Ghetto Grandma

As I was preparing Thanksgiving dinner for tomorrow and talking to my friend David on the phone, I was reminded of a funny conversation I had with my Grandma a few months ago.

So that you fully understand, I should tell you that my Grandma is an old, black southern woman to the core.  She spent a great deal of her life living in NYC but never forgot her NC roots.  She is also, to borrow a phrase from Chris Rock, “a ghetto snob”.

We are on the phone a few months ago and I’m explaining to her how Weight Watchers works which is basically this:  all foods have a point value and depending on your age and weight, you are alloted a certain number of points a day to eat.  Almost all vegetables are zero points with the exception of really starchy ones.

Grandma: OK, so I’m making lima bean soup for dinner tonight.  How many points is that?

Nina (referring to the WW points guide): One point for every one cup of lima beans.

Grandma: That’s not bad at all.  I can really have a good meal and be full and not spend so many points.

Nina (proudly): Right, now you’re getting it Grandma!

Grandma: Ok, sweetie, now how many points would it be to add some fatback?

Stunned silence follows.  Then I start to stammer and hem and haw.  How do I explain to my 78 year old Grandmother that fatback has no business in a WW’s diet?

That Just Ain’t Right

The older I get, the more convinced I become that there were so many things in my childhood that fall under the category, “that just ain’t right”.

First off, my 7th/9th grade math teacher taking us on a field trip to see Spike Lee’s, “School Daze”. How did he get permission to do that? Better yet, what was our parents thinking signing those permission slips? What the hell did that have to do with math? I remember him vaguely mentioning that the director was a friend of his and he thought the movie should be supported. Cool, but…by 12 year olds!?

Second, in high school I had a spanish teacher that didn’t teach spanish. Not that the spanish teacher I had in junior high was any better. What in the world was her name? Ms. Rodriquez, Fernandez…something.(Moon, help me out…I know YOU remember.) One got the impression that she wasn’t so much a “teacher” as someone who spoke spanish and needed a job. It’s like the board of education just grabbed the first Puerto Rican they could find and said, “Here, teach these black kids some espanol.” But at least she SPOKE spanish. My high school spanish teacher was this white lady who would talk about Eli Whitney ALL PERIOD, EVERY DAY!

Did he invent the cotton gin or something? I can’t remember. All I know is he didn’t have shit to do with spanish. And if we dared asked if we could maybe learn to conjugate some spanish verbs, she would go off. Get all red in the face and start spouting Eli Whitney facts. You think I’m making this up but I’m dead ass serious. Who was signing off on these lesson plans? How did these people keep their jobs? Nowadays, if a teacher farts in class, they’re suspended without pay.

And third, our parents. Earlier today, my best friend and I were talking about our first experience with a dirty book. Written by none other than that tawdry, steamy, author….Judy Blume. The book was called, “Wifey”. How we first discovered it remains a mystery. I imagine we were thumbing through the card catalog looking for, “Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret.”, and just assumed that anything by Judy Blume had to be good and appropriate for our age.

For those not familiar, Wifey is about this bored housewife who wakes up one day and becomes, for lack of a better word, a ho. In trying to remember the plot, Moon and I could only remember some stuff. There was a guy who used to flash her his dick every morning…I think he delivered the paper. Then she started screwing this doctor and even had sex with her sister’s husband who cried almost as soon as he put it in. Moon remembers a part of the book where the housewife says something like she could “feel him dancing inside her.”

Whoa! We had to be all of 14 (at the most) when we discovered this book. How did our parents not know? Were they fooled by the fact that it was written by Judy Blume, much like we were, and assumed it was a book about a teenage girl going through teenage problems such as a new baby sibling or getting your period for the first time? Well, they were wrong and we didn’t clue them in at all. That whole book was a whole bunch of screwing and not much else. It sure wasn’t “Blubber”.

IMmoral Support

So I ordered pizza last night cause David and Tobias were coming over. In preparation, I only had like 5pts the whole day and had worked out that morning for an hour. I did really well too, only had three slices and 2 diet cokes w/ lemon.

