New York Walker

When last we met I’d just taken my first flight in ten years and almost been abducted by a gypsy cab driver.

I arrived at my hotel, The New Yorker (8th Ave. & 34th St.) shortly before 11am. The doorman helps me with my luggage and I pass through automatic revolving doors into a large, air conditioned lobby. I’m checked in within moments, and make my way up to my room on the 23rd floor.

The hotel was older, but nice, and filled with many contemporary touches. My room was a lot bigger than I thought it would be and as soon as I entered it, I remembered how much I enjoy staying in hotels. The first thing I did was put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. It would remain there for the duration of my stay. If I need towels, I’ll call. Since I wasn’t there for sexy time, there’d be no reason to have my sheets changed during a three-night stay. I like to spread out and pretend I live in my hotel room. (Just call me Dylan McKay) The last thing I need to worry about is someone coming in to clean when I’m not there and all my personal stuff is strewn about.

Even though I was receiving the conference discount (the book event was in the same hotel), I was aware of how expensive the rooms usually were so I was really relieved to be happy with it. I don’t know why, but I have this old school thought process that all articles of clothing should be $20, hotel stays should be $100 a night, and movie tickets should be $5. (Shoes and purses can cost whatever the fuck they want.) It’s like I live in 2011, but my wallet is stuck in 1982.

Anyway, I did a little unpacking, freshening up, and checking in with social media before going to meet my friend Richard for lunch. I looked up the restaurant online and then checked my handy NYC Subway app for the nearest train stop. There’s an A train stop right on the corner so I headed for it.

 

I took the A Train uptown to 59th Street Columbus Circle. It was there I remembered everything I love about my hometown. It was loud, colorful, bright and diverse. Living in the Atlanta suburbs, I’m surrounded by Mexicans and white folk. That’s it. I miss Puerto Ricans! I miss different languages and foods! I just stood in the circle, spinning around like a tourist, taking it all in. I felt like Mary Tyler Moore. If I had a hat, I’d have tossed that bitch in the air.

Here’s a short video I took of a street musician:

Street Musician

The plan was to walk to the restaurant, but when I stopped a cute guy (hey, don’t judge me!) to ask walking directions to where I thought the restaurant was, I realized it was better to take a cab. I met Richard at Whym, a restaurant that looked as if it gets pretty busy in the evening, but that afternoon was very laid back and somewhat empty. We ordered apps, lunch and lots of cocktails.

Before leaving, I had to use the little girl’s room (several glasses of water and three Bellinis will do that to you), and managed to knock a butter knife off the table next to us. Thankfully, the only other couple in the joint didn’t pause to stop staring into each other’s eyes to notice.

 

As soon as I enter the bathroom I notice the toilet’s water level is really low and there’s soggy toilet tissue floating at the bottom. So, what do I do? Flush it, of course. And the water rises and rises and just as it reaches the lip of the toilet I say, “No. No. No. Please, don’t!”

And it does. All over the floor. Can’t take me nowhere.

We hop a cab to Dylan’s Candy Bar, a touristy candy shop owned by Ralph Lauren’s daughter, Dylan. I had no intention of buying a bunch of overpriced sweets, but I knew Kali would get a kick out of the photos and I bought her a cute little bag she can use to carry her dental care products at school (she wears braces). Gotta love the irony.

And it was right about then that my feet started KILLING ME. I’m not even sure of the hows and whys, but after we left the candy bar, we couldn’t catch a cab to save our lives. You would have thought we were two brothers on the corner trying to hail a taxi. We seemed to walk forever in search of a cab that didn’t have its off duty light lit or already have passengers. It didn’t help that it was hot as Satan’s taint either. I did manage to take some photos and videos along the way:

 

 

 

Here’s a video of the tram you wouldn’t catch me dead on:

Roosevelt Island Tram

At that point, it wasn’t as hot as there was a nice breeze coming off the river, but my feet were still burning and not being able to catch a cab was working my last nerve. When we finally got one to take us, the cabbie explained that it was approaching their 5pm shift change so taxis were all headed to their respective depots. He only agreed to drop us at 7th Avenue and 34th Street. We took it. Beggars and choosing and all that.

When we got out of the cab, Richard pointed me in the direction of 8th Avenue and headed off to do whatever it was he was going to do before we were to meet up for dinner. As I walked up the block, several times I thought I should probably stop someone and just confirm that I was, indeed, headed for 8th Avenue and not 6th, but I didn’t. And fuck me for not doing so.

