This may be a little TMI, but I feel that I owe it to women (and a few metro-sexuals out there) to add to the list of Do’s and Don’ts regarding personal hygenie, care and the assorted “yard maintenance” that comes along with it. If you can’t figure out what I’m talking about when I say “yard maintenance”, get yourself a best friend, pronto. Bottomline is, when it comes to getting appointments at the spa, never, never, never, EVER take the last appointment of the day.

Well, I finally finagled a babysitter and an appointment at the local spa for a brow wax and some other touch-ups. Problem was, it was the last appointment of the day because that’s when the sitter was free. Seriously, now that Yia-Yia and Pop-Pop are retired, it’s not like they have stuff to do. Why she couldn’t come before 6:30 is beyond me. I digress. The sitter arrives, I kiss the girls and am out the door, off to the spa.

After I sign up and march on up to the waiting room, I make myself cozy with some filtered lemon water from their refreshment bar. I spy various Tazo tea bags and other goodies, like some Apple Cinnamon NutriGrain bars and figure, “Hey, they’re keeping me waiting,” and filch a few (two).

My aesthetician comes in, greets me and beckons me to follow her into her room where she promptly demands that I drop trou and wrangle myself into some disposable underpants that she has left on the waxing table. She steps out of the room and I proceed to peel the plastic wrap off of these so called underpants. Can we say that calling it two tissues laced over a rubber band would be a more accurate description? Oh, and ol’ girl said that I should lie down, face up, facing the door. God forbid someone burst into the room — Hello!

Fast forward to the waxing process. I’m trying to be social, cause that’s what I do when I’m nervous and some hot wax is headed toward my skin, and I say to the waxer, “I appreciate you squeezing me into your schedule” to which she replies, as she lathers hot wax onto my bikini line,”Oh, well, you’re my last appointment of the day. After this I can go home.” And then she puts all of her 105 pounds behind it and rips off the wax. I mean RIPPED. Every follicle of hair from my head on down was like “WTF?!”

Now, I’ve been waxed before and I know you don’t want the wax to make a home with your skin, but there is some finesse involved in the whole process. I felt like Steve Carrell and damn near yelled out “KELLY CLARKSON!” All I could think was, never again, never again will I get the last appointment of the day. This chick was on a mission to get home and get her dinner started before Grey’s Anatomy came or something. Wax, rip, wax, rip. Wax, rip, wax, rip. She even had the nerve to look put out when I asked her what I could use in case of in-grown hairs or assorted irritations. She gave me this stuff called, and I kid you not, “Get the Bump Outta Here” — which is basically what she was telling me to do, too (I will be incorporating that phraseology into my vocab as soon as I can; it’s too good to pass up).

All I know is the next time the yard needs some work, we’re going early in the day, first thing or first thing after lunch, when the waxer is focused on the task at hand, not whether McDreamy or McSteamy is going to be a McNudie.

In the ever growing struggle for title of “She Who is Running Things”, it is not Morgan who has dealt me my last blow, it is in fact sweet, little Coever. If this heifer doesn’t start sleeping through the night, we’re about to rumble like the Sharks and the Jets up in this piece.
Morgan was 8 months before she went from 7 to 7 and what a long 8 months it was. She practically guaranteed that she was going to be an only child. Still, she found her groove and we’ve been good ever since. Coever, so I’ve been told, is her mother’s child — a social butterfly in the wee hours. According to urban legend, I would insist (at 10 months, I’m not sure how), that my own mother stay in my room while I fell asleep. If I saw her nodding off, I would grab hold of the slats in the crib, shake them like they owed me money, while grunting at higher and higher pitches until she woke up. Then, I’d smile at her. Ain’t I sweet?
Coever girl gives me that same gummy smile at 2:30am, 3:45am, and 4:41am until she slips off to sleep on my chest. Maybe I am perpetuating a cycle by picking her up and bringing her into the bed with me after the fourth or fifth middle of the night interruption, but hey, I’ve got to get some zzzz’s, too. Chasing Morgan around all day requires energy stores that I just can’t tap into if I don’t get some uninterupted REM sleep. And just like her sister, Coever is steadily making sure she is and will remain the baby of the family.
Of course, if that’s the case, maybe I should savor this time, tuck her in a little closer to my chest and fall asleep with her sweet baby smell in my nose.

So I have to beep my own here for a second. Over the holiday season, I over-indulged Morgan and bought some chicken nuggets that were shaped like snowflakes and snowmen. Big hit on the toddler set. Big hit. Well, when the holidays were over, the holiday shaped chicken nuggets flew back to the North Pole or wherever it is processed, breaded chicken-esque pieces retire. I’m thinking we can just pick up some whole, white meat organic chicken nuggets and keep on moving. And how wrong I was. Morgan has a memory like she’s got a little stenographer up in her head recalling pertinent testimony at a moments notice.

