Tag Archives: humor

Bashing the Ex. Is this ever a good idea?

Like any good blogger, I’m inspired by real life events.

Today’s events are brought to me and thus you, via Facebook statuses. It’s actually a pretty regular occurrence in my newsfeed from Facebook friends or in most cases, acquaintances.

It’s the dreaded status that causes me to cringe as I read through it. What am I talking about? It’s the Facebook bashing of their ex-husband (have to be honest, never saw a guy bash his wife on my feed…yet. Good job guys).

Now, I’m not a naïve person nor are those privy to reading these public, written outbursts. Divorce pushes many emotions to the surface such as anger, bitterness, sadness, resentment, disbelief, and fear. I think I’m a reasonable person and understand this.

Whatever the intent of the writer on the reader may be, I still don’t get the public shaming or airing of dirty laundry.

Marriage is daily, constant hard work. No one knows what takes place behind closed doors and personally, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know the details of the demise of the marriage. I have enough problems of my own lol. It becomes burdensome and uncomfortable to read such statuses.

There isn’t a person I know who takes divorce lightly. There had to be some significant issues in that marriage for it to end.

Here’s where I differ from the women who take to their social media to publically whip their ex’s. Regardless of the circumstances of what caused the breakdown of your marriage. Regardless, whether you think this guy is the biggest dick in the world. You have children together!!! At one point in your life, you loved this person. Because you have children together, you are forever connected.

When I awkwardly read the statuses airing personal, intimate issues, I notice that most times the children are Facebook friends with the parent spewing such rants. I’m not sure how this is beneficial to the kids. If children’s well being comes first, how is this in their best interest? I swear, I don’t get it!

Well, now’s a good of time as any. Why don’t I get it? Who am I to judge? Well, I just went through a divorce. I guarantee my friend’s jaws just dropped reading this. LOL to that! Hi guys! I guess this is a public outing of me.

I can’t imagine talking disparagingly about the father of my children. I’ve spent half my life with him and my kids deserve a quality relationship with him, without it being tainted by any negative remarks from me. My relationship with him is separate from his relationship with the kids. Go ahead, read that last sentence of brilliance one more time.

I, like every other parent, want my children to thrive and be happy.  If my kid’s dad is happy, my kids are happy. I wish him health and happiness always. Why wouldn’t I? He’s an extension of my kids. We divorced each other, neither of us divorced our kids.

The onus is on the parent. We are the role models. Children model our behavior both good and bad. Choose wisely.

Lastly, I can guarantee whatever reaction these women are trying to illicit; most likely it is having a negative effect and alienating many. There are the few commenters who encourage the public shaming which seems to be a driving force for the bad behavior to continue.  Not a fan.

I wish everyone who participates in public shaming their ex on social media,  for the sake of their kids, their Facebook friends, anyone exposed to reading their bullshit statuses would just STOP and STFU.  Here’s my unsolicited advice for anyone out there reading this and more specifically, are guilty of the above. Thank me later.

I get that things will happen during the divorce that will infuriate you, but rise above it.

I get that you may have been hurt or blindsided, but rise above it.

I get that you have fear of the unknown, but rise above it

Bottom line is for the sake of the children…rise above it all! 

 

 

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Can You Handle the Truth?

Truth – the body of real things, events, and facts : actuality

Would you want the truth? At some point, we have all been posed with this question. Undoubtedly, each of us answers yes. Here’s the realty, no one wants the truth.

The truth can be harsh and hurtful. Truth exposes shortfalls. Truth warrants areas of improvement. Truth is enlightening. Truth is a time for self-reflection. Truth is hopeful. Truth can push us toward growth. Truth ultimately wins. While avoidable truth prevails and can’t be hidden. One can’t be mad at the truth because truth is fact. Truth can be uncomfortable.

Are you really willing to receive the truth? Can you handle the truth?

