12:10 pm

Any minute now my phone will ring. I won't bother investigating the identity of the caller nor will I contemplate an appropriate method of ignoring it. I'll simply pick up.

Or no, maybe I shouldn't watch the time, in the event that there might be a new angle this year. Sometimes things get changed up.

What is constant though is the fact that the caller will make me giddy. My lips will chafe from stretching, my teeth in full display. I'll feel like a kid again -- and Lord knows I need that -- and my mind will race like young me, wild and free through the backyard on a cool spring day.

At 12:10 pm in 5th grade I convinced my teacher to let the class sing happy bday to me. The exact time of my birth.

I am nothing if not motivated by acceptance and love, so birthdays suit me quite well. I make grand gestures of the dates of birth of those close to me, mostly because the joy of celebrating ones life is an emotion I hold dear. But part of me is probably calling in a favor.

Remember me on March 24.

There was one year there was no call. Well, no, there was a call, but I was the one who made it. I had to dial in to get my own birthday wishes.

As time inches toward noon, I'm overwhelmed and overwrought with the pride of a woman much simpler than I. My arrival in this world 30-something years ago, my family squatting like Major League catchers, ready to field me at home plate. Future friends in bassinets sprinkled across our town, across the world even, settled in, preparing to round the bases where our paths will inevitably cross someday. Others still simmering in the gut like last night's lasagna, ready for release. Others still not even a thought or misstep in their parents' daily walk.

At 12:10 pm my mother might call me. To tell me I wasn't a mistake. That missteps I've made are a part of life, and that she's proud to claim me. That my father was a mess when I arrived and that he's proud of me too. That it's ok to miss him.

Or she may wait until the kids are home or siblings pass through so that one call can be made. Kind of like all those calls placed during holiday meals that I missed over the years.

That God has seen fit to deliver me to this world, in this way, at this moment in time, is why birthdays are the best gifts. Ever. Like Easy Bake Oven* or Snoopy Snow Cone Machine* best.

The days and months leading up to today have been a This is Your Life exercise set to dim lights and dark harmonies. But today, even for this one moment at 12:10 pm, I am sure that this is in fact my life, whether I'm pleased with the rough cuts or not.

I trust that the moment is yet to arrive. But it's coming...

(*my parents, anti-dumb American shit Jamaicans that they are, did not believe in either toy and therefore would neither field nor dignify inquiries or requests for them or any other dumb shit that American kids cried for.)

***Updated: The call came in at 12:28pm...and I was notified that it is "Officially my bday," because I was in fact born on a Thurs. She was waiting all morning to call and will call me again when the kids get home so they can tell me how great I am. :) ***

Shout Outs

"You're not the only one that has a hard time on Father's Day, Wise."

True.

So shout out to everyone who had to take a deep breath, a drink, a Xanax, a walk, a pep talk, a phone book, a third-party, a few tears, a hug, a cuss out, or think long and hard before deciding whether to pick up the phone to speak to your Pops today.

And double for those of us who no longer have the luxury.

"They don't got sheets there?"

So my oldest nephew is going off to college this month. [insert all types of falling out and carrying on and dropping to my knees praying he don't get locked up, mixed up with no party white girls, or expelled for plagiarism.]


Oh Lawd...not my child!!!

*sigh*

So I ask him if he has all his stuff together and he's like, "No Weazy, I dont even know what I need!"

"Ok, you need bathroom stuff, shower shoes, sheets..."

"They don't got sheets there?"

So apparently the boy thinks his dorm is the Marr*iott. So I told him I'd email him a list of things he'll need to bring. Can yall help me out, please. Cuz I know a lot of yous have done the dorm thing fairly recently. Young asses.

Muchas grassy ass!

~Management's Nephew

JULY 14

My mother was born the second oldest of 10 children in Spur*Tree, a small bush town in the parish of Manchester in Jamaica, West Indies. The oldest daughter.

This is an important fact, because by virtue of birth order, my mother inherited a litter of children at a young age when her own mother died a painful death. Cancer. My mother doesn’t speak of her mother very often, so the one time she told me details I listened with an intensity that rivaled only the directions given as child to avoid an ass whupping.

“My mother had 10 children. One didn’t make it. Not long after your Uncle Gilly was born my modda [because shortly after delving into her mind’s museum, the Patois accent appears, heavy, and I feel almost like an intruder] get cancer. Ovarian. She wasn’t a small woman but I’ll never forget how she blew up, so swollen, she musta been bout 200 pound.

“She was laying in her bed in pain and all the children were outside around the house bawling. All you could hear was bawling, and my father singing. He could sing! That man had a voice, boy! I was outside hanging clothes and my father called me and said that my mother wanted to see me. I walk in the room and all I could say was I could feel death coming close. And my mother just looked at me, and said....”

I wish I could remember what my grandmother had told my mother. I’ve blocked it out. I remember it being grave and curt. Not the kind of frilly, heartwarming last words you’d see in a Lifetime movie (so this is how you know I’m getting old right…all of a sudden Lifetime is my SHIT!)

I guess subconsciously I cannot bear to curate those last words. Partly because of the pain so visible in my mother’s voice and face as she recalled it to me. Partly out of fear that remembering might somehow summon a similar scene between me and my mom. That it might speed up the slowdown. Or something.

So my mother was a mother long before she was a mother. Actually I take that back, because my oldest sister is really not that much younger than my Uncle Gilly. My mother, his oldest sister, is the only mother he’s ever really known.

Some years later her beloved father also died. The kids were pretty much grown by then, save for the two littlest, and my mother had had two more of her own. And soon after laying her father to rest she made the decision to leave her children in the care of her closest sister. She moved to Washington, DC, in a immigrant worker program which imported many young West Indians to this country to work as domestics.

As fate would have it, this is where my mother met my father, and where the context of my conception begins.

My mother never passed on to me the issues that so many of my friends have inherited from their mothers. That’s not to say we don’t have our issues. That’s not to say that my mom’s not as crazy as every mother is biologically and psychologically destined. Instead there is a healthy distance, a respectful boundary that she’s established. It doesn’t really exist between her and my older sister. I’m guessing because my sister was born in Jamaica and knows that life. The life, and subsequently the history, from which I’ve always been sheltered.

I imagine that there are things my mother has repressed. Actually, I can’t imagine. The dim echoes of her scant recollections of life with her own mother are haunting. I probably won’t ever ask her about it until she is nearing the end. If God willing we are granted that type of ending. When it wont matter any more, those recollections. When she’ll soon have to face her mother herself.

