Video of the week

Because I think we all need a break from the normal everyday BS and just chill.....

Television Cure

I so done with television! I was channel surfing and ran across the Dr. 91210 show thinking it was the early ‘90s show, but as I started watching, I figured out it was a reality show. Knowing that the most reality I need is on the news, I watched anyways. Bad choice. This show had me trippin’ hard. There was chick who decided to her vagina was ugly so she had it surgically altered. I have never heard of such a thing. I mean who in the hell would want to have surgery let alone down there?? But apparently there is a bunch of women who do and this made me wonder…what constitute an ugly vagina? And do not tell me guys have a preference. Honestly most would just be happy to have one presented to them, no matter what it looks like. Have we become so vain that we now must surgically change the very thing that gives us life? There are women all over the world being forcibly circumcised which most of us find horrible, so to think that there are women opting to have change themselves is just so f*&ked up. I could understand if say they were in pain or some other medical thing but to have elective surgery is just way too vain. So now I have stopped watching television and will get back to reading books or just make sure I stick to the safe shows such as Fox NFL Sunday and The Unit. Well, then again there is Mythbusters…..

Black Protest

When Adam asked what shaped my political views I was momentarily stuck stupid. I haven’t really thought about it ever, then I remember Tina’s then boyfriend, Twin, riding up the street in his Blue Oldsmobile Tornado with the half black vinyl top, rabbit ears and Marvin Gaye playing. At the time I was unsure what Marvin was talking about. Hell I was only 9 at the time, maybe, but “Mother, Mother, there’s far too many of you crying” made me stop and listen to the rest. Always a curious person I dug deeper and came across a whole host of music that resonated within my young mind. I would move on throughout my years listening and embracing a culture of protest, especially black protest and hung on to every word like a security blanket. There would be days when my father would play Billie Holiday singing “Strange Fruit” and Sam Cooke “a Change Gonna Come”. These songs and lyrics would propel me to find the source of songwriter’s discontent and I would spend countless hours after school and Saturdays perusing the library for information. The librarian at the time was an old woman with wild hair. Ms. Pierson, who was happy to supply me with all the writings of the Harlem Renaissance and Beat Generation. As I got older protest songs continued to shape my political views by reporting what was happening on the streets. Public Enemy hollering “……gotta give us what we need Our freedom of speech is freedom or death we got to fight the powers that be Lemme hear you say Fight the power…” Mind Blowing!!! Again I knew my politics leaned more militant than liberal. When N.W.A. started reporting on the L.A. streets with “F*&K the Police” and Tupac with “I hear Brendas got a baby but Brendas barely got a brain a damn shame the girl can hardly spell her name….), I was lost among the fist in the air, afro wearing protesters, rolling my sons around in their stroller in Davis attending every campus event that had anything to do with black folks under siege. I was so heavy into protesting that my sons bedtime story of the Autobiography of Malcolm X – Alex Haley and Soul on Ice – Eldridge Cleaver. Still to this day I look for protest in music and song and wonder if we will ever be able to report the news with such eloquence. Well one can only hope

