Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Woman’s Festival

The Women’s Festival during the Memorial Day weekend in Charlottesville, VA was one of the best and worst times of my life.  I’ll start with the best.  I made new friends, and talked around a campfire/ campsite as if I knew them for years.  We told our most intimate secrets and laughed and cried together.  It was truly a three-day love fest.  There were women from every walk of life… the young, middle-aged, elderly, black, white, Spanish, Asian, Indian, Canadian… and all with a common commonality: Women coming together to meet old and new friends, to relax and enjoy a peaceful, fun-filled camping retreat while relishing the music, food and vendors and honoring United States Veterans. 

Though, I got more than my money’s worth by trying not to notice the sunbathers (God love them... I couldn't do it), the music was out of this world.  Watching the musicians play from the afternoon until the stars lit the sky was nothing short of pure delight.  I especially liked Sonia, who I video recorded for your listening pleasure (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KgCTXPAmdRc).  She is a hint of soul, a splash of folk and a sprinkle of blues.  All of which make perfection.  Ellis was awesome as well and very personable.  At present, I don’t typically like folk music, but she combines a beautiful voice, stupendous ability to pluck at strings, along with a goofy laugh that would make even a homophobe smile (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tBqeHs1rScg). 

Now, I’ll speak of the dreadfulness.  Although I didn’t have to haul all the camping gear (tent, sleeping bags, tarps, pillow, lanterns, barbeque pit, dishes, food, bug spray, water, clothes, alcoholic beverages, cigarettes, etc.) to the wooded site, because the crew attached a trailer to their three-wheeler and hauled it, I did have to put up the tent (and then later tear it down).  OMG!  Who do they get to write the instructions… foreign exchange students!  And a little hint of advice, always, and I mean ALWAYS come with enough daylight because there is no switch you can flick in the middle of the wilderness.  And please remember to bring a battery operated fan because there is no AC.  Also, you may want to be cute, but makeup and hot sweltering temperatures do not match.  And finally, there will be bugs and LOTS of them, including flying roaches (hence the worst time of my life), so bring plenty of bug spray. :0) All in all, I was a trooper and I roughed it out and became one with the wilderness.  All my bug bites can attest to that fact.

It’s sad to admit, I was a Brownie and a Girl Scout, but camping is not for me.  Still, I would come back to Camp Out every year, but next year, I might cut back on some bugs and stay in a cabin!  There's no shame in my game!  Bottom line, I had such a great time.  I'll have memories that will last a lifetime. 

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Sometimes I Get Afraid

I’m afraid of who I am and who I want to be
I’m afraid of failing to live up to my responsibility
I’m afraid of not being able to provide everything my son needs
I’m afraid of losing my job and not making ends meet
I’m afraid of falling in love and being another casualty

Sometimes I get afraid, even though, I’m the epitome of a strong woman
Holding it down; alone, to myself I have proven
I’m a mover and a shaker and I’m constantly moving and shaking
Making eye contact even when my insides are trembling
Standing tall and smiling even when my psyche is wilting
 
Yes, I've suffered the most deplorable pain.
And this indeed has made me afraid.

But I never give up!

To Tell Or Not To Tell

My son said he didn't feel well and asked if he could stay home.  I took him to the doctor because, honestly, I wanted to make sure that he wasn’t pulling the wool over my eyes, even though, that’s not like him.  Turns out he has strep throat.  I felt bad for even thinking he was playing me, but he is my son, and when I was young, I’d mixed up a concoction and put it on the toilet and act like I was going to keel over just to stay home for a day and have the TV to myself.  (We only had one TV and I was the youngest.)

So, I go to Safeway and turn in my son’s prescription, semi-grateful that I can take a day off of work (sad I know).  Fifteen minutes later, I pick it up and immediately know that it’s the wrong prescription.  The bag is rattling and the prescription should be liquid.  I tell the pharmacist (who has to be not a day younger than seventy five) of his mistake, and he shuffles through several bags to get the right medicine.  Then he tries his damndest to refund the difference of what I paid.  He’s pushing all kinds of buttons, swiping his card, but the drawer won’t open.  He asked a young woman who works beside him for her help and she rattles off some instructions with a frustrated tone.  He starts pushing and swiping again.  Still nothing.  So the young woman comes to the cash register and hits a few buttons and then says in an ill manner, “Why are you acting like this is the first time you’ve done a refund?”  He then replies, “I probably shouldn’t be working in the pharmacy.”

