Category Archives: Self-Improvement

Word Up


“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” Yes indeed, that is often one of the first little mantras one learns in life and generally chants on a playground in response to other children being mean. From the time we are small, our parents tell us what other folks say about and to us really doesn’t matter and it is really all about who we believe we are. As we grow older and get into the dating and professional games, elders and friends tell us not to listen to what folks say, but to instead focus on what they do. “Talk is cheap.” So, we go out into the world with this very definite idea about words being irrelevant, but is talk really as low budget as we like to imply it is? Are we really the “rubber” we learn about as children that makes us impervious to cruel words or are we at times forever affected by the glue of what we hear?

words3I’ve always been a thinker. I am constantly mulling over what happened during the course of my day and sometimes, the course of my life. I often think about who I spoke to, what we discussed, what I read, what I would have said to the person who got on my nerves during the course of the day had I been given the opportunity, what I should write on this blog, etc… I still remember words people said to me in childhood, good and bad. Both play in my head and can alter my mood in that moment and every now and then, the way I feel about who I am. Because of this, I have a really hard time imagining myself as that rubber repelling the glue of other folks’ ugly words. I’m just not buying into it.

I think at one point or another, everyone has been injured by words. Unlike a bruise or Words5blackened eye that will heal and disappear over time, words stick. I hear them in the moment they are said and hear them resound loudly over time. I have been called stupid, ugly, fat, stuck up, and a know-it-all, among other things. Despite knowing those adjectives don’t truly define me, how realistic is it for folks to think I can forget those words and pretend they are meaningless?

Granted, I do not condone wallowing in words and allowing them to cripple me. However, to accomplish that, I have to make a conscious effort to see past insults and look inward for the ways in which I believe myself to be awesome. That isn’t always easy when outside forces are focused on the negative, but it is imperative for my self-preservation. Once a hurtful person utters cruel words, it takes a while for me to process it, refuse to lend any validity to it, and move on from it. Regardless of the length of time, I have to take every step to assure I end up in a good place unaffected, or at least minimally affected, by other folks’ foolery.

The main way to remedy the long term hurts words can cause is to be mindful of what one says. I make it a point to think about what I say before I say it. I don’t want to be one of the voices someone carries around in his/her head becuse I said something mean I can’t take back and the other person can’t forget. I don’t want to cause the kind of pain that resonates for years. Words4

So, yeah, sticks and stones break bones, but doctors re-break and set them. Words are something else entirely. They echo and they stay. A cast, sling, or a few band aids won’t fix what words can do so building an emotional armour that reinforces everything good about oneself is paramount in this life fight. In the meantime, I continue to make sure I don’t spew glue all over anyone else’s self-image.  Words can hurt worse than any stick or stone.


If you would like to learn more about the weight of words, like the Words Hurt Campaign page on Facebook.

I’s Forty Now.

I can always conjure it up in my mind: Shug Avery running through the field next to her Shugfather’s horse and carriage calling out, “I’s married now!” thinking it would set things right with him and erase years of abondoned children, carousing, and the kind of sexual experimentation that went against her upbringing. Shug tried it, but it didn’t quite work in the moment. I’m no Shug Avery (yet), but I did just celebrate a milestone birthday and it may not erase everything that happened from 0-39, but it is a sign I may need to stop doing some things, do a few things differently, and start doing others. I’s forty now.

I was walking and thinking today. I thought about some behaviors I should definitely end and wondered about some experiences I haven’t had that I should definitely add to my bucket list. I compiled a short list in my head and will likely add to it over time.:

1. I need to buy better panties. Not that I was wearing someone’s great-grandmother’s bloomers with the ruffled elastic arond the knees, but at forty, I definitely need to make sure I stay in the pretty panty section and ignore the all-too-familiar call and draw of the four pack of cottony soft Jockeys hanging on the wall. I mean, I’m forty now, I need the special panties displayed in the bins that are 5 for $20. I think I’ve earned it. I’m moving on from the pack of four for $10 to the upscale draws that cost $4 per pair. Shoot, I’m feeling fancier just making this declaration. How can I really expect to enjoy forty if I’m wearing the panties of a thirty-nine year old?

