theotherblackwoman

My mum loves Liam Neeson more than I knew. Sitting in this condo in sunny California with my brother and an aging mum with early memory loss , it’s tough!

Some days she knows how to turn on the TV remote control. Other days she doesn’t. She’s only 76, went to Princeton, raised four children on her own sans child support. I grew up living in nice houses with my own room. Believe me, that would be hard with so many kids. When I was growing up she was saving refugees before it was trendy.

One day in the six grade, I was living by the beach and I came home from school to find three Laotians in my living room cooking rice in a rice cooker on the floor. Two adults were squatting down .With a baby laying on a blanket. My mother never told me they were coming. I just walked in and saw
them there after school.. It was overwhelming at the time. However, they only stayed for a month and soon after my mum relocated them to an apartment in the ID.

Cut to 2008…When she welcomed a mother, two boys and her three daughters into our home from Iraq. They only stayed two nights because she had found them an apartment with The IRC and it was furnished with the help of her church. She taught them all how to drive, found three of them jobs, got one into college who’s now in grad school and did all of this because that’s my mum. We celebrated many Thanksgivings and Xmases with them. She is and always will be an incredible woman.

Now she only likes candy and eating the icing off of chocolate cakes, watching shows about animals, tornados, Bruce Willis or Liam Neeson.

For the past two hours I’ve been hearing about how my brother Trevor should’ve been named Liam and me Lila.

So…. Liam and Lila it is.

By the way she just shushed me because Liam Neeson was speaking.

Whatever….Liam!

As she laid down on the couch next to her youngest child out of four, reading Bella Tuscany by Frances May. She is engrossed in this book. She tunes everything out.

Even us.

Its quiet in this condo. All I hear is a humming sound from the fridge. I’ve only been here three hours. She has a cold, he’s antsy and asks if we want chicken out of a can. Soup he calls it. Then calls me a communist and her an atheist. She has a cold and refuses to drink Kevita flavored with tangerines. He’s yelling drink it! “Mother, drink it! I won’t. You can’t make me, she said. Three sips! He, bellows. Fine, she says, but I am not going to like it.

One. Face.
Two. No, I won’t do it.
Three. Fine.
Now, can I have my grilled cheese.

I just finished driving from one state through two. Long distance trips are fun. Drinking caffeine from divey coffee huts, listening to Dust by Patricia Cornwall. By the way, it made me sleepy so I ended up listening to a funk CD that my old man made me. Oh, calm down, folks say that when they’ve been in a relationship for awhile! Plus, I may not be uttering those words much longer. So, I need to get it out here.

Okay, I can recall when I made my first mix tape for a guy I really liked. I don’t remember his name. That’s not saying much is it. It had a lot of Quincy Jones and Michael Jackson on it.

Driving for nine hours to me isn’t that much. You think, and think and think.

I passed through rain, snow, rain and fog. Exciting yes? Not really.

I starting thinking about when we’re young and the image of beauty we see. I always remember my mother looking stunning. She’d wear long brown boots with an inside zipper, a long corduroy skirt, a blue blouse with a matching blazer. It was the seventies. She also had long red hair and bright red lips. By seeing that everyday, I knew I had a lot to live up to. She rocked it.

Up until 12 years old, I had been a tomboy. I mean sneakers, shorts, red tube socks and a basketball. Then I discovered lip gloss. The good kind with the roller ball that went effortlessly over my lips with a glossy finish. That thing was trouble. It kicked me off.

Then blue eye shadow. If you’ve been reading this blog you’re up to speed. Disco necklaces, hair straighteners, black eye liner, black high heels and panty hose.

Since I started dating in my teens, I’ve always wanted to look good for ya.
Since my twenties I’ve always cared how I LOOK. I still do.
I love makeup and hair products…..

I do all this….to look good for ya

Every day shit happens and people go on with their daily lives. I believe people go through different events that effect them emotionally and personally. I can only speak for my friends and myself.
Don’t get me wrong, there are terrible things that happen daily in our country and worse in others. As of late mass gun shootings. I grieve for all of the folks who lost family and loved ones. Syria, India, human trafficking, the list is endless with world trauma. We as humans of_____can only deal with our lives. Day to day.