To me, the truth is factual just as defined in the dictionary. It’s not necessarily my perspective but rather actions that concrete the factuality of truth. Opinions and perspective are subjective. Facts are not.

When broaching this subject with friends, it was pointed out that truth needs a certain finesse and delivery. Interesting! Hmmm. Truth needs to be coddled?

Let’s insert an example here with a certain subject in mind, ME. A few years back at a Halloween party, I was approached by my son’s friend’s parent (got that?). They asked me if they had heard anything about their son or if I knew anything they should know. Well, they asked and I told them. I didn’t contemplate my delivery and told them I heard of a certain instance where their son had possession of pot and smoked. Whew Lordy, Lordy, Lordy. THAT did not go over well!

I was met with criticism of my own parenting and a severe tongue lashing. It’s ok though because I took it but did think WTF!? They just asked for the truth. I delivered their request. What’s the problem here?

The problem is they were unprepared for that answer. Why ask for the truth if you are going to use those darts as a boomerang at the person willing to tell you?  Did I need to coddle that truth? You have a great kid (who I do sincerely adore) but um, he’s a pothead. The truth is uncomfortable not only to the person you are delivering the news to but to the carrier as well. Don’t ever ask a question, if you don’t know or might not like the answer.

Since it’s a slow day at work and I have time, I’ll move on to example number two. A colleague of mine was in a leadership position and clearly was struggling. There was chatter behind the scenes and concerns. I put on my body armor and decided they should hear the truth. THAT did not go well either!

Should I have taken on that mantle? Was it my place to volunteer the truth unsolicited? I certainly would want to know the truth but is my assumption that they would want to know as well incorrect?

Here’s what forty-five years has taught me. No one really wants the truth. Highlighting the truth means the person is infallible and human….aren’t we all though? I’m sure you can list my short comings or failures on a toilet paper roll (that’s a lot, like 1000 sheets lol…self-deprecation needed to lighten the mood)

Consider this though the next time truth arrives on your doorstep. Why shoot the messenger? Ever consider how much courage it takes to actually stand up and speak the truth? Ever consider how incredibly uncomfortable it is to the person delivering the message? Why do we shun those willing to stand up and not talk shit behind your back yet kiss the faces of those that stab you in the back repetitively for the truths we know? That one person may actually be the only true friend you have.

Ask yourself, can you handle the truth?

I Want To Like Football, I Really Do

I want to like football. I really do. Each year, I set a goal to like football and each year it’s an epic fail.

I feel forced to like football because, well, that’s mostly what’s on TV from September to February. As I flip through the stations, football clogs the airways. So like a good American, I succumb and land myself on a football game, like today for insistence.

As I type, the Jet’s vs. Steelers game is on. Here’s a peek inside my mind. (I convince myself you’re interested). First thing I notice are the uniforms. My likeability of a team depends on how pretty their uniforms are. I’ve decided I’m partial to the Vikings and the Saints because of their colors, logos and uniforms. Seems like a reasonable way to pick a favorite team, for me at least. I also notice cute guys in uniform and I’m not mad about that. (My list isn’t necessarily in order lol).

Here’s where things fall apart for me. I’m watching and watching and watching. Guy gets the ball. He runs as hard and fast as he can into a crowd of big guys, (correction, not big guys but abnormally large, strong, Adonis men) that want to pummel him, jump on him, land on him, tackle him and hurt him. Me personally, I’d run and stop just a foot short of the gathered crowd, throwing my hands up in surrender to sacrifice myself avoiding my imminent doggie pile tackle. Each play is only seconds long, and then repeat. Complete snooze fest over here for me. My only moment of reprise is when a player scores a touchdown and does a little dance. Not even the biggest football hater can deny that’s fun to watch.

When my youngest boy started playing football last year, I thought things would surely change for me. After all, I was watching my son play and what’s better than that? Well, I tried. I did. I tried being interested. I watched play after play never peeling my eyes away from #95, my little guy.