Yesterday and today, when I asked her what she wanted for lunch, she immediately said, “Chicken nuggets.” No surprise there. Then she said, “Snowman chicken nuggets, Mommy! Snowman chicken nuggets!” Oy! This is March. Where am I going to find snowflake and snowman chicken nuggets? I knew if I said I didn’t have any, well, the gates of toddler tantrum-dom would crack open, unleashing a fury of unprecedented proportions. Forget a woman scorned, more like a toddler without chicken nuggets. I think, once upon a time, I would have done an Internet search to see if I could find them or called a few grocery stores to see if, by some grace of goodness, they had it. Nowadays, with two kiddos under the roof, I’m quick to appease if I don’t lose any Mommy points along the way.

So, what to do? What to do? I’m no Rachael Ray, Nigella Lawson or Giadia De Lots of Cleavage. What to do? We’ve got round chicken nuggets, I’ve got ketchup, I’ve got some peas and shredded carrots. Put it all together and whaddya get?

Snowman Chicken Nuggets!!

I am the MAN!

P.S Morgan loved it and she ate the whole thing with a side of veggies.

Morgan has been doing some modeling for Ariel Skelley, a Richmond photographer, since she was about 8 weeks old. It’s been really good in that her early stages have been archived professionally and she’s made some money for her 529 plan, too. Now, at 2 1/2, she’s getting to be a real pro. She’s at the point where now, between shots, she asks to see her film. I wonder what Tyra would say about that.

This morning, she had a call time of 10am in Richmond. As we are getting ready to go, Craig is on his way out the door to work as well. And this conversation ensues —

Morgan: Where are you going, Daddy?

Craig: I’m going to work, sweetheart.

Morgan: Oh! To work, just like me.

Right, ’cause she’s been working hard for the money, 365. So, we hauled tail up 64, Pop-Pop riding shot-gun, Coever in the backseat and made it in decent time. Today’s shoot was all about toddlers getting into messes — painting the walls, painting eachother, putting on make-up, baking cookies, spilling milk. It was pretty much 6 hours of un-doing 2 1/2 years of careful childrearing. Morgan and the other little girl, Ruby, took to the tempera paint and the wall space with gusto, as if every molecule in their tiny bodies had been waiting for this moment since the burst forth from the womb.

Here’s the rub, though. We’ve been working on Morgan’s listening skills (or lack thereof) and remind her to “turn her ears on”. When prompted, she twists both of her ears and makes a little clicking sound indicating that all systems are a go. While the ears may be on, that doesn’t necessarily mean they are always in good working order. More often than not, we check to see the ears are on, give a test request and then are promptly shouting “Morgan! Morgan! MORGAN ELIZABETH!” to reign her back in. Today, of course, we turn the ears on and she is following directions from the photographer, production assistant, and videographer, no problem. What the deuce? I mean really, a 2 1/2 year old, with paint on her hands, asked — asked, I say, asked– to wait until the “go” sign before painting, and SHE DOES IT!! SHE WAITS. Not once, not twice, but EVERY SINGLE TIME. She’s following directions, no questions asked, no tantrums thrown, nothing but smiles. Seriously, she even laughed on cue and followed it up with, “Oh,Morgan is so funny!”.

I wish I could pat myself on that back for that, but I don’t want to break my arm just yet. I mean, she has a habit of being a public angel/private devil from time to time. She is as bright at the morning star and sharper than a tack. She’s also a toddler with mood swings as wide and arcing as the Battering Ram at Busch Gardens. So long as she’s not throwing her juice box at the wardrobe consultant or trying to have the production assistant only light her from her best side, I think we’re good.

That Morgan, she sure takes some great photos.

So a friend put me onto this blog called, “Stuff that White People Like”, which I think is hilarious because, #1 — not being White, and #2 — knowing that all humor is based on truth,
you couldn’t make some of this stuff up. I know that the blog, is in its entirety not the gospel truth, but while perusing the site, I came across a number of things that made me go hmmmm.
A brief skimming of the list taught me that White people like food co-ops, kitchen gadgets, The Daily Show/Colbert Report, having two last names, hating their parents, multilingual children, marathons, public radio, marathons, expensive sandwiches, David Sedaris (I like David Sedaris), and Sarah Silverman. Yeah, y’all can keep her.

What really got me, though, was the entry on the list that said, “#14 — Having Black Friends”. Now, I know I may be rocking the Angela Davis/Kathleen Cleaver afro, but I don’t consider myself all Sistah Souljah or anything. In this post, the writer says how White people don’t so much love having Black friends period; it’s how many Black friends they have. Basically, the number of Black friends a White person has is directly proportional to that White persons comfort level with Blacks in general. So, 1 Black friend means that they’ve crossed the threshold into the Black Experience. Does that mean that the Black person is now the gatekeeper all things Black?

Remember how in the Wizard of Oz, when they finally make it to Emerald City and they are all cleaned up and they get to the door and the little dude pops out and says, “No one gets in to see the Wizard. No way. No how.!” I think this is what White people must think about Black Culture or the “Black Experience” and so they need a Black friend to help them get past the guard.
That last statement alone is a perfect segue into talking about Barack Obama and our current political climate as well as the implications of having a Black president, but I can’t even go there today, “No way. No how!”

