a scary relief knowing that I could actually run and not feel like I was going to drop. Wow.

It is moments like these that I am so thankful for getting off my ass to rebuild myself. They seem insignificant to so many in the world, but it is big for me. Pray for me, y'all.

The Lost Weekend

So, I was all geared up to talk about how I had gone wrong this past weekend, when God and his infinite wisdom pulled the plug on my story and crashed the Blogger server. It was then I had to take a minute and decipher what I really wanted to get out. On my weekly visits to Mamai and Papai's, I usually get on the scale to check my progress. I was scared to do so this week, because I had gone buck crazy this past weekend.

But when I stepped back and thought about my merciless shenanigans, I began to realize I didn't go crazy. I actually ate like a normal person would during a party. For my anniversary, sure I went for broke and ordered Crab Rangoon, but I paired them with Steamed Pork Dumplings. For Diddles' birthday, which made up my lunch and dinner, I had three slices of pizza, two chicken wings and a small helping of General Gau. I practically worked that off in the bouncy and walking around (alright gimping around) and chasing children.

Even during the week I had written my trainer, Jay (shout out to Exercise Solutions RI), telling him I feel like I was backsliding. He set my ass straight by saying I can't cheat on myself. I needed to get a hold of me. Folks, you gotta know, all my life, I've lived by that stupid sin, Gluttony. I always felt like I have to eat that hole chocolate mousse pie. I must inhale that Cool Whip sandwich dunked in Kool Aid. Yes, I must eat the entire box of Lil Debbies thwarting my sister's snacking. Oh, wait, why bring home half that pad thai, when I can finish it now? Ooooooh, Reese's Peanut Cups, mmmmmm! I never realized how to stop or savor a treat.

These last couple of months, it began to sink in that I can eat like a normal person is supposed to eat. A friend of mine, whom I have lunch with everyday (shout out to M. Frank), when I first started the restructure, kept mentioning the portions I was eating weren't enough. I began looking at the meals and started doubting what Mr. Jay had mapped out. Maybe this wasn't enough. I felt full, but was it enough? I had snackies, but were they enough? Hmmm. Then I gots to reading and doing and realized, crap, this is enough.

Still a bit doubtful, I sat down and wrote out an old menu of things I would have in each sitting in one day, then did a calorie count of those things. After I was done, I almost had a breakdown. In fact, I cried by myself.

If you have weak constitutions, I suggest you turn away, folks. This can get a lil' gross:

Breakfast:
Fried egg with the yolk, cheese, pork sausage on a bagel/English muffin - Tim Ho's (540 calories), DD (490 calories), McDonald's (452 calories)
Large buttered caramel coffee with extra cream and sugar - 125 calories

Total caloric intake between 665 - 577 calories

Lunch at Rock Bottom:
2 Titan Toothpicks - 612 calories
Classic Mac N Chicken - 1,430 calories

Total caloric intake was 2,042 calories

Dinner at Apsara:
8 Crab Rangoons - 560 calories
Green Curry Chicken with a bowl of white rice - 512 calories
Dessert from Friendly's Reese's PB Sundae - 1,330 calories

Total caloric intake 2,402

Total Daily intake for just one day was approx. 5,109

Folks, do you feel your heart lurching? Is there bile pressing up against your gums and burning your teeth? That was ONE day in my life of eating. That was me destroying my insides, because I didn't know how to just say, "Stop!" No wonder I was so mean and cold-hearted. NO wonder I was so huge. No wonder my body ached. No wonder I was going for broke week after week. If I could do that to myself, WTF! Breath, breath... Sorry, y'all, I went there again. I sometimes have moments where I get really mad at myself. It's kinda hard to look at the mirror every morning and realize you are your own domestic violence case in one body.

These last 12 weeks have shown me a new look at life and food. It's made me have a new relationship with how I treat myself. I began to learn that whatever I eat made up my framework. I noticed that the more high protein my diet became the more toned I got. The more fruit and water I ate and drank the more my skin looked clearer and rosier. Dude, I looked like I was fit for a coffin - I was so pale. Actually, the cast of Twilight called and wanted me to join. I declined. Thanks.

The more veggies I scarfed the more regular I felt (that's right, I said it - poop happens, deal with it!) . I didn't miss white rice (once and awhile in my sushi was all I needed). Fried foods began to actually taste oily to me. Let me tell you, I paid for those Crab Rangoons with a couple of worships to the porcelain temple for two days.

And, can I just say, the right foods can make you feel sexy. I love sashimi! Especially, salmon. After eating that, I feel like I can do a photo shoot for Italian Vogue - naked (with a satin blanket). Yes, I have thought about it. Anyway, the only casualty to this restructure thing has been my hair from all the sweat I've doused on it, but that can be fixed with a trip to Ms. Shanna's hair studio.