Being Black

I love being black. I love everything about it. Now I am not the darkest sista or even the most knowledgeable about black history, but I do embrace the African Diaspora every chance I get. I actually don’t own a dashiki but I have some African jewelry and a Malcolm X “by any means necessary” t-shirt. I have also in my 43 years on this earth had felt my share of racism. When I was about 6 or 7 a neighbor told me I was a beautiful mulatto child. I was thrilled, thinking I learned some foreign word for pretty or beautiful. I thought it was a cool word. When I repeated what the man said to me to Mom she starts hollering and I get a whoopin’ and sent upstairs for cussing in her house. Took me years to find out what a mulatto was and why it was bad. Once while my oldest son and I were in Whole Foods here in Seattle, a white woman mistook Alexander as my husband. When corrected she stated “You know what Oprah says…Good black don’t crack”. I wanted to kick her lily white trailer park ass, but then I would have perpetrated the black myth that we are always hostile (although being Peggy’s daughter you have to be). Alexander who now attends Morehouse tells me he gets questions about his hair constantly, if he grows it out. Like a brother can’t have a curly fro. And if I chose to flat iron my hair people wonder if I am indeed black or black enough. Must we continue to explain why some of us are light and some dark? Why some of our hair grows long and lush and other not grow whatsoever? I can hope not. Bob always comes home with stories from work about the white men in lower positions than him questioning whether they really have to do what he, their boss, ask of them. I cannot tell you the frustration he feels every day. Luckily he is one of the happiest persons in the world. Adam Jordan discovered the positive effects of being black while in France. He was telling me how he is popular because he is black. For once is blackness is advantage over in Europe. He said for once he didn’t have to think about being black before he stepped out to go to the bars or restaurants. He even went to the so called “ghetto” and felt totally safe among the Africans and Arabs, whereas, others in his party were frighten. He even mentioned how popular Obama is over there. Amazing. We are still feeling the racism left over from slavery and all we can do is hope that it will ease when Obama wins this election. But that is the thing about being black I think I love the most is the fact that because of the racism we have learned to overcome so many obstacles. Something white folks will never understand.I have learned to fight the public school system when they wanted to demote my genius certified son in junior high school. I have learned to ignore the stares and questions of people who want to play the “what is she” game. I have learned to be proud of the great-great grandparents who were slaves but smart enough to buy some land in North Carolina. Being black has made me strong, come what may. I have an adopted brother, TSwept, who has a saying: “I love being black; but sometimes it is so inconvenient”. I have to say I agree.

27 years

The thought today brings about the number 27. Insignificant number really until one uses it to measure time. So many things happen in 27 minutes, days and years. In 27 minutes I can make popcorn on the stove and a cup a tea. I can watch the five o’clock news with time to spare. In 27 days I can go from hiking a three mile trail of the Northern Cascades with to not being able to get out bed because of MS. During the last 27 days I have performed spoken word poetry 6 times in various bookstores, coffee houses and bars. I also learned that Ravenna Third Place Books is revamping into a full fledge restaurant, of which, my heart is broken and I must now find another place to hang out in. Also I learned that Mother’s Cookies are no longer on the shelves. Although I have not eaten them in years it was always a comfort to know they were there if I wanted them. In the last 27 years rap has morphed into hip-hop and become global. Oprah is now a household name and CNN is the premier news source. In the last 27 years I have met and married Bob and became mom to Alexander and Adam Jordan, raised them and sent them off to college. In the last 27 years, I have moved six times, from Davis to Sacramento to Seattle. I would have never thought that I would not see my fly brother Kenny die or that he would not meet my youngest son. I could not imagine living here in Seattle, a big city that I have come to love, such farfetched ideas and events did not cross my 16 year old mind. Since 1981 we have run through five presidents with a sixth to be voted in soon, saw an economic boon and a depression and a black man win the Democratic Nomination to run for president. Hot Damn! Life came so fast and furious that it makes my head spin. I wonder now what is going to see in the next 27 years. Would we see even more important inventions such World Wide Web, personal computers and cell phones? How about Doppler radar, 24 hours of news, and HBO? The thought of my sons even thinking about getting married and having children freaks me out. I mean come on….me, a grandmother? In 27 more years, I will be 70 years old. Whoa! I would be older, my breasts will be more southern than I ever could be and things would have changed and hopefully I would have made the right choices to be living a good life and my children will have done the same. I want to be confident enough to know that God would bless me with the saying “Well done, my good and faithful servant (Matt. 25:23)”. I don’t know if I will achieve this, but I do know I will have tried. 27 years is long time and anything is possible. Anything. I know I will change and so will things around me, I just hope it’s mainly for the good cause 27 years is a long time. (Note to Donald…be safe and make the right choices from here on out).

