Blog It Out, Bitch Read online

  As I got older, I realized that my mother was a regular person. She had flaws, she made mistakes, and for many years I struggled with that. When I was a teenager our relationship was very strained. My mother had always been a spanker, and as my brother, sisters, and I got older, our spankings got bigger. Belts were replaced with shoes. Open hands became closed fists. I once took a ketchup bottle to the knee because I said something smart from across the room while my mother was in the kitchen. She couldn't reach me in time so she lobbed the bottle instead and this was before the days of plastic, squeezable ketchup bottles.

  Our relationship didn't improve until I moved out at eighteen. Not living under the same roof worked wonders for us. We actually became more like friends. Around that same time she separated from my stepfather and joined the New York City Police Department. I would hang out with my mother and her police officer friends in Manhattan bars. I'd handed down the role of babysitter to my sister who, at the time, was fourteen. She was now left home alone to watch our two younger siblings.

  It was now her turn to deal with the anger and resentment, and the longing for a normal family. You would think I'd have reached out to her, try to ease the burden for her, but I was too busy appreciating the fact that it was no longer me. I was reveling in my new role as "friend" as opposed to eldest child. Drinking, dancing, swearing, and smoking cigarettes in front of my mother replaced fighting and arguing. She had come full circle and was once again, "the coolest Mom ever."

  My friends always marvel at the dynamics of our relationship and cannot believe the things I'm allowed to say around her. I think it has something to do with the fact that the older we get, the smaller our age difference seems to be. 31-year-olds have friends that are 46-year-olds and it's no big deal.

  As close as we've become, there are still things I'm not comfortable sharing with her and my blogs are one of them. When you write a blog entitled Fellatio Connoisseur, you kinda wanna keep your Mom away from it. That's why I damn near birthed a small farm animal when I found out she'd been reading my blogs on MySpace.

  "Girl, I have something funny for your blog!"

  "You have a what for my who? I don't want you reading my blogs."

  "Too late, I read your shit every day."

  Silence.

  "You there?"

  "Yeah, I just threw up in my mouth a little."

  "Here's my email and password… Can you log into my page and hook it up for me? It asked who I wanted to meet and I put Denzel, Jamie Foxx, Orlando Jones, and the black guy who played the president on 24."

  "Dennis Haysbert?"

  "Yeah, him. I only have one friend. Some white boy named Tom. Who the fuck is Tom?"

  "He's the founder of MySpace."

  "Oh. And then someone sent me a message that said, ‘This is MySpace, ho! Wanna get a hassle free credit card?' I was like, ‘Oh no this bitch didn't!'"

  "It's spam, Ma. Just delete it. Don’t respond to it."

  "I did. Anyway, I know all those people commenting on your stuff are wondering what kind of mother you have. Everything is ‘motherfucker this’, ‘coochie that’, and ‘bitches and whores.’”

  I held my breath. If I heard the word "fellatio", I was hanging up the damn phone.

  "Ma, please don't leave comments embarrassing me."

  "I'm not gonna say anything! I just know they wonder what kind of mother you came from talking like that."

  "They ain't thinking 'bout you, and look who's talking!"

  "I don't cuss like that anymore. I'm a Christian now."

  "Mmm hmm."

  "Okay, well, only when people piss me the fuck off. Anyway, you should write your sister, she thinks you're mad at her."

  "I'm not mad anymore. I just don't want Dina reading my blogs either. It's full of adult content. I can't be myself if I'm worried about what you guys are thinking."

  "Girl, please. She's a young lady now, she probably knows more than you."

  "She's still a virgin."

  "So, that doesn't mean she doesn't know stuff. She just hasn't put it to use yet."

  Throw up in mouth part two.

  Dashing Dreams, One Little Girl at a Time

  May 5, 2006

  For a full week, Kali's fourth loose tooth hung on for dear life before conceding defeat and making room for its replacement, which had already begun to push its way through her gums. She would move the outgoing tooth around with her tongue, trying to pry it from its home in her top gums, but it wasn't having it. I would get frustrated just looking at it. Like when you're tempted to pull an errant string on a sweater though you know it's not a good idea and might possibly cause the whole thing to unravel. Kali must have seen the look in my eye and recognized it for what it was. "Don't touch it, Mommy!" she'd warn.

  Needless to say we were both excited the day she came home from school with the tooth rolling around in a little Ziploc bag. I because I no longer had to look at the tooth hanging from a bit of skin no wider than dental floss, and Kali because she knew she was due for some cold hard cash.

  At around midnight, I was on the computer engaged in some titillating online conversation with another blogger, and by conversation I mean gossip, when it suddenly hit me that I didn't have any cash to leave under Kali's pillow.

  I check every purse I own, but all that produces is long forgotten makeup and old breath mints. Sucking on a breath mint, I search through jean pockets and Donny's wallet. No cash. We are a check card/check household; rarely do we have cash. So, now I'm stressing. It's late and I really don't feel like going to an ATM machine, and even then, I'd have to go find change since she gets five bucks per tooth. I head to Kali's room to check under her pillow. Maybe Donny already took care of it? Tippy-toeing into her room, I quietly check under her pillow and there is the tooth still in the baggie, mocking me. "Whatcha gonna do now, you no cash having bitch?"