At one point, a crazy black man who had been yelling into his cell phone, “Why the fuck you keep saying what I said yesterday? I didn’t even talk to your ass yesterday so what the fuck you talkin’ ’bout?!,” turned and saw me walking behind him and did a double-take.

Oh, fuck.

He purposely starts to slow down until I’m walking alongside him and then says loudly, “I’m looking at America’s Next Top Model right here. Forget those skin and bones. This is it!”

Totally forgetting that he was, quite possibly, insane, I say, “Hold up. Did you just call me fat?”

“No! I’m just saying that even the white girls are trying to look like you!”

As you’ve probably guessed, I was walking in the wrong direction. I almost sat on the curb and cried. And for the sake of full disclosure, these were the shoes I wore:

There were not uncomfortable when I tried them on, and I spent a few days breaking them in at home. They were nowhere near as difficult as the shoes I’d started to bring, but didn’t:

 

I think it was a combination of being on my feet since 4am, the heat, and the concrete, that had my feet screaming, “Uncle!”

Once in my room, I closed the curtains, got naked, talked to my husband and kids and then soaked in a hot bath. I met Richard downstairs in the lobby about an hour or so later – which, in retrospect, wasn’t exactly smart because my feet hadn’t received any rest – and we tried to catch a cab to where we were meeting his best friend and his partner for dinner.

I guess cabbies didn’t like my face. Or my shoes. We couldn’t get it together. More walking to another corner, then more walking back to the hotel, and no cab to be had. The doorman even tried for us. No dice. At this point I’m extremely miserable. I’d just spent time bathing and getting fresh and pretty and within three minutes of being outside, I’m covered in sweat and my feet are like, “Really, bitch? So soon?”

At one point, Richard says, “Frankly, I thought you’d be a better New York walker.”

What the fuck is a New York walker? Now, I took offense to this, but I’m on vacation and it’s day one, so I’m swallowing annoyances and really, when you’re dealing with melting face and screaming feet, a comment that rubs you the wrong way isn’t worth it. I’m not an idiot. I knew spending a weekend in NYC would involve some walking, but since when did New Yorkers start walking blocks and blocks to catch cabs? I get the whole, “We’re headed downtown and this traffic is going uptown so let’s walk one block over,” business. I’ve done that hundreds of times. But I felt like we’d walked above and beyond. It being hot as a motherfucker while being 14 hours into 10 hour shoes didn’t help matters, either.

I also tried explaining to Richard that hanging out with women is a totally different animal than hanging out with men. We don’t spend time getting dolled up to sweat our makeup off before we even get to the mode of transportation that’s taking us where we’re going!

We ended up hopping a hot ass train and walking another four blocks to a different restaurant. I’d never been so happy to see a barstool or a glass of water in my life. We had a very nice time. There was lots of laughing and great conversation and we later moved the party across the street to another bar for more food and cocktails (although, at that point, I just stuck to water).

 

 

At the end of the night, Richard put me into a cab that thankfully stopped right in front of the restaurant. Once I made it back to the hotel I was happy with my decision to have the hotel for all three nights instead of staying with anyone. I was grateful for the room, and the quiet, and the aloneness because I was exhausted and sore.

And that was just the beginning.

Next time: Blisters, Tears, More Friends and Lani Kai

Flying Again

Last week I flew on an airplane for the first time since 9/11. I used to fly a lot in my late teens and 20’s, and while I was always a nervous flyer, I enjoyed the experience. After 9/11 – and up until a few nights before my flight – I’d have nightmares about shiny, bulbous aircrafts, sitting at a gate, waiting for me to board and soar me to certain death. I had horrible dreams about being in Manhattan (I’d also not been there since a month before the attacks), looking up at skyscrapers that disappeared into the clouds, casting dark shadows over the streets below before crumbling on top of me.

So, when I won an author’s table at the first annual Indie Book Event in NYC, and friends suggested I fly, I was all, fuck that. Then I noticed that all the people I admire, all of my friends doing big things, flew constantly. You can’t really expect to promote yourself via social media and make the right connections if you’re afraid to travel. Yes, most of the interactions take place online, but conferences and other events are crucial and you need to show your face.

I put on my big girl panties and boarded a flight to NYC last Thursday. I kid. We all know I don’t wear panties, which would have made the full body scan very interesting if I’d received one. My flight left at 7:30am, which meant I had to arrive at the airport by 6am. Donny and the kids dropped me off at the curb. I kissed them all goodbye like it would be the last time we ever saw each other (I even left my wedding band with Donny and only wore my engagement ring. I figured if the plane crashed, there wouldn’t be much of me left so he should have something to remember me by) and was off.