After my initial outrage of the woman, who obviously had a thorn in her ass for speaking to an elder like that, I thought, fuck!  I was thinking the same thing.  This man does not need to be distributing medicine.  Not because of his age, but because this is the second time the pharmacist gave me the wrong prescription.  I let it go the first time because everyone makes mistakes and I didn’t want him to get fired.  But this isn't any ordinary mistake - like emailing the wrong file.  Someone may not be so lucky and, without even looking at the label, trust that the medicine they received is correct.  I immediately recalled, a kid that died two years ago in Leesburg, VA, right up the road, when he was given the wrong prescription.  

To tell or not to tell.  I asked three people, and they all agreed.  Tell before he accidentally kills or hurts someone. 

Ugh! 

Can’t Win for Lose

I liked my boss.  He was a refreshing change from the man I had to deal with six months prior.  Oh, my previous boss, before Mac Daddy, had it in for me from day one.  Since I can’t name names, we’ll refer to him as Mr. Charlie.  Mr. Charlie couldn’t stand me.  I didn’t know if it was because I was black or because I was a woman in a predominately man’s role: project manager of a construction site.  Didn’t know shit about construction, but I knew how to schedule work and make sure it got done on time and under budget.  And because I looked cute in Levis and Timberlands, the guys always worked extra hard.  It didn’t matter that I was getting bonds released, Mr. Charlie would send me nasty-grams via email at three and four o’clock in the morning.  By what he said and the way he said it… unable to string a coherent sentence together, I knew he was lit up.  When I asked him about his emails, he’d start yelling, cussing and turning beet red.  He told me that I made him feel unworthy.  When I politely told him that I can’t make him feel like shit; that he made himself feel that way, I got called into HR.  Never mind he cussed me out for five minutes beforehand.  But HR always had my back and ended up reprimanding him.  They finally got rid of Mr. Charlie, or actually, he got rid of himself, coming in the office red-eyed and liquored up as if he had no damn sense.  They replaced him with Mac Daddy.

Oh, Mac Daddy, was the five foot four, Vanilla Ice of the office.  He was married to Mary Poppins, but everyone knew he liked to drink his coffee black.  If there was a sistah in sight, Mac Daddy was not too far behind.  At first we got along well.  He respected the fact that I could do my job without a construction background, and he actually started teaching me about land development.  But then he got too comfortable and started asking me about my personal life.  Why I didn’t have a boyfriend?  If I liked women?  And as he’d ask me these questions, he looked at me like I was pork chops with gravy and extra soft buttery biscuits.  I told him that the topic was unprofessional and made me uncomfortable, but that only seemed to turn him on all the more.  And then one day, like a kid in the eighth grade, he said to another co-worker right in front of me, “she likes to play with her own team”.  I wanted to get undignified and stoop down to an unbearable level.  That’s when I knew, it was time to go.  Oh, there’s more to this story than this, but I’d better stop here.  Bottom line, can’t win for lose.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Murder in Queen County - By Jennifer Lightburn

If you read Seasons Change, you're probably wondering why I didn't go into great detail about what happened when Annette learned about her grandfather.  That's because that's a story by itself.

Chapter One 

The architecture of Queen County resembled the setting of Mulberry.  And even though, Monica drove slowly down the quaint street, Annette clutched the passenger arm rest.  Ever since she saw Mississippi Burning, southern towns made her nervous, especially since there wasn’t a black person to be found.  Not even a Mexican.  Instead, she saw variations of Gomer, Andy, Barney and Aunt Bea, and everything in the town looked old and worn-down, including the dirty kids that ran across the street in bare feet, the old man rocking in his chair with a pipe in his mouth, and the bitter-looking woman standing on a ladder wiping down the store window with newspaper.  But what caught both Annette’s and Monica’s attention was the way that people stared at them as they drove by. 
“They act like they’ve never seen a black and white person drive together in the same car,” Monica said, wiping away perspiration that made her blonde hair stick to her forehead.
“I think it’s your car,” Annette replied.
Monica nodded, as she drove by an Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, a Chevrolet Impala, a Ford Torina Cobra.  There wasn’t a car on the street a day newer than 1980, except for Monica’s 2007 BMW.  “Could be,” she said, turning down the heater.  “Let me know if you get cold.  I’m burning up.”
The anxiety of new surroundings and unease of finding out the truth about her grandfather kept Annette’s blood pressure elevated, so she too was experiencing a heat flash. 
“Let’s try to find a hotel,” Annette said, just as a Sherriff’s car swerved in front of them with his siren on.  “Where you driving over the speed limit?”
“In this old country town?  Hell no!  I made sure of that,” Monica said.
The Sherriff got out of his car with his hand firmly on his firearm. 
Monica rolled down the window.  “What seems to be the problem officer?”
“License and registration, ma’am,” the Sherriff said with an accent that sounded as if he was from deep in the Appalachian Mountains of Tennessee.

To be continued...