Now today, David is at work and sends me an IM:

David: Do not eat any of that leftover pizza.
Me: I’m not.

Pause in which I suddenly remember there is pizza to be had and David is undoubtedly wondering if I’m lying.

Me: Even though it is calling my name.
David: Tell that pizza to shut the hell up.

I love my friends.

Part 2

So after spending a week in Tennessee on business my husband was due to come home last Friday.  IM convo between David and I:

David: What you doing?

Nina: About to make the icing for Donny’s welcome home cake.

David: What?  If you baked him a welcome home cake, Ima fuck you up.

Nina: I did.

David: Ok. Ass whippin’ for you.

Nina: Why?

David: First of all, you don’t bake a welcome home cake for someone that’s been gone less than a week.  You just saw him Sunday.  Hell, I just saw him Sunday.  Fuck a welcome home cake, you need to give him some welcome home sex

From the Mouths of Babes

Before I even begin, let me start by saying that yes, we already have our Christmas trees up.  And yes, you read right.  Trees.  With an “s”. Plural.

One has been up since before Halloween and the other we put on Sunday.  Can you tell that I LOVE Christmas?  We do the traditional tree by the fireplace in family room and this year we put one up for show in the big gallery window.  Don’t laugh, I’ve seen three other trees up in my subdivision so it’s not just me.

So anyway, we’re putting up the second floor foyer tree yesterday and I’m sitting on the floor putting the hooks on the ornaments and passing them to Donny and Kali.  Kali wanted to help hook the ornaments but they’re glass and fragile and I was worried she’d hold one too hard and crush it and cut a tendon in her hand.  Yes, my mind really does “go there”.

After a while she asked if she could do it and I said yes.  After successfully hooking one on the tree, she goes, “Hookin’ is easy”  It was definitely one of those situations when a child says something that you don’t want to draw TOO much attention to cause then they will say it ALL the time.  A few minutes later, Donny and I were stringing some lights from second floor landing to first floor foyer and I knocked one of the ornaments off the tree and the hook fell off.  I told Kali, “Can you put that back on the tree for me?”  And she says, “Sure.  Where are the hookers?”

(That’s her new thing.  Sure.  There’s no more yes or yeah.  Everything is sure.  “You want some cereal?”  “Sure.”  “Wanna watch a movie?”  “Sure.”  It goes along with her other favorite word: Actually.  “You want cereal?”  “Sure….actually, I want eggs.”  “Then you weren’t so sure were you?”  “Huh?”)

Perfectly natural assumption people.  People that sing are singers, people that teach are teachers, people that bake are bakers and things that hook…well, they’re hookers.

Even more adorable than her butchering of the english language is the way her little innocent mind works in figuring out the world and how things work.  A few years ago we were having a discussion about when she was born.  She never made a big deal about the differences in our skin color. She assumed for the longest time that all little girls had a brown mommy and a white daddy.  I’m brown, she’s…not.  She gets a nice little mocha color during the summer but in the wintertime…well, my sister calls her Casper so you get the picture.  As a side note, can you imagine if it were reversed?  If there was a white family with a interracial child that looked more black than white and family members affectionately called him, “Boo” or “Blacky”  Woo!  Anyway….I digress…

So I’m explaining to her that I used to breastfeed her when she was a baby.  And she asks, “Cause you’re brown, was it chocolate milk?”  Can you imagine the mommy cool points I would have gotten if I lied?  “My mommy brought me a new bike?”  “Oh yeah, well my Mommy makes chocolate milk with her boobies.  Top that!”  But, I just laughed and told her no.  Brown mommies make white milk, all mommies make white milk.

All of that falls under the category of “Awwwwwwww!”  Then there are things that children say that fall under the heading, “Sometimes it’s better to lie” or “Some kids need to keep their mouths shut.”

My mother and grandmother came to visit last year and brought my then two year old nephew who I rarely get to see.  We’re sitting in the car outside of Moe’s Southwest Grill (love that Joey Bag o’ Donuts) waiting for Donny to run in and pick up our order.  I say, “I’ll have to work out all day after I eat this.”  And my nephew says, straightfaced, “My mommy is as big as a house”  Not only did I piss my pants laughing, I immediately got on the cell to call my sister and tell her how funny, bright and observant her child was.