Going through security went surprisingly well and I was probably a tad over-prepared. I was a bit disappointed there wasn’t cause to open my suitcase and show off how well-packed I was. I just knew my curling rods would set off alarms.

 

Once I got to the gate, I posted this pic:

 

I tried not to look as terrified as I felt as I boarded the plane and noticed how fucking tiny it was. Holy crap. It was like, one step above a propeller plane. And the seats were super small. My Amazonian ass was not happy or comfortable. My knees were touching the back of the seat in front of me. Are plane seats made for women without hips? Thankfully, my seat mate, a guy who looked like Jean-Claude Van Damme, sat next to the window and quietly played on his phone. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was scared, pissed, and uncomfortable.

Once the plane started taxing to the runway, I started making deals with God.

Please, don’t let me die like this. I promise to be nicer to people. Even the douchebags.

I hoped that was enough. It didn’t help matters that there were NO babies on the flight. I like babies on flights. I want babies on my flight – loud, new-to-the-world, milk-breath babies with big, soulful eyes. I want God to think twice before he gets in a smiting mood.

Take-off is the worst: it’s all rumbling and loud and the moment the plane is no longer touching the ground you marvel that something so heavy can stay in the air. Once we reached our cruising altitude and the fasten seat belt light went off, Jean-Claude Van Damme leaned over and whispered in a heavy Brazilian accent, “I’m sorry. I hate to do this, but I’ve been holding it for an hour.”

It sounded like a I’m-about-to-piss-on-you warning, but then I realized he was looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to move so he could scoot into the aisle. Grrrr. When you’re 5’11 and weigh approximately none of your fucking business pounds, the last thing you want to do is move around on a tiny plane. I got up so he could go to the bathroom and as soon as I sat back down, the man in front of me reclined his seat. And then his wife reclined hers. Now, I didn’t catch their names, but for the duration of the flight I dubbed them Mr. and Mrs. Inconsiderate Motherfuckers.

How you just gonna lean your shit back like you home watching TV?

I considered accidentally on purpose standing up and hitting Mr. I.M. on the head with my laptop bag, but I just made those God promises, and you don’t want to go fucking with your karma 32,000 feet in the air.

By the time Jean-Claude got back, I was relieved to stand just to get my knees off my tits. He sits down and as I awkwardly lower myself into my seat, I say the first thing that pops into my head.

“I thought it’d be bigger.”

Then I bit the inside of my mouth to resist the urge to add, “That’s what she said.”

He sighs and nods his head towards business class, just two rows ahead of us. “They wanted $70 more for business class…”

I nod vigorously. I know what he’s going to say. Seventy bucks is a small price to pay for comfort, I think. It has to be cheaper than knee surgery.

“… but I couldn’t see paying that for an hour and a half flight. Three hours, maybe, but not ninety minutes.”

I stop nodding. We are NOT on the same page. He is clearly insane.

Turns out he’s an aircraft mechanic for the military and he starts telling me all about the plane we’re in – how it operates, how it came to be and how and when they changed the cockpit from analog to digital.

“Although, I cannot call it that any more. It’s now the flight deck. People got offended by the old name.” He smiles a super Van Damme smile and adds, “Like, these…” He holds up a package of salted nuts. “… I probably can’t call these nuts any more.”

I snort. “We should start calling them balls.”

He blinks.

And just like that I’m a fucking idiot.

I spend the remainder of the flight trying not to look at him.

 

When we landed at LaGuardia, I got a slew of text messages sent while my service was down. One was from Donny letting me know that our AC repair had turned into a full blown AC replacement. I tried calling him for details as I headed to the exit. Just as I was about to leave a voicemail for him, I approached the exit where a short, olive-skinned man stood. He was wearing a dress shirt and slacks and I thought he worked at the airport.

“Exit?”

“Um… yes.”

He gestures towards a door, leading outside, and asks, “Where are you going?”

“Manhattan.”

“Can I take that?” He nods towards my suitcase.

“No, I got it.”

I don’t mind tipping, but I’m not going to pay for some guy to pull my suitcase 12 feet to the curb. I figured he was going to hail a cab for me, or at least show me to the taxi queue.

He walks ahead, reaching the curb and then crossing the street, all three lanes of traffic. I stop at the curb because the ‘Don’t Walk’ light was on. Also, I’m dealing with some very important shit. Unable to reach Donny, I’d moved on to checking into Foursquare. Hey, don’t judge me! I want to be the mayor of something besides my neighborhood Kroger.