2. I need to buy a bigger TV. For years, I said my 27″ TV was more than sufficient. I’m not one obsessed with the newest electronics, though I dig convenience and technology in general. I could see the picture, it was paid for, and just because it had the old school tubing and humongous back making it impossible to place it flush with the wall, I kept rockin’ with it anyway. A year and a half ago, I invested in a flat screen, thinking I was moving up the TV hierarchy. It is 32″ inches, which is better than a 27″, but it turns out it  is the same size TV most folks I know buy for their small children’s bedrooms. That makes me just a little ashamed of myself, so I’m thinking at forty, it’s time for a grown up sized TV on which to watch my grown up programs. Now, if I could just convince myself a one-time TV cost will not interfere with my shoe shopping hobby…

Forty3. I should invest in a few high end garments for my closet. Though I will never be too old for a fantastic deal or a quick outfit that probably won’t hold up past the night its needed, a good white button up shirt, a black skirt, some black slacks, and a black blazer all made from quality material are items any self-respecting forty year old should have in the closet. It is time for me to go into the grown up store and make things happen.

4. I need to schedule a mammogram. Forty became super real for me when my health care provider’s automated system called me early in the morning the day after my birthday to remind me it was time for me to schedule an appointment to have my boobs smashed between two cold hard plates while a stranger watches and takes pictures of my inner tit. Apparently, the proper name is mammogram. I know it will not be an amazing experience, but it’s necessary, boob health is imperative, and this x-ray is going to help me make stay close to my fitness plans. I just wish there was some sort of box I could stick my boob in instead, but alas, I’m on my way to get them squeezed, and not in the way I like.

5. I need a home bar stocked with high end liquor. When I was a kid, I watched many shows with characters who would come home, loosen a tie or take off some heels, then make a b-line to the home bar to pour a good drink from a fancy decanter. I always thought it strange because I grew up in a house with a mother who didn’t drink, but now, I dream of having such a well-stocked bar in the comfort of my living room. Top shelf alcohol, a cute rolling bar, and some pretty decantors to make me feel fancy are now on my Things To Buy at Forty list. I want to walk in the door and unwind like George and Weezy these days instead of coming home to a Capri Sun mixed with some $5 vodka. I have to do better.

6. I need to buy a grown up bed. When I bought my first bed, I was so proud of myself. I got it at a legitimate furniture store, it wasn’t crafted from wood slats and cinder block, and I even had to work a little overtime to pay for it. What I didn’t consider while I was congratulating myself on my new bed was the fact I needed a mattress and box spring to accompany it. Now strapped for cash after buying the actual bed, I had to find myself a cheap mattress and box spring. I asked around and called a few folks and was referred to a local furniture store that sold what I needed for  little money. It was in my price range, so I went for it. That was about twelve years ago. So, for the longest time, I was sleeping on a bed probably made to last no longer than two  years. At least I can say I got my money, and probably someone else’s money, out of it. When I moved from my last place, a friend and I threw the mattress and box spring down the stairs and giggled at the destruction. This time, I will buy a grown up bed that costs a grown up SALE price, and I will sleep well and bask in my forty year old woman-ness while experiencing the comfort of my purchase. It is the least I can do for my reputation as a respectable adult and for my 40 year old back.

Forty feels good so far. The past 18 days have been filled with some interesting ups and downs (mostly ups), but I know the privilege of this age is coupled with a responsibility to be better and live better and I plan to do just that. ©


For three or four days, I was heavily engaged in conversations about the ridiculous Donald Donald SterlingSterling debacle. I engaged in verbal conversations and argued, advocated, and admonished via Facebook about various aspects of racism, racial discrimination, being recorded unwittingly, “chick on the side” status, lawsuits, bans, and fines. I was pretty tuckered out after a few days, so I had to bow out of any further discussions to assure my head wouldn’t explode prematurely (yes, it will probably happen one day anyway).

While the exchange of ideas about Sterling was going on, I was tapped on the shoulder by other tweets and Facebook status updates and reminded that I should stop talking about the racist NBA franchise owner and instead turn my attention to the over 250 girls who were the victims of a mass kidnapping in Nigeria. So, I took a break from racism in America and took time to talk about these babies, the danger they are facing, the cruelty of selling bringbackthem for about $12 apiece to a bunch of creepy grown men, the lack of respect for girls and women, and the seeming inaction of various entities in facilitating the search and rescue necessary to bring them home. I was at the height of my tirade when I was reminded that I’m still supposed to be indignant over the disappearance of a whole plane full of whole people, irate over the lack of equal pay for women for equal work, furious with the Supreme Court for the way it seems to be chipping away at Affirmative Action, sad over the loss of life from the South Korean ferry that sunk, vigilant about conserving water for the drought here in Northern California though a lot of that would be solved if we weren’t still routing so much of our water to Southern planeCalifornia, worried about the plight of black youth in America while daily crying over Trayvon Martin, and a whole bunch of other tomfoolery that plagues my life and the lives of those around me. All I am really trying to do is figure out when I’m supposed to sleep, eat, or work if I’m expected to spend my every waking moment fighting causes, signing petitions, weeping openly, and going into verbal tirades based in righteous indignation. The truth is – I’m tired.