In the meantime I call her every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, after Wheel of For*tune. Sometimes on my lunch break so I can hear her fussing with my nephews. Or to hear what she’s cooking for everyone. Or to let her vent about her latest shenanigans down at the grocery store. (shout out to Weg*man’s!) To respectfully tune her out when she makes a dead dad reference without warning. To smile wide at every overwhelming ounce of support, every reminder to pray, to stay safe, and to remember that "Mommy loves [me] much, much, much."

In the meantime, I wish my Mom a Happy Birthday, and many moooooooore!

HOME ALONE 2

[UPDATED WITH AN ENDING...scroll down...]

Tucked away in my parents’ attic, and in the corners of their garage are boxes full of me. All sorts of foolishness with which I cant bear to part. Things that are essential, but that don’t belong in my every day grown up space.

They’re about all I have left that resemble home.

I don’t even ask my mother about her new house anymore. I’m too preoccupied with the disarray of the old one. The only one I ever lived in until I went away to college. The address that my family has owned for longer than I’ve been alive.

It takes me an hour and a few bucks on Air.tran to get home, yet I hadn’t been home for six months. Cuz it’s not really home anymore…

So you know I got two older brothers. Twins. There’s Boss of Me aka C-Boy. And there’s Anger Management. This kid is insane. And I love him to death. To this day people think he and I are the twins. We share our father’s forehead and our grandfather’s imposing eyes. He’s the one person in my family that I know would never ever judge me. He’s the one I call when I need someone on my side.

One day, a few weeks prior to Miami (bday trip. catch up!), he calls me. Needing someone on his side.

“Yo, I’m getting a divorce,” he says, always with the slightest awkward silent pause before knocking the wind out of me. His approach to bad news is a lot gentler than his twin’s, I notice.

“Oh.” I find that remaining neutral when someone is expecting a reaction is the cleaner, quicker way to uncovering their reaction.

“You took it a lot better than Mommy,” he says. My poor mother. The thought of her awake at night, alone in that big house, finds its way to the forefront of my mind, until I quickly sweep it away. Unequipped.

He goes on to tell me about how he actually left his house and has been staying with my mother. It only took all of a week for him to become indignant at the idea of him not living in the house for which he pays mortgage.

“Does Spider care?” I ask, of my 12-year old niece.

“I call her everyday and she says she wants to come stay with me wherever I go.” She’s a daddy’s girl and all, but what the hell do you expect her to say? She’s caught between two parents she adores and can easily con.

I should be more shocked, but I’m not. His relationship with his wife of almost ten years has always been complex. Not unlike our parents’ union. Our parents, who were married for 30+ years. I took for granted that there may not be a trickle down effect. I thought staying together forever even if you’re miserable was a part of the deal, part of our DNA. They say parents don’t have favorites, but in our fam we all know Anger Management gets top billing. So if anyone, I expected him to stick it out.

“It’s really bad, Gum. That’s why I can’t wait til Miami. I need to get the fuck away.”

“I feel you.” There’s a sadness and the hint of desperation in his voice. He could care less about being judged, but I’m the one he calls when he needs someone on his side. He’s my “twin.” No matter what, my home is his home.

“Well if you ever need to get away you know you can come hide out down here,” I say. “I keep a six-pack on deck.” This time there’s no signature pause. In fact, he barely skips a beat.

“Can I bring a friend?”

*

“This is the last time we’re going to discuss this,” I answered, and with it I expunged the image of my brother and some loose jump off bitch bunned up in my crib.

“I can’t bring a friend?” he asks again, this time a bit incredulous, but mostly full of mischievous. This annoys me to no end. First of all, he has never known me to indulge in mess. I don’t do it. And particularly not a family member’s mess. Anytime something goes down I revert to being the youngest child, banishing myself from the scene of grown folks’ talk. I am the family “Bennett.”

But it also pisses me off because he’s asking me to be ok with being uncomfortable, and that type of selfishness is only underneath the surface of his personality. He’s generally genuinely thoughtful and unintrusive.

“I’m out. I’ll talk to you in Miami,” I say, and hang up. Miami, though the scene of celebration for MY birthday, will be a respite of sorts for everyone but me.

“Gum, I want you to meet my friend.”

“No thank you.”

“Why not?”

“Because her being here is inappropriate, and I will tell her so.”

“Please don’t.”

“As a grown woman, she knows right from wrong. I expect this from you, but not from another grown woman.”

“I’m asking you to please say hello. That’s it. Her and her homegirl were planning to be here anyway so they decided to meet us.”

We lie to each other. That’s what siblings do. It’s not like friendships where honesty is mandatory. We thrive on being who the other knows us to be, not necessarily who we really are. The irony of course is that we know the absolute best and the painful worst of who we are and where we’ve been. Our essence. And maybe that’s why it’s a pain like no other.

But he could’ve lied better than this shit. At least show me some fucking respect and give me something elaborate, where I can at the very least commend you on the effort if not credibility. But this ngga is treating me like it’s my 13^th birthday and not my 31^ST.

I look her in the eye and shake her hand politely, then turn back to my drink and my friends. My friends, to whom I confided about the situation just minutes prior as I saw my brothers walking into the spot.

I won’t go into details about how within minutes of meeting me Jump Off Bitch was in my face about what time we were leaving for the Jay/Mary concert. About how little effort it took to I give her the most vacant blank stare I could muster in response. About how she sat in the row in front of me at the show, next to my brother, who seemed more calm and at peace than I’ve ever seen him. How she rode on the back of the motor bike with him. How there was no other homegirl. How we ended up in a cab together when I wasn’t nearly drunk enough. How I took covert pics of her to send to my sister.

“Are you serious? Wow,” she says. Technically she’s my sister in law – Boss of Me’s wife – but she and I are family. I called her the next day to vent, and she was blown away by the entire scenario. “I know they having problems but he aint outta the house yet, and they’re still married. I’m sorry you gotta deal with that, Wise.”

I sigh. She listens intently as I give her a rundown of the entire weekend. I tell her about how I had the first conversation with her husband, my brother, about his cancer. It was just after the concert and we were waiting on our rides, and he and I held hands and walked down the street alone, huddled together just talking.

“He’s going through something,” she says slightly subdued. “And I can’t reach him.”

“Well, that’s to be expected right?” I answer. “I mean, faced with your own mortality how are you supposed to act? I don’t know how I would.”

“I told him to move out.”

