I was 6 years old. I was really shy, but I enjoyed school. There were black kids and white kids in my class. That didn’t matter to me. When you’re shy, you’re too nervous to talk to anybody regardless of their color.
I was 8 years old. There were three stations on our black and white tv set. Every night at 6:00, my parents watched the evening news. I didn’t like the evening news. A man named Walter Cronkite read the news. He never smiled and all he talked about was a war that I didn’t understand.
One day, he talked about a man named Martin Luther King being assassinated. I didn’t know who Martin Luther King was. I didn’t know what assassinated meant. All I knew was that the boring newsman spent a lot of time talking about him. I asked my father about that. He said that Martin Luther King was a civil rights leader. I didn’t know what civil rights meant, but I was sure it had something to do with the news….and I really hated the news.
I was 10. I still didn’t watch the news. Had I done so, I would have known that there was a race riot going on in my city. Six black men were killed in Augusta, Georgia that day. Even had I known, I still wouldn’t have understood why this was happening.
I also didn’t know that a hometown celebrity had come back to Augusta to help calm the tensions here. You’ve probably heard of him…..James Brown. He didn’t use his voice just for singing. He also used his voice for civil rights moving.
I was 12. I liked the school I was in, but the government decided that I should go to another school. This was a big deal to me, and apparently it was a big deal to the people on tv. My sister made the national news just by getting on the bus to go to her new school.
By that time, I’d figured out why busing was important, but I didn’t understand why they made my school part of it. My school was integrated.
Children can be so innocent. I’d heard other kids being called the N word on the playground. But, then….I’d heard kids being called fatso and 4-eyes. I just thought that kids could be really stupid sometimes. They’d get over that when they became grown-ups. Grown-ups were a lot smarter. Grown-ups were so smart they even understood the news.
That was 40 years ago. The young folks here may not know about the riot that happened that long ago. Our city established a Human Rights Commission as a result of that tragic event. I can’t say that race relations are perfect here, but the balance of power has become more equitable. I said more.
James Brown has been gone almost 2 years now. When he died, he carried the memories of a man who once was a poor black kid living in the south in 1943. He carried with him stories
about how black musicians were limited in the places they could perform (chitlin circuit) and the places they could stay the night. People still listen to his music. His words were just as memorable.
The citizens of the United States elected Barack Obama, our first black president last night. The young people realize how important….how historic…this day is for our country. They get it, but they don’t have the memories. I get it, but I never had the deep down hurtful experiences. Ask a 60-year old black person, and you’ll understand the tears.
Couric: Hello, Governor Palin.
Palin: Hello, Katie. Before we begin our interview, I just spoke with my gay friend last night. She’s a bike…I mean, dyke…she’s a real honest-to-goodness dyke and one of my best friends. And, not only is she gay, she’s never had an abortion, either.
Couric: I see you’re pretty weighed down with all that reading material.
Palin: Yes, Katie…I’ve got several newspapers….the New York Times, the Washington Post, lots of them. I have such appreciation for the press….and, it’s so hard to housebreak a new puppy. My new puppy, Tina, is such a bad girl.
Couric: Well, your debate with Biden is scheduled for tonight. Do you have any specific strategies for handling this?
Palin: Well, I’m going to distance myself from Bush’s policies.
Couric: Which ones?
Palin: All of them.
Couric: Are there any ones that you specifically disagree with? When I mean specifically, I mean…be specific.
Palin: I specifically disagree with the Bush Doctrine. That doctrine states that it is an enduring American principle that this duty….
Couric: Hey, wait a minute….are you reading the palm of your hand?
Palin: Um….that’s a good question, Katie. You know, we don’t have palm trees in Alaska. I think that has something to do with global warming….which is a real problem and I’m against that.
Couric: The biggest question on everybody’s minds right now….and you know Americans are angry now….what about the Wall Street bailout?
Palin: Well, Katie, Americans are angry and they have reason to be. We need to work on this in a bipartisan way. We’re trying to please everybody, the banks, Wall Street, and the taxpayers.
Couric: And?
Palin: McCain and I are mavericks.
Couric: And?
Palin: We’re republican mavericks.
Couric: Not to belabor the point, but what specifically do you think should be in the bailout plan. The American people want transparency.