Then a few weeks ago, I call her to check on her.  She’s expecting her second son any day now.  I’m on the phone with my nephew and he asks, “What are you doing?”

“I’m cleaning my house.”

“My mommy’s house is sooo dirty.”

I love my nephew.

I Hate Bad Ass Kids, Part 3

Before I tell you about the other bad ass kids I know.  Let me give you some history.  When they were building our house we’d come down from NC once a month to check on the progress.  One of those visits we met the owners of the house next door; two gay men and their adopted boys.

Once we moved in, I became friends with one of the men…we’ll call him….Peaches.  That summer we both weren’t working and hung out alot watching bad reality t.v (is there any other kind?) and drinking appletinis.  When he got a good job working for a major telecommunications company, he hooked me up.

He had told me early on that his boys had “special needs” and I thought that just meant academically.  I found out later it was behavioral too.  Case in point:

One day Peaches came over to hang out and brought the boys.  They played with Kali in the study (I don’t play that playing in her room crap…not with little boys anyway) while we hung out in the family room.  When it was time to go, I went into study and most of the contents of our file cabinet were strewn all over the floor.  Now, I knew Kali didn’t do it since she practically lives in the study, waching t.v and on the computer, and has never once gone in the file cabinet.  I told them all they had to clean that up before they left.

The two boys immediately point to Kali and say that she did it.  She looks at them as if they’re crazy and says she didn’t.  This goes back and forth until Peaches pulls the boys aside and says, “If you tell the truth, you won’t get in trouble. Just tell the truth”.  And then asks boy number one, “Were you playing in the file cabinet?”  Boy number one says, “Yes, sir”.

Peaches then proceeds to take his cordless phone that he brought over with him and whack the little boy on the forehead with it.  Kali and I jump.  Then he says to boy number two, “Were you playing in the file cabinet?”  Now, I guess one of the drawbacks of having special needs is the total lack of common sense and short term memory cause damn if this little fool didn’t answer, “Yes, sir”.  And *whack* he got one on the forehead too.

You know when you’re in a nervous situation and you’re half scared and don’t know how to respond so you laugh?  Well, Kali just busted out laughing.  I’m embarrassed so I go, “Don’t laugh, you can get one too.”  My child looked appropriately nonplussed, she knew there was no way I was going to be hitting her on the head with a damn phone.

Point two:  Flash forward a few months and Peaches and I are working together.  He invites me and my husband and a co-worker and his girlfriend over for dinner.  Kids are in the playroom playing, adults in the dining room having a drink.  All of sudden Kali comes in the dining room and I can tell by the look on her face some shit done went down.

She’s followed by boy number one and he’s screaming bloody murder.  It seems his brother hit him in the head with something.  So Peaches’ partner, let’s just call him Big Poppa, tells boy number two to get the spatula.  Kali looks at me and my husband like, “What’s that for?”  I’m just like, “Mind your business honey and cover your eyes. You don’t need to see this.” So boy number two gets this big ass spatula and he and Big Poppa disappear into a bedroom and by the sounds of it, some serious ass whippin’ began.  Kali looks at me like, “They sure aint flippin’ pancakes in there”.

They come out a few minutes later and the kid is losing it.  Big Poppa says, “Go put the spatula back”.  Now I have heard of having to get your own belt and back in the day, switch off the tree but to have to put it back as well?  That’s just fucked up.

Now Peaches is always cutting out of work early to go get one of them because they’re in school cutting up, yelling at the teacher and throwing chairs.  Proving my point that getting your ass beat on the regular, doesn’t make you a good kid.  Sometimes, it does just the opposite.

I Hate Bad Ass Kids, Part 2

We need to talk about 1. the family across the street and 2. the family that used to live next door.