Tucked away in my parents’ attic, and in the corners of their garage are boxes full of me. They’re large and take up lots of space, but no amount of neat folding or concise packing would make room for my memories. Fond and foolish. It is where I grew up. Where I dreamed of leaving. It’s been a constant for me. The place I could always come back to no matter how far away my dreams took me. The place with the walls and voices and laughter and faces that would always feel familiar.

Those memories are about all I have left that resemble home.

THREE'S COMPANY

So yall already read this, right?

And been read this??

Ok, ok on with it...

DATELINE…Miami. March 2008. Day 1.

We’ve taken this exact photo a thousand times. Me, the shortest, flanked by the Amazons. My best friends are both six-footers, and in about 90% of the photos we’ve ever taken in our 15-year history, I’m making some sort of ridiculous face…compensating for the shenanigans that might be going on above my head.

In this case, we’re collapsing over each other at a South Beach dinner table, the bottle we brought in, underfoot. My eyes are struggling to stay open, though my mouth won’t shut up. I’m laughing hysterically. Gay Bartender’s hands are crossed on my bare shoulder. High as fuck, trying to be cute. Curly’s fingers are deep into my roots, playfully pulling my locs. She’s pointing defiantly at the camera. This is who we are.

DATELINE…Brooklyn, NY. New Years Day 2008.

“We all know I’m the worst. I don’t return calls. I disappear. I shut down when there’s a confrontation. But this is the one time I’ve gone above and beyond to save the friendship and she shit on me.” I sit up on the leather pull-out couch, last night’s clothes draping off of me. The loft apartment is dark, so I consult my phone to see that it’s already afternoon. Gay Bartender hands me a cup of coffee and takes a seat across from me.

GB and I go way back to 4^th grade. 1985 or so. She was the black girl with the white best friend. All four of the other black kids in the class couldn’t stand her. Over the years – and we were together through middle, high school and even undergrad – I blackened her up and we were tight. I wouldn’t exactly say we were best friends, though I distinctly remember the first time she introduced me as such. We were close, but competitive. More like siblings than BFFs. In ninth grade we’d meet the girl who would be joined at GB’s hip.

Curly and I played ball together. She was tall and wiry and I loved lobbing the ball to her over her shorter defenders. But she was so skinny, she used to get her ass knocked around on the boards. She had a colorful personality and wardrobe to match. I’ll never forget the first time I met her she had on some red Cross.Colours jeans and matching rubber bands on her braces.

She and I were super cool, but she and GB were the pair. They were Every Day Friends, sleepover girls who spent weekends at the mall, and trying on make up. As we progressed through high school, they branched out with some shady cats, started smoking and fucking, and I wasn’t doing either. (I was however, getting pretty drunk on the other side of town). Nonetheless, we were a trio, but they were mostly inseparable, and I was more of the frequent guest star.

Years later after college, GB and Curly were roommates in Philly, then moved to Brooklyn. Having lived with GB myself throughout college, I knew that deep drama would ensue.

“I was home for four days, one of which was Christmas. And I have to basically spend enough time with my damn-near estranged mother, my grandmother who is slowly losing her mind, and my sister. And I don’t see Curly and the baby ONE DAY and she’s pissed at me.”

Back in like 2002 Curly had reconnected with one of her high school sweethearts. He lived in Florida then, and she in NYC. They had started making plans, were getting closer, and then one night he was gone. Shot in the head in a parking lot. And GB was nowhere to be found. She was bunned up with this chick that all of her friends hated. A chick who had manipulated her and caused a rift between her and Curly. Their friendship was never the same after that.

Curly had a kid 2 years ago despite several serious red flags. She lived in Brooklyn, a block away from GB, who was there with her, but her heart wasn’t in it. GB was the first to meet the loser who’d become her babydaddy, and was not pleased. Made it very public. Called me, the perpetual referee, to update me on the nonsense. He hit her. Was a coke head. Has a bunch of other kids. She’s convinced he’s gay cuz he came to the club wearing “gay ass sneakers.” Sure enough, the ngga was sitting in a jail cell when GB & I flanked either side of Curly's big pregnant self, walking up and down the hospital block, rubbing her back and timing contractions.

DATELINE…Brooklyn, NY. New Years Day 2008.

“We missed you last night.” I reread the text before sending it to Curly.

“You had fun?” I read her terse response and imagined her sitting in her dark living room watching her genius son identify obscure animals in one of his many wildlife books. I knew she was feeling some kinda way.

“You not being here created a glass ceiling on the fun. What’s up?”

“You know before Christmas I didn’t speak to GB for MONTHS? I would see her online sometimes and after a while I would just stop even saying hi. I sent her an email like you suggested and she literally didn’t respond. Not even to acknowledge that she got it. If that’s what best friends do then I guess I only got one left.”

We’re too old for this shit. These spats run deep. I understand and empathize with both. Because that’s what best friends do. I stand in the middle and listen. A part of me knows that this too will pass as it always does. And it will subsequently return, this chasm, this ugly gash in our family portrait. As it always does.

DATELINE…Miami. March 2008. Day 5.

“So Curly,” I say, before handing her a shot. “I was asking them nggas about 3somes.” Our heads cock back in unison. Bitter faces synchronize, too.

“You and two boys???” she asks.

“I didn’t say a TRAIN!” Our convo is lost among the many in the hotel room. “GB couldn’t believe I hadn’t had one since we got to Miami. Whore.”

“Don’t do it,” she says without turning toward me.

I pause. Listen.

“Drama. I didn’t even like the dude, then this bitch starts liking him when he started feeling me. So we did it.”

“When the fuck was this?” I'm incredulous.

“In Philly.”

My mind scrolls back to that period of our photo album. I didn’t expect to open this can of worms, but now that I’m all up in it I can’t help but simultaneously double over laughing and nervously squirm. “Who was this??”

“Remember Justin? That one from Cali?”

“Ngga, the CHICK! Who the hell was the chick?!”

This is a photo we’ve never taken. In our 15-year history we have never had this conversation. Philly was almost 10 years ago. The weight of this secret hovers above my head and I cant help but make a ridiculous face…as the next round of shots go down.

“GB.”

GOODBYE CALL

[READ THIS FIRST]

DATELINE…Upstate NY. Couple days after Thanksgiving ‘07

“Gum. Where you at?”
“Marshalls. What up.”

I shift my phone from one hand to the other, juggling it with my bag and small handful of things. Despite the Black Friday pillage a few days before, I manage to find a generous offering of my beloved CK panties.

“What time you leave?”