Palin: That’s what I want transparency in that 450 page congressional document.
Couric: One last question, has Cheney given you any advice on handling the vice-presidency?
Palin: Yes. Well, Katie, we’re both avid hunters. He’s actually given me advice about perfecting my aim. That’s an idea. Maybe you could join me on my next hunting trip and I’ll give you a good…ummm….interview.
Couric: Well, look at the time.
Palin: Yep. I’ve got to go study…..I mean prepare for the debate.
Nowadays, jury duty is considered a part-time job.
Scramble your eggs before they’re hatched.
Barbasol shaving cream ads says that it comes in 7 flavors. Cool. Now, you don’t have to wait til Halloween to look for food with a razor in it.
No Trespassing: You’ll Scare my Dog
So, anyway, I keep reading about pets who chase bears away from people’s property. I’m not even talking 
about ferocious pets, either. I’ve heard of little dogs, kittens, even a cow chasing bears away.
Now, we don’t have bears where I live, but we do have criminals. I personally think the criminals are worse than bears. Bears have all that fur and they’re really tall. With criminals, it’s harder to recognize them. The gun’s are a big clue, but they hide that from you. Those criminals just love to surprise you. Guess they figure that robberies are cheaper than parties.
So, I figured that I need a pet to defend myself and my stuff against the criminals. Sure, I could have gotten a gun just like the criminals have, but I wanted something cuddlier, so I got a puppy.
I remember when I got BB. Her mother was a junkyard dog. I put BB in a satchel and drove her home in the back of a motorcycle. Surely, with that type of beginning, she’d be a great protector.
Take a look at her picture. If she looks cute and loveable, you’re right. But when it comes to being a guard dog, she is as aggressive as a turtle on Prozac.
Well, I figured out pretty darn early that she’s scared of everything that moves and big things that don’t. Still, I thought that perhaps she’d be useful in alerting us to noises outside. She does that. Everytime the wind howls, the birds chirp, or the flowers blossom, my dog lets me know.
There’s only one sound she isn’t frightened of: the sound of someone sneaking in to steal my lawn mower. It’s comforting to know that thieves have such a soothing effect on my dog.
So, I got to thinking that I needed to make a sign to warn people about my dog. Maybe a good bluff would be enough to scare away intruders. The sign says, “Warning: dog attacks.” That was before I spray-painted over the words “has panic.”
Right now, I’m sitting here lawn-mower-less watching the grass grow and grow and grow. BB is watching it too, which is why she’s hiding in back of me. Guess I’m going to have get a guard dog to protect my neurotic dog. You protect what’s precious to you.
I might have to change her name, though. I’m thinking about Goldilocks. BB not only likes to eat my food and sleep in my bed….she runs from bears, too. I’m gonna have to hide that stuffed bear.
Lying Clothes….and the Women who Love Them
Men are visual creatures. They like looking at young women who wear those mini skirts, navel rings, tight sweaters. That’s why when a gal’s 25, her clothing says, “I’m young, I’m cute….. and I have skin.”
When a woman turns say…48, her clothes made a different statement designed to more accurately reflect where she’s at in life. Her clothes say “I’m lying my ass off about my age.”
And, it gets harder and harder to lie. After a while, even your clothes tells you, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Your high heels look at you and say, “Ok, yeah, I’ll still make you look taller and push your butt up. I also will cause you to fall and your outfit will clash horribly with that cement.”
Your push-up bra looks at you and says, “Do I look like a mechanical engineer…cause that’s what you’re going to need to hold those things way up high in the air. And it’s just not necessary that they be at eye level with your average bird in flight.”
That bottle of hair dye looks at you and says, ”Not you, again. I’m tired. You drain me.”
I’m really sick of putting in this much effort to lie about my looks. I still want men to look at me and get excited, though.
That’s why I just bought a t-shirt that says: “I may not be 20 anymore, but I’m STILL a slut.
Lions… and Tigers… and Sharks…Oh My!
On my last job, I was warmly welcomed by my co-worker Micheal. He was oh-so-friendly and charming. He seemed very interested in getting to know all about me. He was a partying type of guy, and used to invite me out for drinks after work. I always refused his invites.