But today a good friend of mine, let’s call her “Celina” may possibly be ending a nine year relationship. Some folks might say she’s an idiot for being with a man who belongs to someone else. Who cares for others but her. Who tries and wants to please everyone but her. She told me, that she’s madly in love with this man and shares her feelings with him when possible. She’s raw, open, wears her heart on her sleeves. Cries, rarely, but when she does it doesn’t look pretty. You know, clenched hands, blotchy eyes, curled lips! Ugly face! Gives everything and waits and waits to no response. She’s strong. As she’s told me he is reserved, quiet, non confrontational, closed and unexpressive. He can share, be there, laugh, be patient, supportive.

She wants to believe deep down that he really loves her and would move mountains for her. But we all know happy endings only last in films. I didn’t want to tell her, but relationships of this nature don’t last. Even in Fatal Attraction it didn’t end well. Alex was shot in the bathtub, when she resurfaced and everyone thought she had drowned. Let’s not forget Unfaithful with a beautiful Diane Lane and Richard Gere kills her lover, the lovely Oliver Martinez.

Only Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy made it work for over 23 years and the guy who created wonder woman.

Look it up.

To him it’s business as usual..
As for my friend it’s, why couldn’t we have just taken a meeting?

Do you remember your first crush? Mine was_____.wait! For legality purposes, let’s call him….” TS”.
I would see him by the trampoline after school in the gym. It was the second grade folks, settle down. He was tall, worked his afro, wore brown cords and a blue shirt. He had the craziest laugh and would say some corny jokes. I dug him. We were a couple for one week. Holding hands in the cafeteria, beating him at jacks, sharing green apple now and laters.
Ah bliss.

The Celebrity
When I was 15 years old I loved two things, basketball and Jessica Lange. I saw her in Tootsie and was totally smitten. She was thirty one, gorgeous and a grin that gave me butterflies. She may have been younger.  My first celebrity crush. Then she was in Frances, a movie about Frances Farmers life. It was shot in West Seattle and I kind of know someone who broke into the house and stole a rock. What happened to this rock? Who knows?
Same year, I bought Rolling Stone magazine as she was on the cover. I still have it in a box. I should frame it.

Then a few months later there was the film premiere of “Frances” shown at the paramount theater. I sat in the balcony, alone in the front row. I don’t remember what I was wearing. But I remember feeling strong, confident, happy, nervous and very caught up in my first premier.

My last crush was on a man I met many moons ago. When I first him, we had coffee and spoke for hours it was the best foreplay I had in years. After our first meeting he messaged me and said, “you have beautiful eyes, you get that a lot right?”

He was hot, refined, funny, strong, smart, an amazing conversationalist. Sex was amazing. Butterflies always stayed with me before and after I saw him.

Ah bliss.

Now and again she finds herself spinning. Alone. Hiding, with smiles and laughter. Soaking up Yali red wine from Chile. She attempted to make squAsh mac in cheese but failed dreadfully. Think salty pasta with carmelized onions.

She binges on anything laugh worthy from the library. She starts with My Big Fat Greek Wedding and then goes on to Archer.
All according to plan.
It took her back to Star Wars.
When Alec Guinness does his jedi mind trick on the storm troopers, when their asking after Luke. She does that every day. She smiles while she teaches. Laughs at dumb jokes and thinks to herself. These aren’t the droids she’s looking for.

She has dreadful insomnia.
She worries.
She’s always has done so since she was in her twenties. She used eat boboli pizzas with pesto, broccoli, mozzarella and three other cheeses on it.

She used to date a lot, have lots of sex, love herself more. Feel wanted.
Sexy.

Now she just feels old. Alone.

She worries about losing loved ones.
Her lover not wanting her.
Her mom slipping. Anywhere.
Her students failing.
Her friends living abroad in other countries.
But
The little things …bring joy.
Emails from friends across the pond.
Being with family.
Baking.
Cooking magazines.
Cinnamon bears. Vanilla candles.
Sex

These aren’t the droids she’s looking for.

I was adopted at three months old in November. It actually says in my baby book that, I am “in honor of the rosebud”. Whatever that means? But we know it means, I am special, unique, meant for great things. To serve others blah blah blah.

I am the youngest of four children. All of my siblings are related by blood but me.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve been close to my grandparents. My Nana and Bampy on my fathers side. More so when I turned nineteen and lived with them for a summer before starting college at a fashion school in Los Angeles.

My grandparents were old school. What I mean by that is…my Nana believed everything she read in the National Enquirer. She believed in Murder she Wrote, Jeopardy, Quincy MD and dinner at four pm with a banana cream pie.