Before we talk about family number 1.  I need to start off by saying that I am not a racist.  I will not even mention their nationality.  I do believe in discussing the differences in races and cultures and one of the things I love most about my husband, who is white, is that he doesn’t shy away from conversations like that.  When we see on the news that a white person has done some crazy shit like chop up their babies and boil their limbs, I will say, “Hmph, that’s yo people.”  To which he’ll reply, “Those are not MY people.”  I crack up inside everytime.  I think I say that to get his reaction.  On the flipside, he knows better when it’s the opposite.

If there’s a black person being interviewed on the news with rollers in their hair and no teeth and they’re making up words.  He keeps his mouth shut.  I, though, will say, “My people, my people, go to school.”  He just keeps his mouth shut.  He aint tryna get a divorce or a beatdown.  Just kidding.

Anyway, the family across the street.  Where to begin?  First of all, we have the same model home.  I know that their house is big.  There are rooms in my house that I can go MONTHS without entering.  That’s how big my house is. So why on earth do they insist on having parties in their GARAGE?  We had been in our house a few weeks when they had their first party.  The music was so loud and at one point it got really loud.  We ran to the window and realized they had raised the garage door and were packed in there like sardines.  I’m talking 50 strong.  Then we had an issue with the whole parking their cars on the lawn on the side of their house.

Now, this is a really nice subdivision.  People will pay the cost of these houses cause they are big, in a nice area and the schools are excellent.  And to benefit from all of that you just have to follow a few rules called covenants.  I didn’t memorize them but I’m pretty sure there’s a section called “NO GHETTO SHIT!”

But more than that, their kids are bad as shit.  Their two teenage sons are always suspended from school for some reason and their little girl, who is Kali’s age (6), is allowed to run amok.  We’ve seen her riding her bike outside the subdivision without any adult supervision and she’s been known to be outside with her brothers till 10 or later on a school night.  She and Kali ride the school bus together and I think Kali is fascinated that a child her age is allowed to do some of the things she does.  I explain to her that rules are good and one day she will thank me.  But most times it just comes out as:

Kali: “How come she gets to come over to our house but I can’t go to hers?” “How come she gets to go outside after dark?” “How come her Mommy doesn’t pick her up from the bus stop?”

Me: “Cause her Mommy doesn’t love her like I love you.”

Now my father says I’m going to hell for that and yes I will be mortified if one day on the bus Kali tells her, “My mommy says your mommy doesn’t love you.”  But I do believe there’s some truth to that.  Who lets a six year old girl, in this day and age, walk home alone from a bus stop?  Granted, the bus stop is practically right outside our cul-de-sac.  In fact, I can sit in my study on the computer and hear the bus approach before going outside to meet her.  But the point is, I’m there.  I see her get off the bus and I meet her and walk her home.  There is no room for a chester to do his thing.  Not with my child anyway.

Quite a few times that I’m walking with Kali the little girl across the street will ask, “Can she come to my house?”  Kali looks at me all eager and I just squeeze her little hand and say, “No, she has homework.  No, we have to go out.  No, maybe another day.”  What I really want to say is, “I don’t know your parents or your brothers and the only way Kali is going over there is with me and I have no desire to go and your parents barely speak English so what would we talk about?”  But I don’t.

So one day, being nice I replied, “No, but if you ask your Mom you are more than welcome to come play at our house.”  Kali barely had her backpack off before the doorbell was ringing. It was the little girl from across the street…ALONE!  Who does that?  Who lets their little girl go to a stranger’s house alone?  Then she proceeded to try and tear up all of my little girls toys!

And the final straw…we were at the bus stop about a month ago, waiting for the bus.  I’m doing my usual bus stop ritual – making sure Kali has everything, ice cream money, Chapstick, pep talk for school, etc.  Trying to be nice I look over at the little girl and say, “So, what are you going to be for Halloween?”  She looks up at me and there is dried sleep slob going from her mouth to her ear.  Who sends their kids to school like that?  What the shit?

I’m not trying to be judgmental but that’s just wrong.  Bathe your children people!!