A few weeks into the job, I noticed that Micheal occasionally threw a few somewhat harsh remarks my way. I was puzzled, but ignored them. The insults became increasingly sarcastic and more frequent. His tone of voice, the way he knew how to push my buttons….it all seemed designed to make me feel as upset as he could possibly make me.
I had a bully on my hands….actually, that wasn’t the part of my body he was on.
Have you ever watched those nature documentaries that show lions attacking their prey? Before they attack, they lie back… and watch…. and study… the little herd of critters go sauntering by. We know who they choose…., the young ones , the old, the weak, the sick, the ones who strayed too far from the herd….the VULNERABLE.
That is what Micheal did to me. He studied my every move from the moment we first met until our last unpleasant encounter.
Let’s switch metaphors. Abbey Whitehall, an expert on workplace bullying, likens the initial subtle barbs to what a shark does before he attacks. Shark attack survivors report that before the attack, the creature passed them and gave them a nibble as if to test to see how much force to use. She uses the term Pass-by Nibble to describe this action.
A Pass-by Nibble…that describes so perfectly what Micheal did to me. He was testing me to see if I’d be a good victim, and I had failed his sick test. I could have avoided being emotionally eaten alive had I understood what he was doing and how to respond. Human predators eventually attack targets they feel are weak. People like me, who are passive and conflict-avoiding, make wonderfully yummy dinners for predators like Micheal.
I believe Ms. Whitehall is the person who coined the term “Pass-by Nibble” to describe the testing period that bullying targets go through before their worklives are made Hell. I hope that this phrase becomes a part of our everyday language when it comes to bullying tactics. It’s now part of mine.
Correction: I originally stated that this blogsite, antibullyingcrusador belongs to Ms. Whitehall. It does not. It belongs to an anti-bullying activist known as ABC. My apologies to Ms. Whitehall and to ABC for the error.
I am a kind, giving person. The spirit of charity oozes through my very pores. If my charitable spirit were any oozier, I’d need a mop.
I hope you believe me, because I’m an honest person, too. Honesty runs through my veins, splints to my vital organs, and then jogs back to my heart. My kind of honesty is plaque deserving.
I’m telling you these things because I have an incredible tale to tell. I have suffered terrible injuries, the second hair on my left eyelash is still in a cast ..all, because I went on a charitable mission of mercy.
Me and mercy missions just don’t mix.
Here is my sad, sad saga:
Last month, I was sitting at home watching the last three minutes of the news. I limit myself to only three news minutes a day, because of my kind, empathetic nature. If I listened to any more news, I’d be crying over all those tales of woe.
Now, don’t start thinking I’m a dummy because I’m a news limiter. I do like to learn. There’s a lot of information in those infomercials.
Anyway, .I’m sitting there listening to the news, when an anguished young reporter starts talking about the hungry hordes over there in Atlanta. I live in Georgia, so I figure that I had nothing better to do that week-end, except get married, so I should go on over to Atlanta to help feed those poor, hungry people.
I went to the store, got a bunch of groceries, and came home to prepare them. Let me tell you folks I busted my butt and my budget at Bilos. Remember, when I said I am charitable? Well, I’m not balony and bean charitable. Uh-huh not me. I was going to give those folks a veritable feast.
Things got ugly before I even left for Atlanta.
See, the plan was that my sweetheart, Jim would drive me because I hate long distance driving. Well, while I was getting out my rolling papers to smoke the salmon, he started complaining.
Jim: “I’m glad that you have such a charitable heart, my darling, gorgeous, Edie, but where’s dinner?”
Me: “Sweetheart, it’s hard to listen to you, while I’m trying to fit this stupid fish inside this tiny rolling paper. Whatever you’re looking for, I’m sure it’s lying around here somewhere. Have you checked your pants pocket?”
Jim: “My darling sexy Edie, I am asking you about my dinner. And, please, stop licking that paper. That is NOT the way to smoke salmon,
You need a pipe.”
Me: (Cough, cough, cough, gasp, wheeee-ze) “God, I hope those starving people know what suffering I’m going through for them.”
Jim: “I’m getting hungry. What if I got down on my hands and knees..?”
Me: “Don’t do that. That’s your sex beg, and I’m too busy choking on fish fumes right now.”