Beer Runs

Ok so this weekend was great. It started on Friday with a small dinner party with friends. I got a bunch of tomatoes from the Bob’s coworker that needed to be cooked. So I made a great spaghetti sauce that everyone loved and I felt like the little Suzy Homemaker for the night. Kind of proud myself. They mentioned a hamburger joint that serves some of the best burgers in Seattle. As I am a adent lover of great hamburgers this put me instantly in the mood for one. Even though hamburgers are not allowed in the great MS diet I started I could not contain my lust for something that sounded so perfect; big, messy with all kinds of sauces made to order. Right on! I convinced Bob that this would be my last burger and that I should go out with a bang. I mean who would start a diet without eating some of their favorite things first. So Saturday we ventured out to Pike’s Place, Seattle’s famous farmer’s market, to find fresh flowers and vegetables, where I discovered agave chocolate sauce and veggie chips. Both of these items are within the new diet I am supposed to be following which I totally blow every weekend. But I believe that I am allowed to mess up until I get it right. Right? Anyways, we ended buying some fruit and vegetables and strolling into a Cost Plus where we discovered a new wine (2006 Panarroz Jumilla from Spain). While there we got into a discussion with one of the sommeliers about where we can purchase Bob’s favorite beer, Mac and Jack's. Now I am not a beer drinker at all, but I do enjoy alcohol every chance I get. Although I have never really gotten drunk, I love it so much I feel almost guilty and do my best to pull Bob into my alcoholic dreams by getting him to drink with me. Often he refuses and I am left alone to buzz with my liquor. So I was disheartened to hear that Cost Plus did not sell Mac and Jack’s and that we should try the grocery store up the street. Our adventure began there. We were on a wild goose chase going from store to store looking for the now infamous Mac and Jack’s. We ended up in a QFC across from UDub and being told there was a keg store on the Ave aptly named Dawgpound. The store is this hole in the wall place but the merchants were a wealth of information. It was here I discovered that Mac and Jack’s do not bottle their beer. They only sell the beer directly to the bars or you can get them in a keg. It is also where we learned about a thing called the kegerator. It is a fridge that houses a keg and keeps the beer at the right temperature at all times while working like a faucet. Damn I can see Bob’s eyes light up at the prospect of having his own beer on tab in the condo. All I could imagine were the neighbors knocking at the door at all hours looking for the beer hook-up. Never one to give up I convinced, for now, Bob that the kegerator has no place to live in our condo. But now the search for excellent beer to go with our burgers that we have yet to purchase was moot. Bob wanted both or none at all. Shoot. So go home and eat left over sauce and noodles. I drink alone. As I went online and Googled Mac and Jack’s I discovered their website and found that the brewery is not far from Seattle and they give tours on Sundays. Upon hearing this new, my guy, almost jumping for joy when I suggest we go and check it out. Sunday morning I woke up to a very clean house; vacuumed, dusted, polished and bleached. Bob had it in his head that if I had anything else to do that day besides going to the brewery he would do it himself. Now this is the way to a brother to clean house then this non beer drinkin’ chick will go to a micro brewery every Sunday. God bless my soul. That afternoon we toured the brewery and during the tour they give out free “tasters”. Everyone got to sample every one of their beers and get seconds, or thirds, of their favorite kind. After about an hour of sipping and learning all about beer and the history of the brewery we headed for home, after stopping for Hawaiian burgers and comic books. We spent the rest of the evening eating, reading and drinking beer and wine until we were both too tired to do anything else but sleep. Maybe, just maybe, I will find a place for a kegerator in time for Christmas.