“Flight’s at 5 or 6 or something. You know I don’t know,” I laugh. I’d only seen my brother on Thanksgiving Day, and this is his goodbye call. He had called me the night before, teasing me because I was downtown at my favorite coffee shop, where he insisted “No Coloreds Allowed.”

With a flight to catch, and my nephew needing a ride from school within the hour, I’m in a rush. But I browse leisurely as I chit chat with The Boss of Me, as I affectionately refer to my big brother.

“I gotta tell you something.”

Though the phrase is preceded by what I imagine was a deep breath, there is no pause between sentences. But when you hear these words uttered, your brain switches to autosurvival mode, and stops time on your behalf. Allows you to catch a deep breath of your own. So as he speaks on, my feet stop moving at precisely the moment my racing heart refuses to.

“I gotta tell you something so I’m just gonna say it. I have cancer,” is how he actually says it in real time.

“Okay,” is my response, rendered in my own time.

“I started playing ball again, and I just started feeling funny. So I went to my doctor and she was like, 'it’s probably just your body telling you you’re getting older. Take some aspirin.' But I was like, no, I know how my body is supposed to feel. So I switched doctors and new patients are required to do blood work. So they saw something they didn’t like…”

Now I’m pacing.

“So they ran the tests and told me.”

“Where is it?” I ask, now rummaging through the Kenneth Cole computer bags.

“It’s in my blood and it's called...”

I can’t see the price tags. I don’t have on my glasses, but I don’t think they were prescribed to correct the blur from sudden tears anyway.

“I found out on my birthday of all damn days. Basically, I have to take medication for the rest of my life and obviously get regular check ups…”

“37 years ago, you came into the world on the wrong foot. Life’s a breach!! Happy Birthday!”

I sent him that text on his birthday, just a week earlier, and he never responded. Didn’t pick up when I called either.

“And I can’t play ball anymore. Can’t whup Miles’ ass on the court like I do his brother. And no, the kids don’t know.”

I suddenly remember my nephew who will soon be outside his school looking for my car to pull up. I shift my phone to the other hand, now piled high with things I didn’t realize I had picked up within the past four minutes. And I remember that my brother is a dad.

“If there’s one lesson I learned from Daddy it’s to always get a second opinion.”

Our dad took his last deep breath just three years and two months prior. Or I should say the venerable villain, cancer, took it without our permission.

“I need you not to do that.” He can hear me crying. I wonder suddenly if the security cameras have me in focus, racing mindlessly through narrow aisles not intended for shoppers, dumping miscellaneous items in random bins and racks.

“It’s gonna be fine. I’ve been wanting to tell you since you got home, but Ant picked you up from the airport…”

It occurs to me just now that when I walked into my parents’ house on Thanksgiving Day with two big bottles, my brother took the glass I poured only after I had mocked him relentlessly for refusing. Said he had a doctor’s appointment the next morning, to which I said, “All the more reason to drink.”

“And that’s why I called you last night. But now that I’ve told you, Mommy can stop worrying and she can talk to you about it.”

My poor mother. Having to hear this shit again. This time from the son who always took after his father.

“Quit crying. It’s gonna be fine. I need all positives, aight?”

“Yup.”

“You gonna be ok?”

“Uh huh.” Whatever. We’ve made a living lying to each other. I’m hoping I’m the only one with no regard for truth this time.

“Ok. Don’t miss your flight, loser.”

“Yup. Love you,” I say, wandering around the houseware section. I've seen this movie before. I know the ending. The villain leaves, but always comes back.

“Love you, too. Peace.”

But of course what I heard was the hello of a Goodbye Call.

BLOGGING FROM THE BEACH (*photo updates)

Im currently sitting on the beach. Rain soaking my hoodie. The sun playing hard to get.

This couldn't be more like my life right now. Im in the right place just not necessarily at the right time.

20 of my closest friends are within earshot. An empty patron bottle litters the sand as does a few too many smoked down cloves and bidis.

My throats sore from God knows what... Walking through chilly rain puddles in sandals? Disproportions of liquor to water? Singing mary j blige and jay z songs for 3 hours straight on saturday (did that ngga Jigga endorse obama somewhere btwn performing 'Can I Get A' and 'Brooklyns Finest'?? LOVED it!) Laughing out loud til I cough uncontrollably?

Im on the beach but the sun won't come out...

Damn you sure gather up a shitload of debris during the course of 20+ year friendships. Lots of secrets too.

So this is what they mean when they say your family wll break your heart without remorse.

Mr. Wendel, the old homeless guy who does tricks, makes water disappear and "levitates" for tourists can't find a way to "magic" a roof over his head??
I didn't fall cuz I was drunk...but bec I was drunk, I couldn't stop myself from falling.

Im an obsessive crotch-watcher...and this is prime terrain.

I wouldn't last a second without my pda phone.

DatNucca is equal parts patient, hilarious, quick-tempered, sensitive, and sexy. Rrreeeooorrr!

My boy tatted some cat's name on his shoulder and hid it from us for almost 2 years.

Im pretty sure I lost a friend this weekend.

My brothers really never fulfilled their New Edition fantasies until they rented bikes today and rolled thru Miami looking like the NE Heartbreak video.

A confirmation number don't always mean 'confirmed.'

Everyone in my life is plotting on my biological clock...

Including my mother who called to speak to my best friend from college to tell him that she has a feeling he's gonna be her son in law. Ima need that feeling to take a hike.

It is in fact possible to get kicked out of and subsequently banned from the ocean.

Corn nuts??

Boys just never get tired of ass...

Can't really blame them.

Don't worry if a restaurant doesn't allow you to byob. You can. And should. A big one. For everyone.

"Her hair look like chicken-flavored ramon.noodles."
"All around me love's just not working. But I still feel like its the absolute only thing worth fighting for."

"What's a little head among friends?"

"There's more to the story..."

"Omg I was always DYING to ask daddy this...Can you feel it crawling around inside you?" ...
"No. And that's why people die from it."

"Bout time you got curious."

"I definitely thought less of him for it."

"You look like last night's good time."

"Who HASN'T had a threesome since we've been here??"

"Lawd ah cyan Sonny Wise dautah a dahnce so! Jesas hof di Sabbat!"

"Laaaaaaa laaaa la la, wait til I get my money right!"


Im on the beach and the sun is trying to play nice. As am I.

But its getting harder, not easier. The older I get, the more complex the relationships around me. Things are falling apart as others are coming together, and its impossible to find a sensible emotional balance.

Much like a hoodie on the beach.

So do you wait for the sun to show up or do you lay on the beach, shivering, and enjoy the imperfections that make life a beautiful fucking pain in the ass?

