Jennifer's Bloggin': Trick or Treat

Jennifer's Bloggin': Trick or Treat: “This honey here was dangerous!” Tito licked his juicy lips as he passed his cell phone to show me the picture of the cute blonde on ...

Trick or Treat

“This honey here was dangerous!”

Tito licked his juicy lips as he passed his cell phone to show me the picture of the cute blonde on her knees massaging her breast.

“She’s Spanish but she looks white.  I loved it when she called me Papi.”

“Nice tat,” I said, wondering how any grown woman could be so uninhabited that she’d send a photo of herself half naked.

“Took me three hours.  The tat took one," Tito said with a grin.  "Net, I agree with you now.  I need to stop taking pussy payments because my car-note is past due,” he continued.

“Hope you’re strappin’ up,” I said, passing him back his phone.

“Hell ya.  These chicken heads still tryin’ to play the same old high school games.  I’m pregnant.  I need money for an abortion.  I told home-girl yesterday, sorry love, but it ain’t mine.  I straps it up befo I nut!”

“HAVE mercy.”

“Right,” Tito replied, shaking his head and flipping to the next pic. 

A knock from the door brought me out of laughter. 

“Anthony!” I shouted from the kitchen to the hallway door.

Anthony grumbled his disappointment as he stomped down the stairs. 

“Trick or treat!” I heard through the rumble of the washer, dryer, dishwasher and Tito’s rap music.

“Hey Anthony, why aren’t you out?”

“I can’t,” Anthony replied with morbid disappointment.

I grabbed a rag to wipe the suds off my hands.  “Excuse me for a minute,” I said to Tito, a friend I’d known since my Bob’s Big Boy days as a waitress. 

Before I could console my son regarding our monetary issues and his great disappointment, Tito stopped me in my tracks with question.

“What’s wrong with that boy?”

Tito was one of the few people in the world that I didn’t have to pretend with, so I said pointedly, “I told him that you have to have money in the bank or a line of credit in order to use the Visa for which I don’t, and that is why he can’t get a Halloween costume this year.” 

Tito put his phone down on the kitchen cabinet and looked me dead in the eyes just as Anthony closed the front door and ran back up the stairs. 

“You serious?” Tito said as if I was talking trash.

“About what?”

“Buying a Halloween costume?”

“I am broke as a joke.”

“And you sound as white as a valley girl, but girl you are black!  You’d better go get an old sheet and cut some holes.”

I laughed aloud because I knew Tito was right.  Not about sounding Caucasian; though, everyone said I did...  Back in the day my mother never bought me or my sister a costume.  She always made it. 

“Anthony!” I hollered. 

He came down the stairs with soft steps. 

His head was held low and through a low grumble, Anthony said, “I’m not going to be no jacked-up ghost.  How would I look with a sheet, walking around trick-a-treating in this neighborhood?  I’d be talked about for being a deprived Caspter or jumped for looking like the KKK.”

“You go boy!” I said, astonishment that Anthony used one of his spelling words in a sentence in conversation.

Deprived.  D  E  P  R  I  V  E  D.  Deprived. 

Tito looked at me and then turned to Anthony.  “You talking like you pay some damn bills up in this camp,” he said.

Ignoring Tito’s comment, Anthony probed me.  “Why do we always have to be poor?” he asked with an expression that broke my heart.

I took a deep breath.  I was embarrassed of Anthony’s question, and mortified that he asked me in front of Tito, even if T was my homey from back in the day, whom I didn’t have to fake the funk with.

“I’m doing the best I can, Anthony.  I’m working with one income.”

“Why can’t you get another job?” my eleven-year-old son asked. 

My first inclination was: I know this little mofo ain’t telling me to get a second job as hard as I already bust my ass!  And then I wondered if his question came from curiosity or degradation.

“Boy, you are lucky that’s your mother because my mom would have stuck her foot straight up your butt for the crap you’re saying now.”

“I guess I am lucky,” Anthony replied.  “Besides, I didn’t say anything; I only asked questions,” he continued.

Tito gave me the please-handle-this-shit look, and I turned to Anthony.

“We can use one of your old twin sheets.  I can cut some holes so you can see.”

Anthony’s disappointment made my eyes fill with tears. 

“Boy, go get on your football uniform and stop acting like a spoiled little brat!” Tito barked.

Anthony replied bitterly, “That’s just a complete announcement that we are POOR!”

Something snapped inside of me.  In a flash of a second, my emotions flipped.

“Well, you are poor!  We are poor.  You don’t have a Halloween costume but you got every God damn thing else.  I am doing the very best I can, so either get in the freaking football uniform or shut the hell up.  I don’t want to hear another word about it.  I don’t even want to hear you sulk.  Be quiet and go to your room!”

Anthony walked up the stairs, and I sat at the barstool next to Tito in the kitchen.

“You got a little sista in you after all,” he said smugly.

It didn’t take Anthony five minutes to put that uniform on, and he ran down the stairs as several knocks hammered the door. 

“Trick or Treat!”

“Hey, Anthony, I’m a football player too.  You going out?”

“Yeah, hold on.”

I could feel the stress leaving my body.

“Mommy, I’m going with Brian.  See you later.”

“Later gator,” I replied.

The Sex Talk - Father And Son

I know that periodically, my son's father gives our son forewarnings about life... to get him prepared to be a man.  This is a quick "sex talk" conversation I overheard.

Father: These girls out there… they’ll tell you they’re on the pill.  They’ll tell you they’ve got some device.  They’ll say any old thing, but don’t listen to them, son.  Always have a condom or you’ll end up having a baby at nineteen. 

I’m thinking to myself.  The boy is thirteen.  And then I started thinking.  Oh, damn, was dry-humping at fourteen or fifteen.  :-)  (Funny but, ah, not so damn funny) :-) And I pay attention.

Son: Dad, you won’t have to worry.  I’ll think about you.

Dad: Why are you going to be thinking about me? I didn’t have a baby at nineteen.

Son: I’ll be thinking about you whooping my butt.  :-)

I’m thinking, well, keep that thought.  :-) 

Just A Short Funny Before My Evening

My ex-man tore out my heart with his big African lips.  :-)  I’m not saying that to be nasty nasty.  I’m saying that to be nasty nice.  I’m going to miss those lips.  :-) 

But I don’t have to deal with his tongue.  HAVE mercy!  :-)

So, my boss asked me where I met him.

“Safeway.”

“Safeway?”

“Yep, in the checkout line.”

He said, “Well, try Giant’s next time in the meat department.”

LOL!  :-)