Stories and Lies

There is a thought about how sometimes tell ourselves one thing when it really the opposite of what is really happening. I tell myself that I can get up and go running around Greenlake and not stop until I finish that 2.8 miles. But in reality I am lucky to make it to my car and drive to Greenlake. Most days I am stuck trying to figure out what is happening to my body as MS takes over. I come to acknowledge some of the symptoms and ignore the rest as if I can wish this disease away. I never think about what I could have been, more or less, I think of what I believe I am. Not what I am unable to do anymore, but what I can do when I get better. I don’t think I am defeated or that I am going to take this disease lying down even when all I can do is just that, lie down. I sometimes do wish I had some certain body changes that would make me feel better about myself. I sometimes wish that instead of looking so much like my father that I could have inherited his butt instead of my mother’s flat one. I wish was taller, thinner and had smaller feet also. Then I would not have to look so hard for decent clothes to fit my short, fat body or when I find the flat shoes I am supposed to now wear, I would not have Fred Flintstone’s feet. But I am what I am and at some level of discontent I am OK with that. My parents are telling this story about my first few months here on earth, something about me having a nurse or maid to care for me because Mom was too sick to care for me herself. This, of course, is subject to interpretation and as all old people tend to do, they only remember their version of things. I always thought my father was largely unaware of my birth for the first few months, which is the story I grew up hearing and one I naturally understand, given that my folks are slightly crazy and love to argue, fuss and fight. The idea that Wowa, my father, would pay someone to come in and take of things while there are other older children that could do the same thing is incomprehensible. I wonder what other stories they have lurking in their heads that they never told. How about those questions we all have about us as a family, whispered but never asked outright. I have many, but I must wait for answers until I either gather the courage to ask or they mention something in passing while we gather in the kitchen talking about the price of milk or how much it cost Wowa to feed us for that day. The stories all come out in some way. Some not as important as others, but they are still there. I wonder if that dream I had while l was in grade school, of being adopted and finding my real family who are incredibly rich and powerful, will come true. Oh my God, wouldn’t that be the greatest. Then they can give all the money I need to fix my fat body and they can better explain my flat behind. Of then I remember what I would miss. I would miss the stories. I would wonder what my sisters are doing, what my brothers are up to, the latest news of my nieces and nephews. I would wonder about who was in my childhood home and most especially my room. The room, to which I learned to read and love the written word. I would mostly wonder who would tell the stories of us. I realize I am stuck with the family have with all their stories and versions of the same stories, and stories that don’t come out until 43 years later. But I ok with that cause I know that in the end I am the one to tell the stories as I see them. My version will not be the version someone else remembers but it is the one I know. And that would not be lying.

AAAhhhh Saturday!

It's saturday and house cleaning day....but it is time for a dance break!!!

TV Junkie

OH MY God!!! I love television! I mean I am totally hooked without reservation. I can no longer fake that I am that serious writer and that I sit around everyday writing this serious stuff about the world. Which I do….sometimes….but not nearly as much as I’ve been watching television. I mean I was denying myself for years by only watching things like CNN, PBS and Wild Kingdom with an occasional series watcher of Buffy or the Wire thrown in cause someone else suggested I would enjoy it. And I would for the most part but never really finding that show on my own. Of course I would watch other shows but usually all at once on dvd’s I picked up from Scarecrow Videos and always cause someone else suggested it. That was until I was stuck on the couch and ran out things to search on the internet that I started really watched TV. I mean there are some really good things to look at. Stories that take you for a ride and stories you can get all involved in. I started out by watching Weeds on Showtime and now I am watching Californication. Damn. I know I’m hooked because I am alone, laughing out loud, at five in the morning. I don’t know when this happened, was it The Unit that got to me first or was it my Sunday ritual of watching Brothers and Sisters, which reminds me of my brothers and sisters, none of us could keep a secret either and there is always a discussion on something or someone going on. It could have been those damn decorating shows on HGTV and Fine Living channels. Then I begin to contemplate whether or not I am becoming my mother. She watches a lot of television. So much so that if I called her right now and tell her I lost my left hand in an accident she would tell compare that to one of the characters from the Young and Restless. I almost always have to discern if she is talking about an actual family member or not. But how can I complain about it if I am hooked myself? I mean I watched The Wire so faithfully I was angry when it ended enough to write the network about the audacity of them taking my show off the air. I want to blame Bob since he always been a huge TV watcher. He can quote original lines from Star Trek and Bonanza any day of the week. He can tell you the history of most shows along with the actors lives. Like my mother he loves TV. But I could blame him right? After all it was his hustling skills that gave all the channels on cable and he is the one that encourages faithful watching. “You going to watch your show tonight, Dear” is a regular refrain in our lexicon. What I am supposed to do? Say No? That is not showing loyalty. So I watch with happy glee and wait for the next show or series. Somewhere my sons are jumping for joy. The years without TV or limited television are over. They can come home assured that whatever show they want to watch will be here waiting for them On Demand or in DVD form. They won’t have to work as hard to convince me to check out some show with them. Chances are I already know about it and have recommended it to some of my friends. Well, there you go. Deneen hooked on television. My sons will think that this is great news but somehow I got to get away from the madness and find that serious writer again…but not today…I have to watch Entourage and Fringe. Maybe next month….