They loved happy hour and when my cousin B would come over. B would raise her glass and say, “this glass won’t fill itself”.

I , however wasn’t allowed to drink until I turned twenty one. My Bampy carded me and looked at my driver’s license for ten minutes to make sure it wasn’t fake. They’d drink vodka cranberries and listen to Harry Belafonte records. 18 years later she left me.

I lost my Nana in her eighties. All I remember was she was in the ICU hooked up to every machine and we had to let her go.

I had to call all of my siblings and remind them to call their grandfather because they didn’t do it on their own. I called each one of them on the landline in their bedroom with two light blue covered twin beds gazing at me like I was in Lucy and Desi Arnez bedroom. It was rough.

I carried the bag with my father.

A year later after repeated weekend visits to my Bampy to make sure he knew he was loved. He passed away, unexpectedly.  His pacemaker went out while in the hospital.

Before he left me,  we passed that year while playing trivia and pool at his club house.No siblings came to the hospital when I collected his things. Or the house to help me go through their estate.

As my parents get older. A brother looks after an aging father. I spend my Saturday’s making a woman laugh, who forgets the days, months, what she ate and where she left her phone for the umpteenth time.

The best medicine is laughter, love, patience, and sadly, self care is put to the side.

I only have one mother.
One love.
So carrying the bag it is.

Yeah. That’s not mine. I took it from Sex in The City. God! I miss that show. It was the episode when Carrie was mad at Mr. Big because he didn’t say I love you back, after she said it. She deflected and started yelling at him about his cigars and how she didn’t like their smell. I do that. Not the cigar part, but the bitching, the nit-picking. We all do.

Everyone at some point has aging parents. It’s challenging. You feel lost, angry, frustrated, out numbered, humor is your drug, confusion, yearning for the loss parent from your youth. You want to be with them all the time, especially if you’re a mommy or daddy’s girl. I am the first one.

I absolutely love my mum. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about how she yelled at me to make two bunny ears while learning to tie my shoes. I can still hear her. “Okay now, make two bunny ears,  pull the loops through quicker..good girl”.  She’s always been there.

Support, pushing me on, love…so now I need to be there. When one can’t control the mind, one tends to take it out on others.

Lately the man has been getting the brunt of it. He shouldn’t. He hasn’t done anything. He’s amazing, caring, kind, patient and funny. So sorry.

It’s not about the cigar. It’s about me not having control.

So I am hopefully having a root canal in thirty minutes. Remember the days, when you would go to the dentist, lay down in the chair and your dentist would have a picture or poster of a sweet labrador puppy or a kitten hanging over you in the chair, I do. Those were good times. You’d see that big shit coming a mile away. Smile to yourself and know all was well. But then, you’d look up and think about those sweet critters and feel even more warm and fuzzy inside. Your dentist loved kids and after every appointment. Dr. D would hand you a small clear bag with a red toothbrush and a trail size of Aim toothpaste in it. If he really liked you, you got a sticker.

And if you were really good he’d let you go over to the treasure chest and pull out a toy. I was always exceptionally good. I would try to scope the chest out on my way into the chair. It was always shut but I WOULD manage to sneak it open and check. I always either went for the jack set with a red rubber ball or a sling shot. This was good shit folks, to a seven-year old! Score! But when we’re adults. We go in to see Dr. K. a very funny, handsome Korean guy who lets you clutch tightly a purple unicorn to feel special. Word has it big burly guys have clutched it as well. He kept saying what ever happens here, stays in here.

Seven shots later. I was done. Sore. Sad. No kittens. But that purple unicorn, “Eunice” was pretty fucking special.

So… I am NOT an anti-dentite.

Some guys/gals think that women who watch hulu, drink Barolo, eat dark chocolate chips outta the bag, live in European cities, fuck strangers, listen to Nina Simone, read autobiographies, drink ginger tea, love female comic heroes, worship James Bond, explore conspiracy theories, dance around in their underwear aren’t a bit of fun.

They prefer the boring, brazen, frigid, angry, unhappy, tired, aging, well read, be seen in public, lay around, attractive when needed, intellectual blowing in the arse type. Hang on the arm ornament. The implied, imposed, bit of fun.

A bit of fun comes in many forms: the happy-go-lucky, the worry wort, the grateful woman, the chosen one, the unforseen love, the humorous cow as the brits say, the side piece, the only one. The chosen one and the RIGHT one.

A bit of FUN!