Most of the time, I feel like I’m being pursued, arrested, charged, tried, and imprisoned by the Care Police; those folks in social media, in one’s family, and sometimes, right in one’s home, who are constantly telling everyone where there concerns should lie. If too much focus is in one area, members of the Care Police force will swoop right in to tell others they shouldn’t be talking about reality show stars’ adult film forays but should instead be worried about global warming and all the hungry children in some third world county. They will remind folks they aren’t really as black or as conscious or as down as they could or should be because they are wondering if the missing white girl of the day has been found instead of worrying and wringing their hands over the missing girls in Nigeria. It doesn’t matter that one is capable of being concerned about ALL the girls, the new social networking requirement indicates one must comply and show verbally and/or written forms of their concern for the cause du jour, according to the Care Police official agenda. With all these spoken and unspoken expectations, it’s is amazing if one can complete any task from start to finish when her care rations are so thinly spread.

To maintain my sanity and to feel like my level of concern is relevant and my resulting actions effective, I’ve learned to break away from the self-righteous grasp of the Care Police and develop my own ideas about how to deal with the craziness of the day. Social helpactivism starts in the home. One doesn’t need petitions, picket signs, and scathing emails to get that started. Take up the cause of being aware before obsessing over everything else. Ask the question, “Am I meaningfully connected to those close to me? Do I help my friends and family?” Starting there and THEN working one’s way outward to the more far reaching issues of the world is the most reasonable plan of action. It makes no sense to first worry about what happened abroad or in the next state over if one’s best friend is suffering. Though ALL these issues matter, starting where one can do the most to help is the best way to influence people and circumstances.

My toddler niece was scheduled for a surgical procedure today and another young relative of mine is in a hospital now getting a picc line that will hopefully be the cure for what ails him. My friends and family are concerned, anxious, and worried. How can I overlook that and spend the majority of my time with my mind on Nigeria, South Korea, racist rhetoric, and everything else crazy happening right now when the people I love the most are close enough for me to help RIGHT NOW?

Make no mistakes about it; I absolutely care about kidnapped girls, disappearing planes, ferries sinking, and wealthy racists with influence over the well-being and progress of black and brown people. I will always rage against the tomfoolery of the day, be it local or international. However, I realize what I do to counteract those things means absolutely nothing if I step over my sister laying in the street to get to my flight to go fight trouble outside my home. Who am I if not the keeper of those I proclaim to love?

It is no easy feat to get past the pressure of those ever-diligent Care Police officers, but once one is aware of her purpose and the place where her care can be placed most effectively, it is simpler to drown out the self-righteous rantings and get in where one fits in. My best fit is right in my own home first. ©


Will Moo for Marriage

free milkA few days ago, I had a conversation with my mother about unmarried couples living together. She immediately poo poo’d the idea and gave me the typical, “Oh, no. A woman shouldn’t move in with a man. Then he will never marry her. Why buy the cow…?” I put up a quick protest, but the thought of arguing any further made me tired. The milk and cow argument is old and no matter what kind of facts one may have to refute it, those who subscribe to traditional ideas of relationships and gender roles generally shut down before there is a chance to present a logical counterpoint.

I mean, we’ve all heard it, right? A mother, grandmother, aunt, or good friend tells another woman what she should and should not “give up” sexually in a relationship lest the man take complete advantage and cease to think of her as long-term relationship material. “Dress down, pants up” is what my grandmother always said and it seems to be the general rule to which women are expected to adhere. Prim, proper, pious, pent up, and pitiful is the way to go if a woman wants to marry herself off – at least, that is what the popular school of thought says.

I have never liked the cow saying. What woman wants to be thought of as a big, fat, boxy, and sometimes smelly, cow? Who wants to be a lowly heifer slowly moving along with the sole purpose of providing nothing but fresh milk to the masses? On a more serious note, I have a problem with the way the saying implies a man is buying something when he marries a woman and he is ultimately paying for the right to access her vagina with his marriage vows. I mean, is this really how we want relationships to be? I can’t even conceptualize relegating myself to a vagina for sale to the highest bidder willing to pay with a lifetime commitment to monogamy with me. I would like to think a life with me would be worth a whole lot more than some sex.