First Storm of The Season

It is a classic Seattle fall with rain coming down at a steady pace with a slight breeze in the air. I can tell a strong storm is coming by the impending black clouds coming from the shore and knowing this I put together the standards of a fall storm; pulling out the candles and flashlights, vacuuming the house, making a playlist for my iPod, getting a pot of stew going in the slow cooker. I got out the walnuts to feed my favorite wild raven I named George and called to him to come to patio and stock up. I only had to wait about five minutes before George and his fat friend, named Tony, comes over and starts picking up the walnuts and checking the weight of each one, choosing the heaviest for themselves. They are quiet about their task working quickly and constantly checking if other birds are flying by. I get the sense they aren’t into sharing until they have the best. Tony flies off first towards whatever shelter he is using then comes back and starts his picking all over again while George flies to his hiding place. This back and forth goes on for about ten minutes until I assume they got their cache and then they both sat there screaming for others to come and enjoy the bounty. I think I have fulfilled my obligation to the universe today and went back to preparing for the storm. Then I remembered, Margarite, the homeless woman on our block. She is as consistent as the rain in her ritual walk and writing session she has outdoors. I know where about she is everyday and pretty much know what she is doing. So I throw on some quick shoes and jacket and head outside. I stop first at the drug store and pick up a pack of Composition books and some Bics pens. I then go in search of Margarite and wonder how I end up feeding the birds and not the human. About a half a block down Margarite is hollering at her invisible friend about how she was not going to talk his shit anymore (could be a woman she is talking to, I really don’t know cause I can’t see the person). So as I approach wonder if she has a place to go to pass the storm by. Of course she would never tell one way or another. I never speak to her, I just buy the books and pens and leave them in her cart and walk away. I wonder what she writes and could someone one day publish them and keep the money for themselves. I would hate that. She stops talking to her friend long enough to stare at me with her beady eyes and snarl her discontent. I put the books and pens in her cart as she calls me a bitch. I smile cause this is nothing I don’t already know thinking yeah I can be sometimes. There is some part of me that feels we are comrades. Both writers living in Seattle rains. Maybe it’s more than that maybe that is all we have in common. But a part me likes to think that it is enough. Part of me considers her a friend. Getting back to the condo the whole hallway smells like onions and garlic. I have a group meeting with other MS patients that I decide is not worth my time. I really don’t want to be around folk gripping about some disease they can’t do anything about so I change into my loungers and turn on the television news while drinking tea on the chaise lounge. Robert will find me this same position seven hours later. I have to give it to Mom for the raining day lounging….nothing beats it.