You have another shot. Another smoke. And laugh til your throats sore. It'll be better tomoro.

Happy birthday to me :)

YOU GOT MAIL

I’m pretty sure my mom is about to bail on me.

So I call her last week and she says, “You’ll never guess what just happened...”

Miss Jean from across the street calls her and tells her that some she saw some kid take the envelops out of my mother’s mailbox and run through her back yard. She said she saw it through her window. The kid came to the door like he was offering to shovel her driveway (Damn, I miss old school kids who used to HUSTLE out in the cold. Not these new Xbox young fucks!)…but um, my nephew’s old school. He took care of that snow as soon as it stopped falling.

Now, we’ve lived in this same house for 30+ years, and my mom is in fact, old school. Ever since she retired and is home during delivery times, she could tell you the names of damn near every mailman in order of employment. She still believes in greeting and asking about the kids and leaving him gifts at holiday times and offering him tea when it’s cold out. She’s accustomed to leaving her mail out for him, secured with a clothespin, even when she doesn’t have stamps. He always got her. Her mail doesn’t even need an address. It’ll get to her, as long as it has her name on it.

So my mom goes outside and checks the mailbox and sure enough, it’s empty. On that morning she had run to the bank and thought he had already come through while she was gone. She walks down the paved driveway and peeps the footprints dotting the snow through the back yard.

Miss Jean had immediately called my nephew to go find the boy, but he was at work. (Neighbors having each other’s phone numbers…how old school is THAT!) Luckily, her grandkids saw the boy. Knew where he stayed.

“What kind of mail did he steal, Mommy?”

“My credit card and car insurance payments.”

Wow mom.

By the time she had called the jakes (sn!tching runs in the family??), Miss Jean’s grandson was knocking on my mom’s door. He’s an Xbox kid for sure. About 15 or so. Him and his younger brother are like my mom’s little mentees. Their daddy’s in the bing, and their grandma can’t control them. But they STAY stopping by Mama Wise’s crib before school every morning, and whent hebus drops them off after school, and even spend the night when my mom’s in the mood for noise in the house.

Young Xbox hands my mother her mail. He went running around the block, like a tough old school maverick, and got my mom’s shit back.

“I swear, I’m so ready to be out!” I’ve never heard this conviction from my mother before. Tomorrow she’ll board a plane home to Jamaica and she’ll be gone almost a month. My siblings and nephew will man the crib. The neighborhood will provide an extra set of eyes.

She’s finally gonna start work on the house down there that she and my father had been plotting for the last 30+ years. They’re old school immigrants. Come here, hustle, raise and educate your kids, go back home, ball out. I always knew she’d do it. But I never quite believed she’d really dip. But there’s really nothing stopping her. Her children are grown. She's a widow. Her grandkids the only real attachment now. She’s outgrown her community. She uses the word ‘ghetto’ now, often.

I laugh, cuz it’s funny, cuz that’s a word she’s learned, or conceptualized from incidents like the Mail Fraud. The kid who stole her shit was 12.

When her house is done, she will move. And I’ll be lost. But she’s earned it. She’s weathered 30+ unforgiving winters. Made her connections. Raised and educated me. She’s left her mark. She should go and I should be happy.

And that suddenly opens up the possibilities of a whole world with my name on it.

ANGER MIS-MANAGEMENT

“Wise, did I tell you that Mommy said I have too much hate in my heart?”

“And it only took her 37 years to figure this out.”

My brother. He’s not called “Anger Management” for nothing. Never mind that he’s my mom’s fav [if you’re a parent, save it! I don’t care how my mom tries to spin it, we’re ranked…and on any given day I come in at either 2nd or 3rd out of 4.]…but he’s also absolutely insane. My mom of all people, should know this.

I also rank my siblings. The one I call when I need advice. The one I run to for a hug. The one I call when I’m pissed or need help...

“Anger, yo, I can barely even see straight right now, I’m so fucking MAD.”

“Where you at and who you with?”

“Downtown BMore. My boy is with me. Can you please tell me why I just got kicked out of this bullshit ass bar just now. And by kicked out, I mean literally picked up off my feet like the goddamn Thursday trash, and dropped outside on the curb. AND I AINT EVEN DRUNK?!”

“Oh shit. What you do?”

“Ok, it’s fcuking, 25 cent bottle night, right, so I’m there with like 7 other people. I had JUST gotten a round of Hein.ekens for everybody before last call (11pm), and we’re sitting in this little booth. So three of my friends were not at the table, like either in the bathroom or pool table pimpin, and this bouncer kid come over and sweeps the bottles into the trash and walks away. So I kindly stand up, follow him and ask for an explanation.

"Please tell me why this fat muhfucker yells in my face, [and of course I do the BMore cracker accent] “You can’t have beers stacked up like that!”

"So I say, ‘Ahh ok sir…now mind you, bitch can’t be more than 22…ok sir, but #1, we didn’t know that was a rule; and #2, they’re not stacked up. The people who will be drinking them are just in the bathroom.”

"“I don’t care, you cant have them stacked up like that!” he yells at me again, as if, maybe, I dunno, I can speak the language but can’t understand it. So I take a deep breath and explain again, and this time I tell him that he could have just TOLD us to get rid of them rather than to TAKE them.

"And please tell me why he gets in my face yelling again, and so at this point I have no other recourse than to let his ass have it. Mid-cuss out, Fat Bitch tells me to leave. I laugh, but before I can even turn around good, another big burly muhfucka comes up out of nowhere and picks my ass up off the ground and carries me thru the fcuking bar. Again, as if I am a Glad bag of bottles and stale nachos, yo.”

My brother pauses, and I know in this moment that he is not about to judge or question or chastise me as my other siblings would have. He and I are *here* with it. I know that in that brief pause he has also blacked out on my behalf, and is counting backwards from 10. And I know at that moment we’re both thinking that if he was here he would have handled him on for me without hesitation.

“So what did you do?”

And tears have now accompanied the story, white flashing in my eyes as I recall the still-fresh fury.

“I couldn’t believe what was happening. You know how you see the real drunk white girl get carted out? But she’s ALWAYS passed out when she gets carried out. Or she’s cussing. And I am neither. My only instinct was to pick up my feet off the ground while he's carrying me so that it doesn’t look like I’m struggling and fucked up.