Lost Season 3, Episode 12: Par Avion

If you have answers to questions, have your own theories, or want to speculate on anything I’ve mentioned feel free to do so below… if not, that’s okay too. This is to help me remember stuff about the show as the seasons go on.

Synopsis:

Sayid, Kate, Danielle, and Locke continue to try and find The Others’ camp where they hope to rescue Jack… with Creepy Eyepatch Guy in tow. Claire has an idea on how to get rescued. Via flashback Claire meets her father (Christian Shepard.) after she and her mother are in a severe car accident.

Cool Stuff

- Another opening eye shot. This time Claire on the beach.

Things To Throw Us Off That Later Turned Out to Mean Jack-Shit

Revelations
Knowing What We Know Now and Observations of Continuity:

Silly Nina Noticed Stuff:
The Unexplained That’s Still Unexplained:

Sawyerisms

No Sawyerisms as Sawyer agreed not to call anyone by a nickname after losing a ping-poing match to Hurley.

Trivia:

1. What happens to Claire’s mom?

2. What is Claire’s idea to get off the island?

3. How does Creepy Eyepatch Guy “die”?

I Hate Bad Ass Kids

Well, generally speaking, I don’t like kids period.

Don’t get me wrong.  I like mine, my best friend’s daughter, and my nephews.  Oh, and that little girl in the Welch’s commercial.  Other than that, you can keep ‘em.

I particularly don’t like bad ass kids and I blame the parents.  True, I hate people who don’t take care of their kids, but a close second are people who do a bad job of taking care of their kids.  I know, I know, parenting is a hard job and there are no rules to follow when raising a kid.  No one gets it exactly right.  I’m sure there are things I do that people wouldn’t agree with.  Like, I don’t spank.

And living in the south I have heard more than once, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.”  I think that’s bull.  I know plenty of people who got their asses beat as kids whenever they did something wrong and they grew up to be assholes.  The prisons, detention centers and “special” classes for kids that don’t know how to act are filled with people whose parents didn’t “spare the rod”.  Conversely, there are plenty of people who didn’t get spanked who grew up to be well adjusted, productive members of society.  I refuse to believe that the only way to discipline a child is by incorporating hitting them.  And this from someone who got their ass tore up on the regular.

I’m reminded of that Eddie Murphy skit where he’s in the room, heaving and crying and wishing that his mom got hit by a bus.  I could soooooo relate to that.  Sorry, Ma.

I threaten spankings like there’s no tomorrow.  I know there are some that say that eventually the child will realize it’s an empty threat and lose control but, so far so good.  “Kali, I’m going to count to three and then I’m going to start spanking.”  I never get to two.  I guess she figures, “I aint never had one, and I’m not about to start now.”

Actually, she has had ONE but she doesn’t remember.  My husband and I told her about it a few weeks ago.  When she was two or three, we had left her with my sister to babysit while we went out to a movie.  We come home, and Kali had drawn all over her room walls with crayon.  We knew that we would be buying a house in a year or so and we weren’t really upset about the walls, just that she did it so much and that we thought she knew that it was wrong.  Also, I was more than a little upset that it was allowed to happen.

“She said you guys let her!”  Who lets a preschooler draw on their walls?  Trailer trash?  And, who listens to a preschooler?  Anyway, we also didn’t totally flip because it wasn’t just scribble scrabble.  It was a bunch of faces complete with expressions and ears and hair…very advanced and more than just a circle with a few dots for eyes and a nose.  Also, she had written her name.  There are kids in her first grade class now who can’t write their names.  So we gave her a stern “talking to” and that was that.  A few months later, she did it again and I spanked her.  A few open hand swats on the bottom and legs and I immediately went in my bedroom and cried like a baby.  That was the first and last spanking for Miss Kali.

Lost Season 3, Episode 11: Enter 77

If you have answers to questions, have your own theories, or want to speculate on anything I’ve mentioned feel free to do so below… if not, that’s okay too. This is to help me remember stuff about the show as the seasons go on.

Synopsis:

Locke, Danielle, Sayid, and Kate find the Russian Eye Patch Guy on his farm. He tells them that he is the last surviving member of the Dharma Iniaitive. Via flashbacks Sayid is kidnapped and held by the husband of a woman he tortured during his time in the Iraqi forces.