Jim: “I guess I’ll be forced to look in the refrigerator, myself.”
Me, pointing at the refrigerator contents: “See there’s plenty. You’ve got a pickle, two tablespoons of mayonnaise, and a candy bar. Wait, I need that chocolate for my low blood sugar, but you still have that pickle and the mayonaise. Make yourself a yummy pickle tapa.”
Jim: “My sophisticated, charming hot chick of a girlfiend, I’m begging you to feed me something, anything.”
Me: “Look, do you know how hard it is to keep up with the Joneses!? Do you realize what our neighbor, Betty, did last month? She homed the homessless, shoed the shoeless, and clothed the clothesless. By the way, that strip joint down the street is closing because of her.”
My point is that in order to compete with Little Miss Sunshine, I need to be sunnier, kinder, and givier. Look, you’re not going to get any of this food. Sometimes, you have to be selfish to be altruistic.
Jim: “Please?”
Me: “No. Taking the time to feed you will interfere with my spiritual growth. I just can’t WAIT to show up that neighbor of ours.”
Jim: “Well, you’re taking the bus, then. I’m going to be busy looking for something to eat. By the way, did you say that Betty is a foodless feeder?”
Me: “Fine, if my pickle’s not good enough for you, then go to Betty! Let her satisfy that ravenous appetite of yours! We’re through. I’m packing my basket and going to Atlanta!”
With tears in my eyes and a candy bar in my hand, I left the smoked salmon in the ashtray, and proceeded to pack up the champagne and caviar. I caught the first bus out to Atlanta.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Tears stream down my cheeks like little bitty twin rivers as I recall what happened that fateful day to poor little me.
I remember being on that Greyhound bus to Atlanta, my head leaning back aginast the headrest, my eyelids closed ..desperately needing to go pee knowing that I could not go pee because I was on a %!&#& Greyhound bus.
Anyway, we finally get to Atlanta and I’m really happy because I finally get to do a good deed, and find a place to pee.
Well, I don’t see any place that looks like it has a public bathroom and I don’t see anybody that looks hungry, either. I bravely trudge on with that heavy basket of caviar and champagne in my hand. I must have walked about a mile, when it hit me. Perhaps, I’m in the wrong neighborhood.
By, this time, I’m practically crawling because my bladder is hurting. I’m crying, and I still have fish breath from smoking that salmon earlier. I was truly learning the lesson of giving til it hurts.
I stopped a passerby to ask where to go where they feed the hungry.
He looked at me and said, “You really look like you could use some help. I’m not sure where the nearest Salvation Army is, but you will need to get rid of those bottles of champagne before they will accept you. Oh, and here’s a mint, fish-breath.”
That’s when it hit me. He thought I was poor and hungry. I tried to explain that I was merely broke and stinky, but he turned his back on me and refused to listen to my pleas for understanding and a bathroom.
I was so frustrated by that time that I hollered at the top of my lungs, “Where are the HUNGRY HORDES?”
Unfortunately, ..a trucker started blowing his horn right in the middle of the word, hordes, and it completely drowned out the “d” sound. God, I hate it what that happens to me.
Anyway.
About that time, I see a group of about 50 highly pissed off women racing in my direction and screaming, “How dare you call us hungry whores”.you highly attractive woman?
And, about that time, my having to go to the bathroom problem got fixed. It was kind of like being relieved and ashamed and embarrassed at the same time�.not unlike the emotions felt after one’s first sexual experience.
Let’s get back to the beating up I was about to get. Thankfully, I don’t remember much. I do recall someone grabbing my basket, and screaming, “Hallelujah, caloric intake!!!!”
The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital with a detective standing there studying my beautiful face, except for all those cuts, scratches, deep gashes, and stitches on it.
I was determined to help the police solve the case. Even through my arm was throbbing from the intense pain, I reached over to the nightstand and picked up a box of Kleenex. I knew they’d need a tissue sample for the DNA evidence. Everyone in the room started applauding my heroic effort, but, in my morphine- induced haze it sounded almost like they were laughing.
The police worked doggedly and tirelessly on my case. I was questioned for what seemed to be hours about the horrible crime that was commited on my person. One question that seemed to be of particular interest to law enforcement was which liquor store I’d bought the champagne from. I raised myself up from my pillow, and with tremendous effort I whispered, “Bi-lo.” I was determined to see the perpetrators of this heinous act brought to justice.