  By now I'm kicking myself for introducing her to this silly myth and all others like it. For many years, Kali thought Santa Claus was some guy who worked in the mall. Then she began school and some big mouth kid told her tales of Old Saint Nick swooping down the chimney and taking credit for all the gifts we, her parents, busted our asses to buy. She was a little put off at the idea of a strange man coming into our home in the middle of the night, but if he dropped off Strawberry Shortcake DVDs and a Dora the Explorer talking van, she was willing to deal with it.

  When she lost her first tooth, I explained The Tooth Fairy. She didn't seem to like that concept either. She basically said, "Wait a minute. Some strange chick is going to come into my house, into my bedroom, lift my head off of my pillow and leave money?" Adults are pretty fucked up, huh? We tell our children we will protect them from strangers... unless strangers come bearing cash and prizes. Then we will leave out milk and cookies and even our teeth for the bastards.

  I turned to leave Kali's room wondering how evil it would be to wake Donny and make him drive to Wal-Mart, or if I should just go myself, when I spot them: Kali's collection of piggy banks! Don't judge me! You know, desperate times and all that. I knew she had at least fifteen dollars in one of those suckers from the previous lost teeth. Not to mention all the times my Dad slips her a five here and there. All of the piggy banks were the kind you had to break open to reach the goods... except for one; a big, black, lady piggy bank, brought back from the cruise my parents took to the Bahamas. We call her Bahama Mama.

  I grabbed her fat ass and removed the little rubber plug from her butt. Change went everywhere. I looked at Kali. She was still sleeping. Nice! I dug around the bowels of the piggy bank as much as the small opening would allow. I came up with two freaking dollars! I contemplated leaving two in singles and three in quarters. I considered calling the whole thing off and writing my child either a check or I.O.U.

  Fuck it; I decided to go with the two bucks. It was better than nothing. Hell, in my day we were lucky to get a dollar. She'd be happy with...

  "What are you doing, Mommy?"

  Busted. I slow
ly turn my head and look into my baby's sleepy eyes. And for once, words fail me. I have no suitable excuse. I have been caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar... or in this case, my hand in a fat black woman's ass. My creative juices began to simmer and produced...

  "Nothing. Go back to sleep."

  Miraculously, she did. I gathered up the change from the floor, pocketed the two bucks in my robe's pocket, and went back downstairs to finish my conversation. I decided it would be safer to wait until she'd once again fallen into a deep slumber before I carried out the final act of my covert mission.

  I know what you’re thinking. I am a horrible mother for re-gifting my child’s old tooth fairy loot. Don’t worry. Karma paid me back in spades the very next morning.

  Karma and My Boobies

  May 6, 2006

  It sort of felt like some dirty drug deal when I switched out the Ziploc bag for the two bucks, while my child innocently slept. Proving she is truly her mother's child, also under her pillow were her pink DVD and TV remote controls. I moved them aside when I left the money.

  The next morning, when I tried to wake her up as I always did - with kisses - I sensed resistance. I used the best weapon I had. "Kali, don't you want to see what the tooth fairy left you?" Her eyes popped open and her head shot from the pillow with lightening speed.

  As I turned my back to rummage through her dresser for socks I heard, "She only left me one dollar!?" Not even thinking, I whipped around and protested, "It should be two!" Quickly realizing my mistake, I recovered, "Uh, I mean... that's weird... you sure it's not more?"

  Kali unfolded the money, seemed to feel slightly better that she got two bucks instead of one, but I could still see her wondering why the tooth fairy started slacking. "Look, Mommy, she straightened my remotes."

  Gee, isn't the tooth fairy nice?

  Twenty five minutes later I'm preparing to stand at the front door and watch Kali travel the short walk across the street and up the block to the bus stop. A Mexican family lives in the house directly across from ours in the cul-de-sac. Their house is the same model as ours complete with this big gallery window on the second floor. That window is awesome. From our position at the back of the subdivision, one could spy on the whole neighborhood if they were so inclined. Not that I would.

  Anyway, the Mexican mom watches her daughter walk to the bus stop from that window. I mention all this to point out that I'm a better mother than she is. At least if some shit went down, I could sprint across the street in my PJs. She has to go through the halls, down the stairs, through the foyer, and out the front door. What was she thinking?

  That morning, in an effort to cut down on the amount of time I'd be standing in the doorway, freezing in my robe, Kali and I waited an extra five minutes before heading to the door. All I had on was that robe: no panties, no bra, no nothing under it. No sooner had we gotten to the front door, we could hear the bus approaching. Crap! Kali still had to put on her coat and backpack.

  At the exact moment I unlocked our front door, across the street the little Mexican girl and one of her teenage brothers were leaving their house. The brother has a male friend waiting for him at the curb. And then a few things happened at once...

  I was trying to help Kali into her coat, I was also casting quick glances up the block to see if it was indeed the school bus I heard, and I was doing all of this while trying to keep my robe closed. As Kali walked out the door, I realized her hood was stuck inside her coat. I called out, "Wait!"