I also have a problem with the saying because it implies sex is really some gift women give to men for marrying them as opposed to it being a mutually agreed upon and enjoyable experience. Granted, there are men who want sex and nothing more and are willing to be dishonest to get it. I certainly do not refute that. However, there are women who want the same. Women who are not sitting at home on a Friday night hoping, wishing, and praying for a nice man to come along and marry them so they can finally use their vaginas for something other than a place for their panties to live during the day.sausage

I’m not advocating a whole bunch of random sexual encounters based strictly on physical attraction and availability, though I’m not exactly knocking those either. I just have trouble understanding and finding it acceptable the way women’s bodies and their decisions about those bodies are held to a higher standard than men so they never have to really be held accountable for what they do because, after all, they really are just men but a woman should know better.

Most sexual exchanges require two people. There are some exceptions to that rule, but for the most part, two consenting folks get together and decide to share their bodies with one another. Unfortunately, what should be a simple verbal and physical contract has more fine print than the contract for any vehicle I have purchased. For the man, he is just agreeing to spend some time feeling great, nothing more, and nothing less. A woman, on the other hand, is making countless life decisions when she decides to sleep with a man. In her mind, she sees plans, actions, consequences, and ways to gain redemption should the whole thing go south. She has to consider her reputation, how much the man likes her, how many dates they’ve been on, if any, how often he calls as a measurement of how interested he is, or isn’t, whether he will deem her a ho, lose all respect for her, and never call again as a result of having sex with him, if she will end up in the “smashable only” pile with the other half-discarded/on-call vag’s that came before her, etc… It all seems like too much. He’s wondering if he has some unexpired condoms and she is contemplating her entire life’s reputation and relevance. This can’t be right.

From early on in life, girls are told they shouldn’t “give up the goods” because men won’t respect them if they do. At the same time, boys are told they should get as much sex as they can from as many women they can get it from because other men will respect them as much as the amount of sex they can get. Is anyone else seeing the problem here? From a young age, women are expected to place their value with not having sex and men are taught to garner their self-worth from how many women with whom they have sex. How exactly is all this supposed to work?

Even the way society describes sex as “scoring” for men and “giving it up” for women are indicators it is usually a lose-lose for women before anything happens. I wonder if there will ever be a time when teaching boys and young men they can’t ever get back what they give out sexually and they should respect their bodies will be the norm the way it is told to young girls and women. I doubt it will ever be the norm, but I can dream.

I realize this may shock some, but women love sex. Unfortunately, our societal norms of values and morals lend to the school of thought we don’t enjoy it, don’t really need it, and really only do it to keep our men happy. However, this isn’t true. It isn’t really that women don’t like sex. It’s that we aren’t really allowed to concede we do without fear of being misjudged, erased from the “good girl” column, and rewritten in the “side piece/used up” column instead. Will there ever be a time when women won’t have to hide their sexuality? A time when they can cop to being sexual beings without fear of ruining the rest of their lives as a result? Is our milk all we really have to offer?

I guess in this day and age, the only option for women is to connect with men who have a realistic understanding of women and recognize the unfair double standards under which we live so he can see past the stereotype of the buttoned up prude and learn to respect the real woman underneath the buttoned up surface. This is definitely no easy feat, but it is well worth it if it means a woman can take off the cow costume and simply wear herself.stab




I hate shaming. If it wasn’t against what I believe, I would spend time shaming shamers so they could see how wrong and stupid they are. I am especially incensed by the constant barrage of verbal, written, and pictoral attacks on women who dare live their lives being bigger than a size 6 as well as the patronizing perspectives that call them “brave” and “unique”, as if good looking and sexy plus sized women are a rarity.  This whole one standard of beauty thing gets beyond old and I consider myself part of the growing resistance fighting this mistaken concept. However, in all my anti-shaming rantings, I find I am conflicted when it comes to what I see as the lack of balance between loving one’s body in its current state and pushing for a healthier body that may involve a little weight loss.

In scrolling through my Facebook timeline recently, I came across a friend who was lamenting what she took as society’s attempt to force her to whittle down her full-figured body via exercise and healthy eating. She boldly stated she loves her body, including every fat roll, and would never be deterred by anyone trying to force her to change it in ANY kind of way. Honestly, I found her conviction about the matter somewhat inspiring. I believe in her love for her frame and I definitely support the idea of being self-confident about one’s body regardless of its size. However, I also had a problem with her rant, which leads to the conflict in my head; somewhere along the way, in our quest to encourage women to love their bodies, big or small, we have failed to address the health issues that can be attached to obesity.