About this time, I sank into unconsciousness. When I awoke, there they were, ..in my room, .my attackers!!!!!
I shrank back in terror. I looked at my pillow. Were they planning on smothering me? I looked at my IV tubes. Perhaps, it was strangulation day at Grady Memorial. I looked at the financial forms on the table. That’s it! They were going to bleed me to death. God, I hate paper cuts.
They started coming closer, their eyes gleaming. I shrank back further in my pillow, cause let’s face it, I’m a scaredy-cat.
I summoned all my courage and glared at them. “This won’t be like it was last time. I’m ready for you this time.
I have a catheter this time.”
Well, they all started laughing, and told me not to be so dramatic. They started explaining things to me, and suddenly my horrible ordeal started to make sense.
The ladies were in Atlanta for a Weight-Watchers convention. They’d been celebrating their weight loss and had even taken a lesson in strip teasing to give them self-esteem about their bodies. Naturally, when that truck horn blew, and they couldn’t hear the d in hordes, they thought I was referring to them.
Those silly little whores.
And, remember those hungry people in Atlanta that the tv reporter was talking about? Well, she was referring to the folks at the Weight Watchers convention. God, I’ve never felt so stupid and embarrassed.
OK, yes, I have, zillions of times. I told you I was honest.
Anyway, the Weight Watchers ladies apologized. Did I mention that they were all drunk, too, from that champagne they stole from me? One of them picked up the remote control and put MTV on. They all started dancing and one of them even started swinging from my IV pole.
We even ate lunch together. They still had some caviar, cheese, and crackers from my basket. I had fishsticks and jello.
Before they left, they handed me a bus ticket for home.
So, the lesson here is to think twice before you got to Atlanta to do some hungry horde feeding. Just stay home and eat a pickle instead.
I just read that as a woman ages, her breasts atrophies. Well, that is just sooo wrong. Her breasts are two trophies. At least, mine are. I’ve always prized them. And, the cool thing is that they’re not even achievement trophies. I think they’re attendance trophies. One day, I showed up for life like I always do, and there they were.
And then, I had a terrifying thought. Atrophies means withers. Withers up like a dry leaf from a dead tree. All I can think is Lawd take me now. I mean right now. I’m sure my enjoyment of life will be somehow lessened by the withering of a few body parts that I hold dear.
My eyes water as fond memories of my breasts cloud my mind. I remember how I used to swing them in front of my honey’s face like a pendulum. “You are getting sleepy…in about an hour. You are getting verry sleeeepy….but, not yet. You are going to buy me a really expensive necklace and charge it on your mother’s credit card.”
Yeah, getting jewery, getting lucky, and getting rid of my meddling mother-law. That’s killing three birds with two trophies.
They come in so handy.
I have a confession to make. I am in that stage in life where I’m doing some major cover-ups…telling major whopper type little white lies in order to convince the general public of my youth. The time will come in the not so distant future that two of my prize possessions will wither away just like that sad dry leaf on that stupid dead tree whose branches are swaying in the wind as if waving farewell.
I am choking on the tears as I write this. I am hoping that my river of tears acts as a moisturizer ’cause I can’t afford Oil of Olay.
Writers can’t afford shit.
I’m going to have to stop talking to you guys, because y’all are bringing me down. And, the only thing all this crying is accomplishing is that my black mascara is now running like a hose at full blast onto the top of my blouse. And, ladies, you know what black clothing does. It makes everything appear smaller.
Shit.
I guess, when the time comes, a going away party is in order. A few toasts… a cake…some pictures.
No, you’re not invited. Remember…I already told you that you guys bring me down. Gravity’s already pulling me down like a dry leaf falling gently, softly to the ground…. knowing that it once helped decorate a tree as grandly as my soon- to- be atrophying breasts have majectically adorned my body all these years.
But, they’re not gone yet. I have to go, now. I need some new earrings.
I can remember being told “When you start paying the bills around here, then you can decide what tv channels you get to watch. ” My cable guy is so rude.
I love watching rock stars smash their guitars on stage. Only problem is they keep getting another one.