  This gets the attention of my teenage neighbor who looks over, I instinctively reach for Kali's hood with both hands, letting go of the robe. Here are your choices for what happened next:

  a. my boobs fell out

  b. my boobies fell out

  c. my titties fell out

  d. all of the above.

  I quickly tried to close the robe.(I lost the belt to it ages ago.) One glance across the street told me my efforts were futile. My neighbor began slapping the shit out of his friend's arm, in attempt to get him to look at the free titty show across the street. I was so mortified!

  Kali, thankfully, missed it all and was now hauling ass across the street. And the worst part of it all was that the bus wasn't even coming! That's what I get for stealing from my child the night before.

  In related news, I am now bombarded with offers from all the neighborhood boys to mow my lawn... for free.

  The Hunt for April

  May 17, 2006

  When Kali was less than a year old, my sister Christine gave her a stuffed bear named April. Now, over seven years later, Kali and April are inseparable. She sleeps with April, and on occasion she has taken April to school though April stays in her backpack the whole time so that the other kids won't think that Kali's a baby. Her words, not mine. I guess she just likes knowing that April is close.

  One night, after midnight, Donny is dead to the world in bed next to me. I'm surrounded by textbooks, a notebook, pencils, a pencil sharpener, and a graphing calculator. Sexy.

  Kali knocks, and then peaks her head in our room. Seeing the "what the hell are you doing up" look all over my face, she cuts me off...

  "I can't find April, and I can't sleep without her."

  "Where did you have her last?

  "In the red room."

  Our study is painted Ralph Lauren's Hunting Coat Red and we refer to it as the red room.

  "Go look in the red room then."

  "I'm scared."

  The red room is on the first floor and all the lights were out downstairs. I didn't feel like moving ‘cause I'm literally covered in books and I have a flow going.

  "Kali, just turn on the lights as you go."

  She comes back a few moments later.

  "I can't find her."

  Sighing, I get out of bed, take her by the hand, and we head downstairs together in search of April.

  We search the red room. No April. We pass through the kitchen on our way to the family room to search. I turn around and notice Kali bent over studying the kitchen floor.

  "Where did they go?"

  "Where did who go?" I ask.

  "The ants."

  We had an insurgence of ants the other day and Kali had a grand old time slapping them with her flip flops till Donny sprayed, and then mopped, the floor.

  "Daddy sprayed."

  "But where are the dead bodies?"

  "Daddy cleaned them up."

  "Oh, I thought maybe we had zombie ants. That would be cool."

  "Girl, come on."

  We searched the family room. I'm on all fours looking under the couch when...

  "Mommy, can I ask you something? And don't laugh!"

  "What?"

  "Are you a playful parent?"

  "A what? Yes, I'm a playful parent. Don't you think so? Look at me!"

  "Yes, you're very playful."

  I get up, dust my hands off. No April.

  "I'm also a parent of infinite patience."

  "What does that mean?"

  "That means most parents would have sent your butt to bed without April ten minutes ago."

  "Oh."

  Through the kitchen we go again, this time Kali goes to the back door and peers into the backyard.

  "Where are the possums?"

  "Girl, get away from that door and come on. I'm tired." We head into the formal dining room. For the first time I notice that Kali's hair is styled in manner I'd never seen before.

  "What happened to your hair?"

  "Daddy did it. I asked him to."

  "It's going to be a tangled mess in the morning and I don't want to hear your mouth when I try to brush it."

  We finally find April on Kali's piano in the formal living room - looking like a little, filthy, tan lounge singer. Kali kisses her and squeals in delight.

  "Kali, she's dirty. Don't put your mouth on her."

  "You kiss my boo-boos when I'm dirty."

  "That's different. You came from my vagina."

  "You're the best Mom I
ever had!"

  "I'm the only Mom you've ever had."

  Attack of the Opposums

  June 8, 2006

  I like New York City critters better than Georgia critters. Simply because I'm used to them: roaches, rats, pigeons, squirrels, and the occasional stray dog or cat. Not here in the southern suburbs though. Here, I can't drive a mile without seeing deer, cows, horses, raccoons, foxes, and the nastiest of them all; opossum. Those things freak me out. They're so gross and sneaky looking. I once Googled "opossum poison" with the hopes of littering my backyard with it, but my Dad told me that might be illegal.

  Several nights in a row I'd noticed the little bastards creeping around my backyard and couldn't figure out why they considered our house the Do Drop Inn of the neighborhood. One particular night I came downstairs for a drink and noticed one sniffing around outside.

  First, I shat myself. Then I screamed for Donny. Why do all husbands do this? How come they will hear their wives screaming bloody murder and still call back, "What?!"

  "Come here!"

  Donny appears at the top of the staircase. "What?"

  "Come here! I want to show you something!"

  He starts making his way down the stairs.

  "What?" He calls out again.

  "Am I where you are? Is that here? Hurry up before you miss it."

  So of course he gets to the backdoor in just enough time to see the fat little fucker scurry into the woods behind the house.

  "He just wants the garbage." Donny says reasonably.

  "What garbage?"

  And I finally crane my neck to get a good look, and I'll be damned if there weren't like ten bags of garbage piled up against the back of our house.