While I watched his every play and endured almost two hours of watching a sport I clearly didn’t understand nor liked, I still couldn’t tell you one thing that happened in that time frame. What I can tell you is that it made me happy to watch him play despite not knowing fully what was going on. In the end though, who cares? I was there to watch my son play, have a good time and succeed. All which were accomplished.

So while my love of football may not fully evolve, I’ll still appreciate those that play the game, love the game and are committed to the game. I might have to admit that I’m the girl that will always be the fair weathered football fan who simply tunes in once a year during Super Bowl tethered to the TV to finally watch the much hyped about commercials and half time show. Maybe next year I’ll like football. Bring on baseball season.

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Tale of a White Girls Weave

Black girls have weaves. I’m not sure when I learned this but it’s been a useless fact floating in my brain for who knows how long.

Here’s what I didn’t know. White girl’s have weaves too. This fact came to me via three of my closest friends. One day they had shoulder length hair, the next, they were Rapunzel. Amazing.

Let’s add one more fun fact to the mix. Black guys don’t know that white girls have weaves. This I know first hand. Let me paint the picture. My girlfriends and I were out dancing. A black guy friend went to put his hand on top of my girlfriends head. At that point, his facial expression was pure wonderment as he uttered “I didn’t know Snowflakes have weaves”. He then hurled himself over in laughter.

Let’s proceed. One girlfriend has a weave which is transfused with her natural hair. My second girlfriend has a removable weave. How do I know it’s removable? Well, after a night of dancing, she will not only rip off her eyelashes tossing them into the barren parking lot but she will then pull out her weaves placing them in her purse or car console.

Let’s just litter this blog with facts. White guys don’t know white girl’s have removable weaves. Here’s how I know. Again, we were out on the town for the night ordering drinks at the bar at which point the nice gentlemen next to us asks my friend a question. He turns his head to grab his own drink as he waits for her reply. After returning his eyes back on her, perplexed he asks “where did your hair go”. To which she replies “I put it in my pocketbook”.

Lastly, did you know that white girl’s weave’s shed? Well I didn’t either. This is how I came into the know. Last night we went dancing. (we don’t go out nearly as much as it seems, but this is where the weave stories really take root! Pun intended). Black girls sat in the chairs along the wall as the white girls cut up the dance floor. Not an issue for us since we think we are black girls at heart.

It was when the white guys started battling each other that we noticed them dancing around pieces, no let me correct that, chunks of hair on the floor. Not just chunks of hair. You guessed it. White girl weave had come unraveled and pieces were scattered on the dance floor. It seemed to be the theme of the night for these young men to dance around the detached weave hair. The black boys took a different approach. They liked to dance and kick the long strands of displaced weave hair.

Know what I learned in that moment as the black girls looked on in horror and who were judging us so hard on our dancing that night? Black girls definitely don’t know white girl’s have weaves.

New Year’s Eve: Resolve to Repent

Like any good party animal, I’m spending my New Year’s Eve snuggled in bed with a good book. For tonight, I’ve traded in my stilettos for slippers. While I’m all for a good party, and lots of dancing, the thought of sharing the road with drunk drivers is enough to keep me home year after year. I think the switch was flipped the day I became a parent. So instead, I stay home and I pass the party torch onto my kiddies.

I lie here contemplating my New Year’s resolution. I can’t lie; I don’t ever remember keeping one after it was made (quitter on my dad’s side).  I’m going to decline the “diet” resolution because that is never kept passed sunset on New Year’s day. I’ve succumbed to the sad fact that I’ll never be a size two. My love for food coupled with my Italian genes won’t allow it. I could commit to the traditional “being a better person”, but truth be told, I really don’t suck as a person (says me).

After much thought, I’ve decided I will try and curse less. Hey, I’m a realist. Eliminating cursing completely is nearly impossible for this f bomb dropper. It’s a horrible habit I admit but adding “fucking” to any story seems to spice it up and grab the listener’s attention.