"So he drops me outside and my friends are right behind me. I tell him that I dropped my shoe and the other one is right there and basically throws it at me. I turn to the people in line, SO embarrassed, and I have this blank look on my face like, “Am I the only one who sees this ridiculous shit?” So then the bouncer outside starts calling me all types of bitch, and the ones who kicked me out join in. There’s a little ngga cop standing right there and he does and say NOTHING. I’m fcuking fed up. I stand toe to fcuking toe with the Fat Bitch one and I smirk and flip his dirty ass baseball cap off his head. And I swear to God if my friend hadn’t stepped in btwn us, I KNOW he would have lifted his fat fcuking fist to punch me in my face. And I was BEGGING him to do it. Instead my friends talked me down and we left.”

“Where are you now?”

“Around the corner at the car...”

“Pacing and shit.” He takes the words out of my mouth. I'm SO glad to be talking to someone who understands.

*

I joke a lot about wanting to fight, and I’m prone to flipping out and all, and I'm constantly being told that this isn’t the way to live (as if I'm truly violent and destructive. I'm not at all).

But I have to ask, Why the fuck not?? Is anger not a legitimate emotion? Is it not warranted in many instances? What’s so bad about being upset…is it the fact that it’s very easy to lose all semblance of common sense and do something stupid?

Ok so let’s assume, that I’m a well-adjusted, level headed adult, who knows right from wrong and makes wise decisions (on any given day I may or may not register about 3 out of those 5). Is it ok then for me to be angry? Can I say out loud that I’m furious without someone stepping in and trying to convince me that this isn’t the way to go?

My brother is on a whole different level with his. Exhibit A:

“So I was at the Cowboys-Bills game the other week…”

“The Monday night game? You went?”

“Yup dolo. You know I always go when Dallas comes up here. So there’s mad Cowboys fans there but I’m like the only one in my section. And the whole game they’re riding me. After the second interception they’re going crazy and I’m chilling. I just keep saying, ‘It's not over until the final whistle and I'm not leaving a second before that.’

So then when T.O. missed the 2pt conversion this white chick turns to me and starts laughing and THROWS HER BEER AT ME. [pause…You’re probably willing to bet that he said something slick to provoke this. Trust, he would tell me if he did.]

“So you call her all types of bitch,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Not even. I mushed her,” he says with the calmest voice ever.

“You mushed her?!"

"Yup."

"Wait..like, you mushed her down or you mushed her back.”

“I mushed her so hard she woulda fell backwards if there wasn’t anyone behind her. Who told her silly ass to be wasting good beer?!”

I’m at this point crying laughing. “So what happened?”

“Her red faced boyfriend rolls up on me like he’s about to do something. Then the Yellow Coats (security) come and get me. I told them I had to go to the bathroom to clean up, and when I was in there I heard someone radio the dude telling him something happened in the next row over. So I slipped out and went back and saw the rest of the game.”

“She poured her entire beer on you.” I repeat. Then pause. Black out for him. Shake my head. And I know at that moment we’re both thinking that if I was there I would have handled her on his behalf without hesitation.

“So that’s why Mommy said you have hate in your heart?”

“No, she said it cuz I almost beat the shit out of the cop who gave me a ticket for playing my music too loud.”

Pissed. And I don’t blame him.

I JUST WONDERED

Do you ever wonder what your life might be like if your history was altered, even slightly? I don’t normally, but an interesting convo with my mom sent my imagination into orbit.

One of her homegirls from back in the day is finally retiring. Her daughters, who I think are just a bit older than me, threw her a surprise party and knew from all those “back in the day” stories that my mom should be among the invitees.

So Mom’s all excited about her trip to Queens for the party. I arrange her travel and we talk daily about how she feels like a teenager, all anxious and excited to go. She’s doing a lot of reminiscing and I’m doing a lot of listening, because I realized recently that I don’t really know too much about either of my parents’ lives before my black ass arrived at the last minute.

*In my best Sophia from Golden Girls voice*

Picture if you will… Washington, DC, 1967…as told by Mother Wise…

“My father died two weeks before I was scheduled to leave Jamaica for America. I was torn about what to do. I felt like I should stay, but I knew in my heart that I couldn’t stand to be there without him. Half of the family thought I should stay, the other half demanded I go. So go I did.

“Back in those days America was recruiting people from the islands to come and work here as domestics. So when I got to DC, there were a lot of us already here. The Jamaican ambassador used to throw these parties every weekend at his house and all the young people would go. That’s where I met Urseline, Claudette, lawd, so many people.

“So one Saturday I went to the party and I met a guy who was the ambassador’s personal chef. I had seen him at all the parties before and some of his friends were friends with some of mine. Your father.

“All of a sudden I’m at the Ambassador’s house all the time, and getting to know your dad. Then out of the blue I don’t talk to him for a day, then two days, then almost a week.
By the end of that week I get a call from your Aunt Urseline (the one who’s retiring), and she says she has something to tell me.

“Future Wise’s Daddy is moving to NY. That’s why he hasn’t called you. He doesn’t know how to tell you. He quit his job with the ambassador because he said they weren’t paying him right. So he’s going up to NY with his uncle.”

“By the time I get your father on the phone I find out it’s true. For the next year I spent a lot of time on the bus traveling from Washington to NY. That was, what, 1968.”

“So Mommy, did you have to ride the back of the buses and stuff like that?”

“No! That was long gone. I didn’t get any of that stuff when I got here.” [Editor’s note: Yo, FYI- West Indians are notorious for their denial of racism and vicitimization. I’m struck by the fact that my Mom has no recollection of no ’68 riots or nothing!]

“So you moved Upstate and lived happily ever after?”

“No. First I moved to Long Island to work for another year. Then on one visit Upstate I just never went back. By this time I got my permanent resident papers. Naturally, I married your Dad and he got his.”

*

I’m struck by the Choose Your Own Adventureness of my parents’ history. Had their decisions or circumstances been altered in any tiny number of ways, my entire life would have been also.

What if the Ambassador hadn’t tried to be slick with my Dad’s paper? I might have been born in Howard Hospital, and grown up in an Embassy. Who the hell would my friends have been? Would my professional aspirations be the same? Would my parents have earned more money? Would I have been one of those bourgie West Indians who mentally separated myself from the common folks (read: Trinis. I kid, I kid!)

God forbid, would I be a Bison alum? *shudder at the thought*

Or what about if my mom had persuaded my Dad to come chill on Long Island? Who the hell would I be then? Would I have an obnoxious accent, grown up sneaking my way onto the LIRR en route to some Brooklyn house parties? Would I have been destined for Columbia or worse, NYU? Who would my best friends be? What about my first kiss, my fav teacher, daily routine? If not Mimi D., then whose ass would I have whupped in my only official fist fight? Wait, I’m still a lil concerned about that accent…

Or better yet, what if my mother had chosen to stay in Jamaica after burying her father? Who might my father be then? Would that technically constitute me being me at all under those circumstances?