I can never be convinced we are all meant to be thin and I know thin is certainly not an FAT2automatic implication of fitness. However, what I do believe is we are all meant to be fit. Clogged arterties, hypertension, high cholesterol, sleep apnea, diabetes, etc…are all often weight-related and no matter how much sexiness one thinks she embodies, if those fat rolls are causing long term health issues, they need to come off through healthy eating and exercise. And this is where my quandary makes an appearance. How do we strike a healthy balance between encouraging women to love their bodies no matter what but to understand the relationship between obesity and overall health enough to know better food choices and purposeful body movement on a regular basis are imperative? We certainly cannot afford to continue to be dishonest with ourselves in the name of upholding our beauty. At least, I don’t think we can do so and WIN.

The very lovely plus sized fashion blogger and vlogger, naturallyfashionable. Check her out at
The very lovely plus sized fashion blogger and vlogger, naturallyfashionable. Check her out at

When I read that status update on my timeline, I wanted to applaud AND shake my head at the same time. Though I didn’t think it was my place to comment on it in that space, I wondered if she understood the misleading message in her efforts to promote self-acceptance. As often as we talk about big body beauty, we should talk about health and fitness. We should talk about exercise and foods good for these beautiful big bodies. And this doesn’t mean one has to try to chisel herself down to a tiny size to make the fit team. It simply means one has to consider her health and fitness status and find a way to make her good body image meet up with that healthy lifestyle. The two can coexist.

I advocate a positive attitude about oneself and am guilty of not following my own advice in that area. In my mind, I am constantly battlilng between feeling good about my body as it is and not becoming complacent when I still have much work to do in the fitness area. I still fall prey to the prevalant standard of beauty and sometimes forget to appreciate my body in all its current “bigness.” But as I work on getting my mind right, I will also continue to work on getting my fitness on track, even if my big body doesn’t become a small one. I owe myself that much. We all do.



Diversity is like a super buzz word uttered by folks from all sorts of backgrounds and professions. Stockbrokers advise everyone to “diversify” his/her portfolio, workplaces like to have “diversity” workshops to teach employees to respect and interact with all sorts of people, and I live in a country known as a “melting pot”, a cutesy term for “diverse location”, which I don’t think is the best description, but I digress. Diversity is a topic that comes up regularly in all sorts of environments and most folks seem to be all about it – until it comes to a woman’s appearance. braids

In fairly recent times, I’ve read responses via social networks, heard forums made up of single men, and listened to the rantings of all sorts of self-righteous women talking about how black women don’t love themselves, don’t value their natural beauty, and have fallen prey to the white standard of beauty because they wear makeup, enjoy a false lash every now and then, and the worst of all; because they opt to straighten, color, or weave their hair.

In all fairness, I will agree there are some black women who are afflicted with a growing self-hatred that leads them to attempt to alter everything about their physical appearances. Some of them try to counteract years of systematic degradation that implies they are not beautiful through the use of health and beauty aids and a good piece of Brazilian hair. And though this is a reality for many, it is not a truth for all black women.

Though I certainly acknowledge the presence of the aforementioned women, I do not believe they are a representation of all black women at all. What folks often fail to consider are the sistas who simply want to diversify. Remember earlier when that word was positive? Yeah, it kinda loses its support when it comes to the way sistas want to look.

I absolutely love being a black woman. I love my brown skin, melanin privileges, rounded nose, full lips, kinky hair, and strong curvy body.  I also love false lashes, makeup, nail polish, and every now and then, a really cute wig. Am I ashamed of my natural appearance? Not even a tiny bit.  And I definitely don’t use any of these accessories as a way of hiding who I am. I use them to enhance my appearance and sometimes, I use them to DIVERSIFY.locs

Contrary to those who insist any type of makeup or hair change is a way to cover up those attributes one finds shameful, I actually see them as a way to take beauty and make it bigger. I am pretty sure I am not alone in this thinking. I mean, who is it that grants a certain group of folks the power to determine a woman hates herself because she dares seek out a hair color, style, texture, or length with which she was not born? Is there a committee? Do they all meet once a year for a conference?

Something about the idea of a woman seeing me with a big ol’ weave of kinky hair on top of these locs and deciding I must hate myself and the way I arrived from the womb makes me irritable. The unfair, illogical, and overly generalized ways in which we judge one another are ridiculous and need to stop. If we truly want to ride the diversity wave, we can’t stop it when it comes to makeup and hair weaves.