If I can’t get it right for New Year’s there’s always the back-up known as Lent. You have to love the Catholics anticipating the quit in all of us, allowing us to sacrifice something for just six weeks.  Short term goals seem more attainable anyway. I suppose its better to have some resolution as opposed to none.

So in anticipation of the New Year just a few hours away, I just want to say happy fucking New Year. May all the bad shit you experienced this year open the path for better things in 2014. I’ll pray my resolution sticks, but if it doesn’t, I’ll be sure to repent in March during Lent. I fucking love do-overs!

Last Rites …Kinda

So this is how my story goes. A day before Thanksgiving, my daughter returned home from college only to be diagnosed with Mono. I asked no questions, but we all know it’s the “kissing disease”. It was only a week later that I landed myself in the hospital with the same diagnosis only with added complications.

 What’s the problem here? I had no fun getting this plague. Nope. No kissing cute boys. No swapping spit with strangers. No tongue dancing to lead to such a miserable sickness. Chances are that I met my fate through a shared water bottle.

The reality is, I rarely get sick but I can chalk this up as the sickest I’ve been in my life.  I’ll spare you the details but suffice it to say the medical professionals were stumped as to what was wrong with me besides the mono. What can I say? I’m complicated, even in sickness lol.

They performed numerous tests on me including Cat scans and MRIs. I was so doped out I barely was coherent to know what was going on. As I lie dying on the MRI table, my imminent death was confirmed when I overheard the technicians having a conversation. I can only recall the words brain tumor swirling in the air. I thought FUCK!!!!  As I dosed in and out of consciousness, a plethora of questions cluttered my mind; chemo, hair loss, death and who is going to clean the kitty litter if I’m gone?

Five hours later, the doctors arrived with news that my tests were normal. Somehow they were misinformed so I clued them in that I had a brain tumor. Much to my delight, they reassured me I was simply delirious and every test was normal. So that was a peak into a drug addicts mind. Making shit up that is nowhere close to reality.

Fast forward to day number three in the hospital. It was a rough day. There was lots of pain which meant lots of pain medication. I was so out of it. I woke up only to find a priests business card on my side table. I held the white card in my hand and read it twice. A priest visit only means one thing…last rites!  Shit! I was correct all along, I was dying.

This was a long way to get to the point of this blog.  Being so sick and thinking I was going to die led me to my own funeral arrangements.

My fingers started dialing.  I immediately phoned my daughter to inform her she had to eulogize me at my funeral. My request was met with an emphatic no, but when momma is gone and push comes to shove, she will. Hopefully when the time comes, she’d have outgrown her teenage Cybil like moods causing only positive remarks (Dear God, that’s a direct request).

 The second phone call was to my close friend who was easily convinced to give eulogy #2. She is a shoo-in to speak flatteringly about me. I can only assume that’s true. After all, I’ll be dead and have no idea if she were to say that chick was bat shit crazy.

Lastly, I called my childhood friend for eulogy #3. Like any good friend, she assured me that my death would be perfect (best friends always know the right things to say) causing a sigh of relief.  However, my request was met with a question.

Did I want to write my own eulogy? Wow, that’s genius and never actually crossed my mind but it was tempting to say yes. I mean I could dig deep into my Mary Poppins bag and pull out every good deed I ever did to paint me into Mother Theresa. As much as I wanted to yell “yes”, I declined. Like Mother Theresa, I knew it would be disingenuous. I wanted these people to speak about me as they knew me.

 And here’s the moral of the longest story on earth. The Grim Reaper visited (total exaggeration needed for visual purposes) and I was damned if my death were not met in the same way I lived life. After mulling over the details, I have to come to realize that it is more important how people perceive me than how I perceive myself (pat on back for moment of deep reflection).