It’s hard not to look back for guidance on your journey forward.

Even harder not to wonder.

HOLY EFFING MATRIMONY

What the fuck is up with weddings?!

So one of my older “brothers” got married Labor Day weekend, and if it was a nightmare for me, I can only imagine the hell they went through.

What I cant imagine, or I guess what I can’t figure out is why the hell weddings seem to bring out the absolute worst in people. People with whom you’re related, no less.

Maybe it’s the conventions that are unreasonable. Maybe it really IS too much to ask your family members to set aside their criticism and just go along with the colors you and your spouse-to-be have selected.

And like, how dare you expect your entire crew to fucking TRAVEL, since the bride to be isn’t from where you’re from.

And who in the hell decided that the groomsmen have to effing bring back their own tuxes?? I don’t care how nice of a gift (ipods) you gave their complaining asses.

The more I think about it, the more I can see how ridiculous the entire set up is. I can kinda see why the NY folks were so pissed that the hotel THEY selected cuz it was cheaper than the one recommended by the couple, was more than a few miles away.

I guess I can let slide the heckling coming from the back rows of the Catholic ceremony, cuz after all, there WAS a lot of standing and praying.

I cant blame said NYers for choosing not to mingle at the cocktail hour at the country club reception. Hell, I wanted to sit alllll the way in the corner on the balcony overlooking a fantastic golf course too, joking about us enjoying this now because it’s the last time our black asses will ever be somewhere this nice. I WANTED to, but shit, the bar and food were on the other side. And I happen to ENJOY mingling with fine folks with dough.

And not that I didn’t tip the bartenders even though the gratuities were absorbed by the couple, but I dunno, that’s the decent thing to do at an open bar. The INdecent thing would be to bitch about it not being top shelf (it was, there just wasn’t no fucking Henney, ngga).

And if a person doesn’t HAVE a credit card, then it’s useless trying to explain the concept of frequent flyer miles. So yeah, might as well hate on the honeymoon destinations of Thailand and Malaysia and simply rationalize the fact that both make at least 6 figures, and have no kids (the opposite of you).

I wont even mention the rings. Them shits WERE insane.

It’s tough when you grew up one way but elevate beyond it…but your friends and fam haven’t. It aint easy being a rock star at a rap show. A Mohawk amongst brush cuts.

And it aint easy keeping your mouth shut when you’re out of your element and asked to follow someone else’s conventions.

But for Christ sake, it’s a wedding. Shut the fuck up, clink the damn glass a few times, get out on the dance floor when you hear the Cha Cha beat drop, eat the damn cake, stop worrying bout the bill unless it’s YOUR AmEx it’s showing up on next month, get drunk, and SMILE.

Is it really that difficult?

WTF?!

BATTLE??

“Wise, this is Mom. I just called to see how you’re feeling (I had a root canal yesterday), and to remember 9-11. I’ll never forget not being able to reach you on that day. And I can’t reach you now! *she laughs* Love you. Talk soon.”

That morning, I had to email my brothers to get the message home that I was ok. Wondering if like the phones, somehow the internet was also affected by this mess.

A sea of yellow cabs uptown. That’s what I remember most. If you know Harlem, you know cabbies don’t fuck with Uptown. But that day, there was no place else for them to go.

All the Puerto Rican flags hanging from the windows and fire escapes in my hood were promptly replaced with the red, white and blue. U.S. stars and stripes, that is.

You couldn’t walk a block without seeing large glass encased candles lining the curbs.

Will never forget the blank stares from the firefighters from the house around the corner on 3^rd Ave. it was like an open house, everyone coming by to pay respect and condolences.

All the video that the public will never see. The stuff that’s archived by the newsrooms. Stuff we logged but never discussed.

The nightmares that ensued.

The photos plastered about Union Square. Like a citywide yearbook.

St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Packed.

Walking everywhere. Not ready to get back on the subway. And cops and military lining the paths, always.

The dust that hung overhead.

Hearing from people I didn’t even know knew I was in NY.

And today, all niggas talking bout is Cornye and 50??

GTFOH!

Fuck it. I’m buying Kenny Chesney and calling my mom back.

THIS JUST IN...from my boys over at All.Hip.H0p.com (I am SOOO copping Chesney now. If 50 comes in at #3? HAHAHA):

The race for the top of the pop chart started yesterday (September 11) when highly anticipated albums by rappers 50 Cent and Kanye West hit stores. According to early sales reports, Kanye West's Island Def Jam album Graduation is on pace to sell over 750,000 copies the first week in stores, while 50 Cent's Shady/Aftermath/Interscope album Curtis is expected to move around 550,000 units. West's Graduation is expected to debut at the top of the Billboard Top 200 charts next week, while Curtis will battle for the #2 spot with country music star Kenny Chesney. A number of retail outlets have said that West's Graduation is outselling 50 Cent's Curtis by at least 2 to 1.

9~3~07...(MY) FATHER'S DAY

Today, my siblings, Mom and I, will enjoy Guin.ness/rum/Nutra.ment drinks,
and play By the Rivers of Babyl0n on repeat all day long.

Wah'gwan Daddy! Yuh nuh easy! Mi miss yuh and long fi see yuh. :)

HOME INVASION: Part II

Management has obtained exclusive transcripts to the recent alleged Home Invasion by Wise's REAL FRIENDS.

Here's what we know...

PROFILE: "Gay Bartender"...
Known her since 4th grade.

Hated her until 6th.

College roommates (what a disaster)

Residence: Brooklyn

Stopped in town en route to interview Comm0n in DC.


PROFILE: "Flavius"...

Origin of friendship unknown, but goes way back to childhood and matured during middle and high school.

Residence: DC...bout to move to NY (but I know deep down that he's gonna effing HATE IT just like he did ATL)

Stopped in town en route to BWI for a 7am flight Tuesday morning down south...for a funeral. Then up north the following day to Upstate NY (home)...for another funeral.

It's decided hours prior that they will both crash at Wise's crib for a classic one-nighter.

I call them Real Friends, not to delineate others as “fake,” but because I just don’t know any better term to describe them. But they remain the benchmark, despite the fact that I only see them on birthdays and perhaps at home at holiday time. Our friendships exist largely through texts, emails and bylines.

These are NOT the people you talk to daily.