As it stands, weaves really aren’t my thing and I have no interest in cutting off these five year old locs, but there may come a time when I want a little something different and if and when that time comes, I will absolutely not allow anyone to question me or my level of comfort with my blackness based on some hairstyle choice. India.Arie said it, so I won’t bother repeating it, but folks really need to understand personal style diversity and self-hatred do not always go hand in hand. Wearing a weave does not mean I hate my kinky existence any more than wearing glasses means I hate my eyes for their lack of perfect vision. I do not need educating or setting straight. I just like to keep my look interesting.kinky weave

I am all about loving myself and any kind of campaign, mantra, social group, etc…that encourages a healthy dose of self love has my support, but these rushes to judgment based on how a woman wears her hair and makeup has to stop. Folks are so unfair to one another and so quick to put each other in boxes that just don’t fit. If I can diversify the way I invest my money in the interest of a better future, I should be able to diversify the hair I wear while doing it. It’s only right. ©





What I Know, 2013

So, it is a new year and it’s fair to say my life learning is not limited to a 12 month span of time, but is instead perpetual. However, at the beginning of a new year, I like to reflect on the previous one to think about what I learned, and in some cases, relearned. Here is what I know from 2013:

  • Logic is worth using even if no one else around seems to be applying it. In my 2014ongoing quest to keep my life as simple as possible, in light of the outside complications I cannot control, I have found my relationship with logic to be paramount. Though life and those who live it are generally multifaceted and somewhat complicated, I find when logic is lacking, there is probably an untruth or some kind of deception in the mix. Statements that make me squint and cock my head to the side are generally calculated as grade A horse manure in my mind.
  • Respecting differences is not an implication of a lack of moral fiber. These days, folks seem to consistently confuse the ability to respect varying ideas and opinions with a lack of one’s own moral code or some mission to be as politically correct as possible. For me, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I disagree with lots of schools of thought but can still manage to respect the perspective. How can I ever expect others to be receptive to my views if I can’t provide the same open mind? To listen with respect is about being a decent person and an excellent communicator, not about compromising one’s own views to appear understanding.
  • One doesn’t have to show folks who already know him/her how smart he/she is. Sometimes people can’t help but try to impart every little piece of wisdom and insight they have accumulated over the years in one conversation. Look, if you’re smart and knowledgeable about certain subjects, chances are, those who know you best are already aware of your intellectual prowess and probably partly like you because of it.  Instead of always trying to share, consider listening more often. Undoubtedly, there will come a time when your input is requested.
  • Life is fleeting. Though I have been hip to the shortness of life for a very long time, whether one lives to be 90, or succumbs as an infant, I am constantly reminded how true it is and how important it is to build and maintain healthy relationships with those who matter most. Minor disagreements and arguments about anything nonessential are far from worth ending a relationship. One of the best parts of relationships is the opportunity to create and build on something unique with a friend or family member. Ruining that opportunity of pettiness is destructive in the long run. It’s far better to cherish time with loved ones by enjoying the moments than it is to bicker and gripe about matters that won’t even matter past the end of the conversation.
  • You don’t have to eat everything on your plate. – I suppose this can be figurative and literal. In my ongoing battle against my disobedient midsection, I have learned I am never required to eat it all. Sure, as children, we were told we couldn’t have dessert if we didn’t eat ALL our dinner.  Also, not scraping a plate clean and eating every single morsel was always considered “wasting” in my childhood home. These things considered, adulthood has told me it is perfectly alright to leave some food behind, particularly if I am full. This not only helps one’s attitude about food, but it spreads into other areas of life.
    One simply cannot do EVERYTHING. There will be some parties, trips, dinners, career options, potential romantic relationships, etc…that may present themselves as opportunities.
    Sometimes, regardless of how amazing it sounds, how awesome the opporunity may seem, or how little whatever the item or activity is may be discounted to fit into your budget, it’s time to push away from the table and possibly save that chance for later. Sometimes, it is time to reflect and connect to what matters and pushing away from the table provides the clarity to do so.Undoubtedly, I will learn all sorts of new perspectives and ideas over the next 12 months. I just hope I have the wherewithal to apply what I need to live my best possible life. Raising my glass to 2014.



On my way to work this morning, I got off the train and headed toward my building. When I approached the corner, the crosswalk sign gave me the walk signal but quickly turned to the big red blinking hand. I’ve crossed that street enough  to know there was plenty of time to make it to the other side before the light changed, but instead of forging along, I hesitated and missed the chance to cross. By the time the light changed, I noticed how many people who got off the train with me made it across and were far down the street before the light finally changed again for me.

That 3 minute long experience at the intersection made me think. I wondered why I hesitated at the light despite knowing I had plenty of time to make it across safely, I considered how far behind I was compared to everyone else who started in the same place I did, and I pondered whether I missed something great because I wavered at the wrong time.