But back to the blog. Two or more Black friends means you’ll go see Kat Williams do stand up, but you won’t understand the jokes, but you can at least say that you went. Three or more Black friends means you start to actually get the jokes being told at the comedy show. Four or more Black friends, you think the jokes about White people refer to other White people, not you. You get the idea.

It got me to thinking though. Have I been the ambassador to Black culture for someone? Have I been the keymaster for someone who had never been to Republic Gardens, Def Comedy Jam or a Chris Rock concert? Are my White friends going to cocktail parties saying, “Well, sure, the Jay-Z versus Nas album war is pivotal, but I still find Biggie Smalls to be the true voice of the experience” because I happened to lend them a copy of Vibe with that article in the features column? Maybe the better question is, “Does it really matter?” No, probably not. I don’t really know where I’m going with this. I mean, I had a plan when I started writing, but that went out the window. I guess, I would hope that my White friends are my friends because they like me, the genuine me. I understand that there is a natural curiosity for cultures that you don’t understand, but there’s a difference between being nosy, being curious, and being downright offensive. The fact that my hair is different from theirs or that even with my fair skin, yes, I’m Black, should be, and is irrelevant. I hate to make pronouncements, but so there is no confusion, the fact that you are my friend, who you are what you stand for, what you value — that is the story of our friendship. Everything else is just a footnote.

I don’t consider myself to be a very religious person. It has taken me some time to get to this place in my life where I am even comfortable talking about my walk with God. In honor of Easter Sunday, however, I thought I would put down the Peeps, Peanut Butter Cups, Jelly Belly’s, and chocolate coins for a split second to actually reflect on why this year, Easter is more than sugar candies, fancy church clothes and a big ol‘ ham at dinner.

For a long time, pretty much most of my adolescence and into college, I went to church because that’s what you did in my family on Sundays, unless you were my dad. He got to sleep in since he commuted into the city 5 days a week. So, I went to church, I was an acolyte, I sang with the congregation and recited prayers without really understanding what any of it meant. I just did it. And then, maybe about my senior year in college, I said, “Enough,”. I felt like a giant hypocrite. I was reciting things from memory that had no weight for me. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in God, I just didn’t believe in the words. How could I recite the Nicene Creed when, in my mind, it meant the same thing to me as saying the Girl Scout Promise? It just didn’t have a strength for me. I was going to church, I was doing church related activities because I had been told to, not because it really meant anything for me.

As soon as I was able to do so without fear of chastisement, I stopped going. I considered myself a believe in God, but that I didn’t have to go to church to believe. It was all so confusing for a while. Then one Sunday, when I was about 21 or 22, I decided to go to church. I went to an Episcopal church in Laurel, MD, and just sat in the back. I didn’t pick up a hymnal or a prayer book. I didn’t participate except for standing and kneeling at the appropriate times, but I didn’t speak, or move my lips. I can’t even remember what the lessons were about, what the gospel was about, but I do know that I was silently crying through out. I saw how the Word had filled the other congregants and how, to a some degree, it was filling me, despite my lack of participation. It was so great, I could do nothing but cry silently. I think that was when I first set my foot on the path to knowing God, to wanting a relationship with God.

Let’s fast forward about 7 years. I’m a wife and mother now. My priorities have shifted considerably. My path towards God has been a slow one, but I had been walking it. There have been some obstacles in the road, issues I’ve had to sort through on my own and with the help of others. I’ve read books, I’ve prayed — not as consistently as I would like to, but I’ve done it. I’ve taken a class, I’ve talked with other about how to reach my goal and asked others to pray for me about it. I’m constantly walking and working. I joined a church and had to confess that I accept Jesus Christ as my personal savior, which was one of the most daunting and wrenching obstacle in my path that I had to cross. I’m a controller, a realist, I want to know “why” and “how come” and religion is faith based.

Someone likened my experience, my reaching my goal to the descent of a rock climber down a mountain. I probably won’t convey it as elegantly as he did, but in a nutshell, when a climber has reached the peak and is ready to begin their descent, they have to rappel down the face of the mountain. It’s the first step that is the most difficult. Imagine being up high, high, high, with nothing but cables, carabiners, and air between you and the ground. In order to get their, (in a addition to a few other things, but I’m no rock climber) you have to hang your heels off of the cliff, fall back and let go into the great expanse in order to plant your feet onto the solid surface of the rock face below. The person giving me this example said how he’d seen grown men, big burly guys, wet their pants before mustering up the nerve to get down. There are so many different, God centered conclusions to this little vignette — you know, saying how one should just let go and let God, or no matter from where you fall, God will catch you, and so on. But for me, at that particular time, it wasn’t that I doubted I would be caught. It was the hanging, falling, letting go. Giving up what I could control.

And here we are, Easter Sunday, which is kind of redundant to some degree, but then I think there is also Easter Monday. I digress. Easter Sunday, the most important religious feast in the Christian liturgical calendar, celebrating the resurrection of Christ. With the Easter season, also comes spring and the ideas of birth, rejuvenation and renewal. With that in mind, I am going to renew my beliefs in God and renew my understanding of the true meaning the holiday, even if it means letting my heels hang off the edge to do so.

Happy Easter to you and yours.