Not the ones with which you share weekly Girls Night or Madden Saturdays.

They may not even be the ones on speed dial in case of an emergency.

But they for damn sure are the ones who will UNDERSTAND and INTERNALIZE said emergency when you finally do get around to telling them about it. [And they for damn sure will find the after hours liquor store while on a 7Elev run for Marlb0r0s].

They may not know all your business, but they know YOU, they know where you come from…they just KNOW.

So, even though they were only here for a night (except GB who stumbled back over the next night after Com’s album release)…their place in my heart is everlasting…

***

Flav: "I wouldnt go as far as saying Wise is an alcoholic..."

GB: "...but you know that if you come to her crib on little to no notice, there will be a full bottle, juice and a 12-pack."
===

Flav: "I need to leave DC. I'm nomadic by nature. It's been 5 years, it's cool. But I'm still in love. And I need to get as far as away as possible."
[he and the ex still live together. yikes]

===

GB: "What the fcuk! I'm 30. My credit is flawless. I have savings. And I can't BUY a place in NY. Not only because a studio in the slums costs half a mil, but because on absolutely any day of the week the magazine could get shut down. Then what?"
===

Wise: "I'm gonna go ahead and get to sleep now bec I dont believe what the hell i'm hearing from people I otherwise respect!"

GB: "Look, the mom on M0esha was the shit! Weazy Jefferson, ehhhhh."
===

Flav: "Yo, you realize we were the kids the system invested in. They sent our little Black asses around the world, brought in the best education. But those sons of bitches taught nggas LATIN, taught us how to BE smart, but never not once taught us how to LIVE smart!"
===

Wise: "She had a kid with a sociopath because her dad's one...and she doesnt know him well enough to know what that's like."

Flav: "No, she had a kid with him because her first real love got murdered and she wanted HIS kid."

GB: "Anytime I have the convo about parents, Wise is always the example of our only friend growing up who lived with both parents. You had a dad Wise, so OF COURSE you think that's the answer to everything."

Wise: "Oh you already know I think Dads are the answer to black on black crime, poverty, all that."
===

GB: "Heredity is a muhfcukah! Both of you are the antithesis of your parents, yet the absolute embodiment of them at the same time."

Wise: "And I suppose your sexuality is the embodiment of your mother's resentment."
===

GB: "Can somebody look in the kitchen for my boots!"

===

My mother always says, "When you find a real friend, hold on to them for dear life."

I couldnt get rid of these muhfcukas if I tried. And they just KNOW it.

HOME INVASION: Part I

Tuesday Morning, 8:03am
The Crib

"Yes, I'd like to call in a possible disturbance."

"A break in?"

"Not a break in, a disturbance. No, no. An invasion."

"Would you like to report anything stolen or missing."

"Nah."

"Anything out of place?"

"Uh, yeah."

"We'll send someone out."

"Not necessary. I think I can piece this one together..."

Let's review the evidence...

My fire escape. Looks like all hell broke loose out there...

An open cranberry juice container...

And wait, what is that lime green label??

I was afraid so.

It just doesnt add up. I'm nothing if not tidy. Even outdoors.
But this. Beer bottles and cups and wrappers.

A damn SHAKER??


An overturned bottle. (that's the neighbor's nasty grill. Not mine.)


Wait...I don't smoke.

Season 5 of the Jeff.ersons. Hmm, only reason that would have been discarded so carelessly is if someone perhaps tried to argue that Weezy wasnt one of the greatest TV moms of all time. I dunno. I'm just drawing at straws here. Nothing concrete.


Again, I dont smoke...

So upon further review, who in the hell was blazin and left remnants on top of Thurg00d, no less?!


And the real smoking gun...Wise summers in sandals. So whose are these...


Yup. This could only mean one thing...

My REAL FRIENDS Are in Town.
Stay tuned.

What About Mom?

Wise’s Mom: “Do you remember a family that used to live across the street in Miss Jean’s house when you were little, and the guy was black and the wife was white?”

Wise: “Amber and them?”

Wise’s Mom: “Yes! I was at choir rehearsal on Tuesday night and this woman comes up to me and says, ‘Are you Mrs. Wise’s Mom?’ And I said to her, ‘yes, I am.’

“And she says, ‘My family used to live across the street from you 20 years ago.’”

At this point my mom says she gave her a blank stare like, ‘wait, huh?’ But then of course she’s like, ‘oh my goodness. Wow!’

Wise’s Mom: “And it wasn’t until she said, ‘My daughter Amber used to play with Wise’ that I really remembered exactly who she was.”

Wise: “Wow. How are they doing?”

Wise Mom: “They look really good. She said Amber is married and has a little baby. She’s a teacher. And her brother is married, too.”

I paused. Suddenly sympathetic.
I wonder if my mom was sad that she didn’t have any stories to tell about MY wedding? Does she wish her youngest was married off already?

--------------------------------

Wise’s Friend Dee: “See, with an Indian family if they know you’re seeing someone for longer than 9 months and you’re not engaged they go nuts. So my parents just think Kev is my good friend from college…which is true.”

Wise: “You’ve been together 9 YEARS! They don’t know?”

Dee: “You don’t understand. I’d never hear the end of the ‘when is the wedding?’ shit. I’m surprised Jamaican moms aren’t like that.”

Wise: “Maybe they are…but my mine isn’t. She never pressures me about that stuff. Never has.”

Dee: “You’re lucky.”

Wise: “Might be becuz I’ve only ever brought home a couple of boyfriends. I don’t like to invite that kind of drama..my brothers are irrationally overprotective. Maybe also bec my sister didn’t get married until her late 30s.”

Dee: “Maybe your mom thinks you’re gay.”

--------------------------------

Wise’s Mom: “My goodness, I would love to see Amber. Oh, I have a picture of Wise right here in my wallet. See, it was taken at her commitment ceremony. She lives in San Francisco with her partner and their twin daughters.”

Old Neighbor: blank stare

--------------------------------

Poor Mom.

Granted, that’s what hometown people do when they stay in their hometown.

They get married and have babies. Young.

Granted my mom is proud of me and tells me often. She LOVES carrying around my business cards and bragging on my professional standings.

Granted, I’m pretty sure she’s never met a real lesbian much less to think that I am one.

And granted, she would never, ever tell me if she was itching to get rid of my dowry.

But damn, what if she really is secretly sad? :(

I need to get her a son in law, FAST.

PS...Dippin out to Car!bana in a few...so I'll leave you with a bonus clip (below).
Ya know, the sex one (thanks for the hook up, O.N.). That should be fun...