I am a proponent of thinking things through and applying logic whenever possible. I try to keep my life as simple as I can so I’m better prepared to deal with the outside forces I can’t control. And though I know pragmatism and simplicity are important, I also know there are times over-thinking leads to hesitation and ends with me missing out on something wonderful.

The more I considered my disappointment over the intersection debacle, the more I realized I didn’t just miss the light because I was wondering about my safety; I missed the light because I didn’t trust myself to make it across the street without incident and I didn’t believe in the benefits of making it across with everyone else. I believe there have been many times I kept myself stagnate or missed a chance to change my life for the better because I didn’t trust the presented opportunity and hesitated instead of going full force. These days, I would like to try my best to whittle down that number and seize whatever opportunity arises to improve my life  in any way I can. To do this, I know I must step off the curb.

Thinking has its place in my life. I believe it’s best to apply some sort of practicality to life decisions, big or small, but it’s important to be mindful of  the detriments of over-thinking. Often, it’s just time to stop thinking and make a move. As the old folks say, “Study long, study wrong.” After this morning, I know for sure I don’t want to run out in the street and get hit by a bus but I also don’t want to miss my opportunity to cross the street and walk into my destiny. The goal is to find the happy medium, look both ways, and cross confidently.

Being left behind, particularly from something of which I should have been a part, left me with a feeling I no longer want to experience. Monday, when I make my way across the street, I’m going to check for safety and step off that curb. Missing out on my life’s progress is no longer an option.

What I Know

It is New Year’s Eve and I’m not choosing which party to attend, getting dressed for the party I chose, or standing at that particular party, shivering from the cold in a tiny dress with my feet aching. Instead, I’m on my couch in my most comfortable pajamas enjoying a glass of wine and watching old shows on my DVR. It isn’t exciting, but it’s exactly what I need to be doing in this moment. 

2012 was a year filled with ups and downs. I made some great personal gains, accomplished some long term goals, and suffered a few setbacks. Overall, I persevered and I feel blessed to be here. So, all typical  “I’m so glad I almost made it” talk aside, I want to talk about some things I saw, learned, and rediscovered in 2012.

Friendship is paramount

Throughout the year, I was constantly wowed by the kindness, thoughtfulness, and unwarranted support of my friends. From pep talks to prayer to conversation over a couple drinks, the ones I love truly had my back and proved themselves to be everything I could ever expect from friends. I made a couple new connections and solidified some of the old ones. I look around at others and consider myself blessed because of the relationships with which I’ve been blessed.

Nobody loves you like your mom

Like my friends, my mom has been solid. She reminds me how important our parents are regardless of how old we are. They never stop raising us and their wisdom never ceases to be pertinent. No matter the problem, she listens and even if she can’t help fix it, she at least takes the time to hear me. It doesn’t get better than that.

Pajamas Aren’t Pants

No matter what kind of shoes or jacket one pairs with a pair of pajama bottoms, they remain exactly what they were when they were purchased: PAJAMA BOTTOMS.  If I see one more idiot in public with pajamas on coupled with a boot, pump, or sneaker and a jacket, I might finally lose it completely. I do not know what is wrong with people and their understanding of what is appropriate for public, but this pajama thing has got to stop.

There’s a Right and a Wrong Way to Love Somebody

Keith Sweat actually had a point. In 2012, I witnessed the true douchery of those freshly in love. Overposting on Facebook, overtalking in person, ignoring close friends, and doling out unwarranted advice about how to conduct oneself in a relationship or how to get into one. BALLS!!! It’s all so obnoxious. I watched and learned how to value my privacy, how to cherish those secret parts of my life, and how to admire the good parts of love after pulling back the annoying curtain.

Change Isn’t Just Good, It’s Everything

This year I realized if I’m not evolving, I’m not really living. Life is often about a series of changes born from challenges. One can either welcome the challenge or recoil from it, but the latter never yields a good result. Working through problems is the best way to become the best person. My 2012 challenges taught me who I am, where I’m strong, and where I’m weak. I can’t ask for more valuable lessons even though I didn’t like any of the challenges.

Shortcuts Don’t Always Get You There Quicker

There isn’t always a quick and easy way to get the results I want. Cutting corners and spending time looking for an easier way to get from A to B sometimes makes more work than just taking the obvious road. I’ve tried to beat the system many times and found the more difficult path is often the most rewarding one. Sometimes, one just has to do the work. Really, it’s more like MOST of the time. if it’s too easy, too costly, or involves to many what-if variables, it probably isn’t going to go well.

In 2012, I cried a few times, triumphed a few times, laughed a whole lot, and grew closer to who and what matters most. Sometimes, life was good and other times, it was a mess, but the twelve months in 2012 served to make me more of who I was and sure of who I want to be. Cheers to the new year.