Cool Stuff

- The scene where the woman Sayid tortured confronts him is so powerful.

Things To Throw Us Off That Later Turned Out to Mean Jack-Shit

Revelations
Knowing What We Know Now and Observations of Continuity:

Silly Nina Noticed Stuff:
The Unexplained That’s Still Unexplained:

Sawyerisms

Trivia:

1. What game does Locke play on Eyepatch’s computer?

2. What job does Sayid hold when he is kidnapped?

3. Eyepatch named his cat what?

Waffle House of Flies

I’d eaten in a Waffle House once before about 5 years ago in N.C. This guy I was seeing in Los Angeles had flown in to visit but his flight was delayed so I wasn’t able to pick him up till after midnight. Some girlfriends had gone to the airport with me and by the time he’d collected his luggage it was close to 1am. The only place open was TWH.

I’d avoided them in my many travels to the south. I’ve lived in Durham, N.C, Jacksonville and Pensacola, FL., Corpus Christi, T.X., and Atlanta, GA. and not once had the desire to try one. So we go, have breakfast and it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. Sure, the diners were a little sketchy and the cook looked a little suspect but the waffle was decent and the coffee good. It comes time to pay and we all break out our various VISA check cards to pay for the meal only to be told that it is a “cash only establishment”. What the shit?

I vowed never to darken their doorstep again. Fast foward to July 22nd, 2005. I’m going out of town for the weekend and I know upon my return my husband will be going out of town on business. I had a few hours before I had to get on the road so we decide to have breakfast together at The Waffle House near our subdivision. I was a little put off to see that it too only accepted cash – I guess I thought that was something specific to the one in Durham or that in five years the chain would get with the program. Apparently not. We only had about $20 in cash between us and I asked my husband if he thought that would be enough. He just looked at me and said, “It’s the Waffle House. Of course that’s enough.”

Again, nothing bad to report. The food was even better than the first time I had tried it and the waitress was really nice and fast. I thought it was ridiculous that they would continue to build them so small considering how popular they seem to be in the south. I did a quick count and there were about 10 small booths throughout the joint and a few stools at the bar. The whole time we were there, there were always people waiting at the front door for a table. It’s kind of disconcerting trying to eat while people are eyeing you, obviously wishing you’d hurry up so they can be served. But overall, it wasn’t a horrible experience and the food was more than reasonably priced. I was happy to note that although the place seemed full of rednecks and the jukebox offered nothing but country music, there was a brother at the grill and he threw down on the waffles and eggs.

So it was with complete confidence that we took our daughter there for breakfast this morning. We were late in taking her to daycare and I knew they were done serving breakfast. Not wanting her to go hungry till school served lunch, I thought a stop at TWH would be quick way to ensure she got a hot meal.

The waitress took our order and returned with our drinks. I was looking over the laminated menu while we waited for our food when I noticed a dead fly on it. If I had tilted the menu a few inches it would have certainly fell in my coffee. I did a few dry heaves and handed the menu to my husband explaining about the fly. He then proceeds to stick it back in its place between the napkin holder and the wall.

Me: What are you doing?!
Ree-Ree Husband: Putting it back.
Me: With the fly on it?
RRH: What else am I supposed to do with it?
Me: Fine. Go ahead. If you honestly think that’s the best thing to do then go right ahead.

My thinking is, why would you let the next poor soul pick up a menu with fly guts on it when they’re about to eat? But, that’s my husband for you and I was too aggravated and grossed out to care about the next poor soul. Once our food arrived, I noticed the two dead flies smushed on the window next to our booth. When the waitress returned to ask how everything was, I told her it was making sick to try and eat with dead flies in my face. She apologized and by the time she brought our check, my daughter was practically fused to my left side, so afraid a dead fly would fall on her.

The waitress comped my husband’s food as way of apology but I would have rathered they sent someone out with a rag and some Windex.

The moral of this story: Don’t eat at the nasty ass Waffle House.

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