After confirming that I have the best friends and have now burdened them with such a task, I made my last request to Prince Charming. I wanted my favorite song played at my funeral (23 years later, he didn’t even know it. True love.) .  My husband rolled his eyes making no mental notes and barely acknowledging the drama of my conversation

The truth is, I’m not dying (happy about that) but out of this ridiculous sickness I’ve managed to orchestrate my ideal funeral (probably not normal). I can rest easy knowing people; even strangers know how I want my last hoorah to be played out. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say perhaps this blog was created to memorialize my request (half brilliant). Fingers crossed that my people read or follow my blog to make this shit happen when my times up.

Sweet Air Heaven

I hate everything about the dentist.  After all, what’s not to hate? I hate the sterile smell of the office. I hate when they put those x-ray thingies in my mouth and tell me to bite down only for the side board to pierce the inside of my gum in pain. Of course, I’d feel too much like a pussy to announce my discomfort. I hate when the water sucky thing makes those weird noises or gets stuck on the vein under my tongue causing such pain, but again I make no efforts to be rescued and suffer in silence. I hate the sound of the drill, knowing it’s grinding in my teeth. I can only compare it to nails on a chalkboard. Well, what am I explaining it to you for? You know what it sounds like. I also hate spitting in the little baby sink next to the chair as I watch chunks of blood and teeth descend in the spiral of water into the abyss. I hate when the doctor approaches me with a big, gigantic Novocain needle in his hand and reassures me that  I’ll only feel a small pinch. What a lie!!!!! That shot freaking hurts! Ok, and here is my biggest hate of all…I HATE when the dentist dispenses question after question to me knowing I can’t answer any of them because the jerk’s hands and tools are in my mouth. Whew…Ok, I think that covers just about everything.

So today, I took my annual visit to the most hated place on earth, the dentist. Hate, hate, hate! I make my way into the chair and silently say my Novenas to spare me of any pain. I do the x-ray thing resulting in injured gums just as I experienced every visit prior. I watch as the hygienist lines up her tools, knowing each of those sharp tools will soon make their way to their home, my mouth. Just as she begins, I decide to ask a question that would change my life. “Can I get some sweet air?”

Before I know it I have some weird contraption over my nose and across my face. I instantly think to myself that I must look ridiculous but I care less and less knowing what’s to come. Slowly the air flows from the nose contraption into my eyes. Again, to myself, I think is that right? Is the air supposed to go into my eyes? Either way, I go with the flow. The hygienist asked me, “Are you starting to feel good yet”?  My answer is no because I feel just as I had when I entered the office but slightly more stupid looking.

It was at this point that she reaches across me and cranks up the sweet air. HOLY HELL! It hit me like a ton of bricks. In the matter of seconds, I felt like I smoked three joints and drank a case of beer. I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. It seemed like the  perfect time to take a nap in that dentist chair even as MarySue kept telling me to open my mouth wider and wider. Well, who has such self control to keep their mouth open, full extension, for an extended period of time, all while feeling stoned? Apparently me! I did it. She asked some questions here and there but I wasn’t even sure what they were. I was sure the cherise cat or the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland would make their way across my eyelids at any given moment.

I felt a dab at my lips and around my mouth every so often of where I was drooling. I didn’t even care what I looked like at that point. Bodily function control was out the window. I was in sweet air heaven. To boot, this stuff is legal! If only I knew years ago. This is the true example of better late than never. While it may have taken me a lifetime to find it, the upside is that I eventually did.

I soon was spitting blood into the tiny sink where it spirals its way into the bowels of dental hell. The best part is that I didn’t even feel an ounce of pain or discomfort causing that bleeding.  I wish every doctor I visited had this stuff to instantly numb me from any pain being experienced at those visits.

Anyway, I know I’m on a rant but I really needed to share that I’m not completely hating on mister dentist man anymore.  I left the place I hate most with a little spring in my step and a gigantic smile on my face.  For the first time in my life, I’m looking forward to visiting the dentist again.