As I continue with this internal redecorating, be aware, I am 2lbs less (I finally did brave the scale), 24lbs lighter overall, 8lbs to my wedding weight, and have elliviated 144lbs of pressure from my knees (thanks, Jay, for teaching me that) . My RA bothers me, but I can actually fight it better. My hope is rising. My relationships are better (I can play tag with Diddles and that is awesome). The house is starting to look good, too.

Over three months ago, I was so scared, people. I hated everything (no really, I did). I dreaded waking up. I dreaded walking. I hated taking my meds. I hated my clothes. I hated my skin. I was so done with it, but humans are quirky. Sprinkle a little tragedy and cellulite on'em and some of them just bounce up ready to brawl. I'm glad I'm fighting and I know a lot of y'all are fighting with me. Thanks. Pray for me, y'all.

Curse of the Cardio

So, for the passed two weeks, my trainer, Jay, has stressed I need to get into cardio routine. Logically, I know the man is right, but emotionally and mentally I hate it. I have never been the runner. For physical fitness tests at school, I failed any running relays. During recess, when friends would play tag, it took me way longer to catch anyone. That's why I never volunteered to be It. Lord knows, if I went walking with either my sister or father, someone needed to bring an oxygen tank or else I was on the side of the road gripping my side and huffing myself blue.

It was a psychological trauma when anyone would say the word run. I was defeated before I even started and worst of all, I just felt like everyone looked at me like, "what a shame" or "you lazy ass." Pretty much, I fell into the roll and never got out of it. Now, here was Jay saying, "C'mon, Che, you got this."

No, no I don't got this. I want to hide behind lifting weights and beating my muscles up. Leave my lungs and heart alone. Don't shake your head at me. Tell me you don't feel the same way when you get strapped to a treadmill. Ok, I sound like a punk, but breaking from a characteristic that has pretty much been you is not easy. Sigh.

I guess everytime I've ever made a valiant effort to run or do step or whatever other cardio exercise thrown at me, I have felt hedious. You heard me. Hedious. God forbid if I was doing this with my sister - Queen of the Long Distance Run. Ugh. I just could not keep up and felt useless trying to.

I know I am having a moment right now.

The only time I never felt this way was when I danced - alone. I can remember long hours of leaping from one end of my parents house to the other in graceful swirls. That livingroom was my stage and I owned it. Each step I choreographed was in sync with the music and I told a story with my hands and feet and body that I could never tell anyone else. I created a character that broke all the previous models of the lazy me that my family were more than well-acquainted with. In those moments, I could run and my heart didn't beat too quickly or my sides didn't kill nor did my lungs burn. That's why my calves looked the way they did. That's why my stomach was relatively flat for a big girl. And that is why I had a tabletop for an ass.

Now, you're probably wondering, "Well, Che, why don't you take that up again?" Simple, I'm ashamed to try. Can you imagine me leaping from one end of my home to the other? Creating a story with my hands and feet to the latest Kanye or Nicki Manaj joint? Sigh. I guess the Wendy inside me grew up and killed off my internal Peter Pan, because I more than just a Lost Boy right now.

You wanna know the real truth. I still do it. In my head anyway. Since starting the temple restructure, I began listening to songs and coming up with routines that harken back to my old days. Robin Thicke's "Sex Therapy", T-Pain's "Reverse Cowgirl", Alicia Keys' "Trying to Sleep with a Broken Heart" have all received a mental choreography. I'm just afraid to actually spark up the CD player, shove the couches to the side, and just get on my tip toes. Those puppies hurt.

I'm also afraid to look ugly. Ugh! I can't believe I said that. But it is so true. I feel so ungainly and even when I do the simple stuff Jay gives me, I feel like a fool. I sweat and not that cool Flash Dance sweat. It's more like the fat guys from the "Physical" video. The other fear that trumps the looking ugly thing, failure. I am afraid to eph up. I am afraid to make a mistake because then that's it - game over. And worst of all, I am afraid that I will go through this shame and still not get to where I want to be.

So, there you have it. Need cardio to drop the pounds, but I'm too vainly stupid to just deal with it. Sorry to be a downer, guys. Just, pray for me, y'all.

A Decade of P and Che

September is a very huge month in the house. Not only is it our son's 2nd birthday or our 3rd wedding anniversary. It is our tenth year together as friends. I know many of you have heard the bumbling, oftentimes mad rantings of a possessed woman when I've referenced P in my blogs. Lord knows, he has never been shown in the best of light. And, true, he has done some stupid, callous things that have incurred my wrath, but (and don't tell him I said so, because I will deny it) I am no perfect angel to his flawed saint.