If Worse Comes to Even Worse

Sometimes, life drama seems to take over leaving me feeling busted and disgusted. The car accident that left my car totaled, the two weeks and counting without my own transportation while I wait on an inept claims adjuster to send me a check, and the early morning walk in the cold and dark to the bus stop because of the aforementioned are just recent examples of how non-self-inflicted drama has seeped into my existence leaving me feeling all sorts of ways about it. For me, one of the best ways to feel better about the kind of circumstances that run me over and provide me with a new set of unexpected circumstances is to rant about them. I fuss, cuss, scream, and write just to make sure friends and the universe hear me right before I start to think of a plan to change my new and unfortunate circumstances. And though I’ve found this course of action to be almost fool proof, there are always a few people who ruin my ranting sessions with that band-aid statement steeped in guilt; “It could always be worse.”

Now, I know no matter what I’m experiencing, in theory, there is some schmuck somewhere getting what I’m getting times infinity. And yes, I know complaining about not having shoes can be relative when coming across the man with no feet, but damnit, there are times when complaining is the very therapy one needs before she can see the silver lining, solution, or greatness in her life. There are times when the only way for the healing to begin is to scream out loud about the issue. Something about keeping it bottled in, pretending I’m not upset, and holding myself while rocking back and forth and mumbling, “It could be worse” makes it ten times worse.

My spiritual upbringing, in addition to the many people around me who firmly cling to the half-full glass of whatever life offers, have taught me to look at the bright side, consider how my situation could be exponentially worse, immediately seek out some part of the situation for which I am grateful, and skulk off into the darkness pretending I’m not bothered by not having shoes because, after all,  so and so doesn’t have feet. And though I believe embracing gratitude and finding things for which to be grateful in one’s everyday life is imperative, I also believe we are all better when we have the opportunity to release the never quenched complaint monster inside of all of us.

Maybe it seems silly and counterproductive to some, but I like and need to complain about my boss, my coworkers, my bills, and my newly deceased car. I more than realize I’m not the only one experiencing such temporary setbacks, but sometimes what the doctor ordered is a steady stream of curse words mixed with a touch of whining to take off the edge. The last thing I want to hear right in the moment is, “It could always be worse.” Yes, I know it could always be worse, but does that really matter when what is happening to me in that moment is so tangible? Believe me, when my car was hit by another car, I did NOT immediately think, “It could be worse.”  I thought of the damage, inconvenience, potential injuries, and the possibility the guy who hit me could be uninsured. Somewhere mixed around in there, I thought about how glad I was to still be alive, but I absolutely DID NOT think about how much worse it could be. Know why I didn’t think that? Because I didn’t care! What I cared about in that moment, and during this time of countless inconveniences that has followed, is my loss and the time and energy it would take to get me somewhere close to where I was before the dreaded accident.

Telling a person how her situation could be worse is like trying to make her feel guilty for disliking her present circumstances. Whether bad circumstances be self-inflicted or beyond one’s control, it is a dislike for those circumstances that leads to a course of action to escape them. Without the ranting and raving, one would simply implode from the lack of expression and the guilt carried along with the “it could be worse” theory.

Now, I don’t condone endless wallowing as a way of life. Nobody likes a Debbie Downer always hanging around whining and whimpering and carrying on. However, there are times a giant hissy fit can be just the setup one needs to start on the road to recovery.

At the risk of sounding like a terrible ingrate, I have to admit I often focus on the things and circumstances for which I’m grateful and I really do consider  how my life is at least 80% fantastic and only 20% craptastic. But, despite all this, I still firmly believe in an indignant, this-is-some-old-bullsh*t, shaking fists at the sky kind of rant so the healing can begin.

So, yeah, it really could be worse, but who cares? When we hurt – we hurt. And, our ire, pain, resentment, etc…is not ever lessened in the heat of the moment by the thought somewhere else someone is suffering just a tad bit more than we are. In that moment, how one feels is all that matters and the only words one needs to hear are those that validate that anger then encourage one to spring into action. Guilting someone into pretending she isn’t angry is like taking Tic-Tacs for a head cold.

If you’re pissed off, sad, or hurt, feel free to own it. Hell, even take a few moments to roll around in it and linger a few minutes. Just don’t linger too long. Reveling in the drama should be used as one of the best ways to move past it, not as a crutch to keep one stagnate. Maintaining a balance between rightful rants and sad sack Sally can be a challenge, but the rants are well worth it to help one get back to her happy place.