Ahhh Beauty

So I had another doctor’s appointment today that I did not want to attend. I just wanted to stay in bed, listen to my iPod and wait for Bob to come home. Being that I am so very weak and fatigued, I decide to call the doctor’s office to cancel the appointment except it takes me too long to get to the phone. Bob comes home and helps me shower and combs my hair. Damn. Now after he gets me all together I look in the mirror and see that my fro is crooked and I still have some lotion not completely rubbed in. Oh well off to the doctor’s for whatever this doctor does. I am not sure cause I seen so many over the last six months they all look the same. So we made our way to the doctor’s and I as usual, brought along my necessities for the waiting room; 1 poem book (Audre Lorde), iPod, newspaper (Wall Street), one novel (Afterburn by Zane) journal, pens and pencils and tin water bottle. As I was reading one of the poems, Bob is sitting on my left, I look up in time to see one of Seattle’s Best. Not the coffee brand, but one of the finest men in scrubs I ever laid eyes on. I know I just wrote about how great Bob is but when one see something so pretty it is only proper to praise God. So I stared at the smooth chocolate brown man going into the next room, oblivious to the attention he is generating with the patients in the waiting. The redhead next to me reaches for a magazine on the coffee table and mouths “Wow” while looking at me. I smile back and comment that the guy in scrubs was worth getting out of bed for. She starts cracking up and states she hopes he is her doctor for the day. I smile. Then my name is called. Bob and I are ushered in this darken room and told what test are going to be performed today. It’s just another brain scan with physical therapy. I am told to strip and wrap up in the hospital gown. Bob, being Bob, patiently helps me with this task and asks the nurse if he can stay during the test. He shown where he is can sit and watch the test. The nurse comes back and says the doctor will be in to explain more and get started hands me a sedative, watches as I swallow it. I am somewhat drifting by the time the doctor makes his way in. As he begins talking I overwhelmed by this beautiful voice and the scent of sandalwood. I turn around and see that the doctor is the beauty from the waiting room. Oh such sweet joy. Now I can almost tolerate the crazy test. He puts a doctor cap over is locks (I am such a sucker for black men and dreadlocks). Then his smooth voice asks me to lie down on the narrow table. I have a chance to scan over his height realizing that he although he is not as tall as I normally like but he is in proportion. So I comply as he helps with gentle hands and I begin to think about being single and how great a date I would be. Of course this just crazy as Bob is in the next room but I figure he is just eye candy. We all have those, right? Of I am the one that tell Bob if O’Shea Jackson (Mr. Ice Cube himself) was to come to my door and ask me out I would have to leave and not come back until…well let’s just say that Bob would be assed out. But now I am here in this office wondering if I can at least get my old saggy breast to at least stare forward instead of looking for my armpits. The test goes well as a test can go and the doctor, Dr. James Whitmore by the way, was so sweet and gentle. Of course I asked all about his life outside of the hospital; married, four kids and a wife who is also a doctor (of course). In the end he gives me a pat on the back for being a good patient and Bob helps me dress. As we were making our out to the car I comment on how handsome the doctor was. Bob not one to miss a beat says in his ever witty way “I know, I thought what a good guy to help my old woman out when she wasn’t looking her best”. In other words, you have me now deal with it. My reply “I am, I will….until O’Shea knocks”.

Sleepless in Seattle and MS

I am an insomniac. For years I stayed up until 2 or 3 in the morning then sleep until about 6 or seven with maybe a small nap in the afternoons. Here in Seattle it is worse. I tend to go to bed at about 12am then wake up again at 4 when Bob goes to work. I will go back to bed for about two or three hours at 7am then I up until the wee hours of the morning, writing. This is only until the MS kicks in then I tend to sleep a lot. As if I am making up for lost time or resting for the days when I cannot sleep. Most of my time up is spent writing and listening to music on my iPod. I try to be somewhat quiet since Bob is sleeping but I do get noisy sometimes, like tonight, while watching TV. I know it’s loud, but he has not moved from the position he was in when I last checked on him so I think I am ok. The weather here is already mentioning snow and frost with fog. …then of course it is going to rain a cold rain. I am looking forward to the days of wrapping up in blanket and drinking tea all day and making stews and hearty soups. So after being up for a couple nights writing and catching up with the world what happens? Another damn MS attack. I had thought I was going outside and finding another coffee shop to write in since my favorite place, Third Place Books in Ravenna has revamped into some sort of restaurant. Instead I find myself confined in the house moving diligently from my bed to the couch. I cannot think enough to make myself a decent breakfast so I just drink tab water. I have to wait until Bob gets home to lift the Brita pitcher out of the refrigerator because it currently has too much water in it. The thing about it is that I think this is all in my head and to a certain extent it is, according to all the MS Society information I gathered, but I think sometimes I made this up for some sort of attention getting phase I am going through. I think maybe I’m becoming my mother. Oh shit! Not the I’m-turning-into-my-mother syndrome, I think all of us go through (don’t we)? I can see it now, me at 43 complaining to my sons how no one calls and asks if there is anything they could do. I can see me sitting in the same chair since God knows when and watching soap operas, game shows and Judge Judy while doing word searches. Oh no I already like word searches and Jeopardy. Damn maybe I am already her. My mother is great, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t want to be her. I just can’t see myself without moving about; I can’t see being stuck in the house forever. I know I should not think this way but I am my mother’s daughter sometimes. I tend to go negative before the looking for the positive. So I fight this fatigue every day. I fight the icy feet, the numb face, hands and legs. Today I fight hard and pray I won’t have to as hard. I have nothing to go on except sleep and very little stretching to help me with moving throughout the day. Then I wait until Bob gets home so I can get him to open a can of soup and pour me some decent water then I will go back to bed and hope that I will feel fine when I wake up.