What has made me and P work for this long? Honestly? P has. In all my years of letting people walk in and out of my life (and sometimes not even giving them a thought once they've gone), P is the only person I cannot see my life without. Even when he gets me boiling mad, there is that part of me that wants to hug him and love him.

So, I want to actually take this blog and exalted Mr. P on the several things I never blogged about him that I think people should know:

Giving his last dime
P is generous to a fault. I can remember this one time when I had been ranting about money and not being able to pay my car note. I was panicked and couldn't turn anywhere else for the shame of it all. P drove to the bank and pulled out all that he had (which hadn't been much) and dumped it in my account without a single "pay me back..." When I asked him why he would do this, his response, "I'd rather let my account go dry then see you stressed like this."

You can't imagine how that made me feel. He was giving me all he had to make me feel secure and stress free. Statistics always reference that money is one of the main killers of a relationship. Couples quibble over a dollar and everything else falls apart around them. Hell, I even read how one guy ended his engagement because his fiancee had $170K worth of debt. Dang! But no matter our money woes, P has always stuck to his word and we've worked together to figure out how to get by. I guess we get the part about, "for richer or poorer."

He's No White Knight, But He'll Do
Many know the story of my Tercel loosing control on 93S. But it was the after effects that stick in my head. P had gotten me back to 63 Merriam and I was a wreck. Crying, sobbing , ranting like an idiot. And he held on to me. Finally, when it had hit me that he had said nothing the whole time, I looked up and he was crying. He just looked at me, stroking my braids, tears rolling down his cheek and he uttered, "When you're phone dropped and the last thing I heard was you scream, I thought I lost you." He said how he racked his brain trying to figure out how to get to me and couldn't. He said he felt lost. That's when I knew. If I could make this 6 foot giant of a man breakdown into tears and express his vulnerablity, I knew I meant a whole lot to P.

Tragedies can bring couples close together, but they can also test the bounds of their love. The one thing I know about P is that no matter what tragedies befall us, great or small, I am assured he will be my shoulder to cry on. I guess we understand, "For better or worse."

Road to Anywhere
Before P, I had only known the four corners of the New England area. I was reluctant to walk outside the lines and see what the other side looked like. But P took my hand and dragged me places that has given me great stories. I will never forget our first road trip to Washington, D.C. to pick up the infamous futon. It was a one day trip, but it was chocked full of adventures. The Intrepid rental that didn't have pull down back seats. P and Jacques trying to load it in. The State Trooper at the gas station, after seeing P held prisoner by the futon in the back seat, commenting, "That's the way to keep'em, girlie. " Driving back in the rain with the window open.

From that first, we knew we'd have an adventure everywhere we went. From ATL to San Fran, there's more fun to be had. Oh, by the way, we still have the futon frame.

Um... Happy Valentine's Day... Daddy
For those of you who know P, he is the talker. He forever has something to say about anything. But there was final one time I was able to silence him. It was Valentine's Day 2008. For a week now, I had suspected something was up with my womanly systems and had decided to do a check. Before we sat down to eat dinner at home, I dipped the stick and left it there. I didn't even mention to P what I had suspected, because a part of me didn't believe it. We joked at the table as we usually did, then I proceeded to clear the table. That's when I remembered, "Oh crap, the Test." I ran into the bathroom and checked the results. "Oh my," was all I thought, then laughed to myself.

Walking out into the livingroom where P was watching TV, I plopped down on top of him with test in hand. He was already talking some mess about something else, when I said, "Happy Valentine's Day, Daddy" and showed him the big ol' positive. P was silent. He was shocked. His mouth hung open. I was in hysterics laughing.

Once he regained his composure and tongue, he couldn't stop yapping about his son and he still is. I don't think I could top another Valentine's Day present.

Loving me for who I am
Many folks have told me how sweet and friendly and charming I am. Some folks have called me a bitch, tempermental and overly dramatic. But no one has truly accepted me for me, like P. He is never afraid to let me know when I'm being mean or need to reel in my claws. But he also reminds me on occasion that I have a tender, loving side and that I really am a good person. I truly cherish the rare moments when he steps outside himself and tells me how my skin is the softest he's every touched or that he loves loving me or that my hair looks nice or that that outfit is sexy.

He ain't romance novel romantic, but he lets me know I am special to him in his own P Diddy way.

On this September 14th, P and I celebrate the first time we said, "I love you." I know it's cheesy y'all, but it is this day that is the most important, because this is the day that we let each other know with three little words that "I can't live without you", "I miss you when you are gone", "I'm broken, fix me", "I can see you having my kids", "I can see being with you forever." And yes, I love you, Big Man. Pray for us, y'all.

Happy Anniversary!

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.