The whole time little dude was crossing the street he never turned back to see if I was with him, so I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be following him. Once he reached the other side, in front of the parking garage, he turned and signaled for me to follow. The light changes and I meet him on the other side and this time, I let him take my suitcase. I try calling Donny again as we approach a Town Car with the trunk open. He puts my suitcase in the trunk and it’s not until I’m in the backseat that it hits me.

“Hey, how much is this going to cost?”

“Sixty dollars.”

“Uh, no. I’d rather have a real cab. With a meter.”

He starts backing out the parking space.

“OK. Fifty.”

“No. Let me out.”

He locks the doors.

“Fifty is very good price.”

“No. Really. Let me out.”

He whips back into the spot and this time it’s up to me to get my own shit; he was done caring about my luggage.

I take a legit yellow taxi to my hotel.

It cost $31.

Motherfucker.

Next time: Being a better NY walker and blisters on my feet.

My Life, My Book

Things have been pretty quiet around these parts because things in my day-to-day life have been anything but. It occurred to me that I never really did a big “announcement” of any kind, and that a lot of you may not know about the most exciting thing to happen to me in a long time. (At least since Jack was born.)

Be prepared to do a lot of clicking, liking, and voting. (All links should open in a new tab.)

My book, The Twin Prophecies: Rebirth, is now available for the Kindle, Nook, other e-readers and in paperback. This is the official website for the book. You can subscribe to the blog so that you’re sure to get news on book-related events as soon as possible. There’s a cool prequel chapter that introduces you to a character you meet in Rebirth as well as a link to the book trailer. The media tab has links to interviews I’ve done to promote the book. You can read a short synopsis here and early reviews on Amazon.com here.

If you could take a moment to “like” the book’s official Facebook page and my author page on Facebook, I’d really appreciate it. You can also find me on Goodreads and Shelfari. If you’re a tweeter, you can follow the book on Twitter, too.

Now for the fun stuff. Next week, to help celebrate the book’s official launch, I’m giving away three fun prizes. Everyone who purchases a Kindle OR paperback copy of the book has a chance to win either:

• a signed paperback copy of Rebirth
• their name as a character in book two, The Twin Prophecies: Origin (Dec. 2011) or
• a Kindle with Special Offers

The contest is for any Kindle or paperback copy purchased between Monday, May 16th and Wednesday, May 18th, 2011. Purchase confirmations must be forwarded to twinprophecies@gmail.com to enter and must be received by Friday, May 20th. You can get all the details and official rules by reading the press release.

Finally, I have a great opportunity to attend the Indie Book Event in NYC this summer, but I need your help. If could go here and cast your vote for me, Nina Perez, to win a free table, I’ll love you forever. You can read more about the Indie Book Event here.

 

I know, it’s a lot of stuff, and THAT is why I’ve been missing in action. I have no complaints though. None. This is a very exciting and fulfilling time for me and I want to thank all of you who’ve been along for the whole ride. Don’t get off yet. There’s more to come.

 

Nina

 

Scream 4 – Movie Review

You know I liked a movie if it inspired me to do something I haven’t done in years: write a movie review.

I loved the first Scream. I saw it 7 times in the theaters in about 5 different states. It came out in 1996 when I was 21 and filled with wanderlust. Whenever I hit a new state and found friends that hadn’t yet seen it, I’d insist we go.

What made Scream so great was that it was the first scary movie to poke fun at everything we loved to hate about horror films, and in the process it managed to be pretty damn scary without excessive gore and peppered with smart, biting, dialogue. No one called the ending. No one. If they said they did, they’re lying.

Scream 2 and Scream 3 were not as good, but each had their fair share of enjoyable moments and neither left me feeling like I’d wasted my money to go see them. In fact, I was so looking forward to Scream 2, I had dreams about it almost every night leading up to the premiere and had to sit on my hands to keep from reading the leaked script that had found its way to the internet. The parody, Scary Movie, was inevitable and it is pretty much responsible for the slew of spoof flicks that followed.

Even though S2 and S3 failed to completely recapture everything that made Scream so great, I was happy that they’d always included the triad original players and worked off the history of the first – even when it was ridiculously far-fetched. Long-lost brother? Seriously, S3? I hate when movie franchises become unrecognizable, completely filling each new installment with fresh faces who bring no emotional ties to the original.

Scream 4 could have been a mess. It should have been a mess. But it wasn’t. It came along at just the right time. Like the first Scream, it managed to be fresh by spoofing… itself! And not only that, but the numerous spoofs that followed. The opening – which any Scream fan knows usually contains some of the best stuff – was wonderfully meta, cast with familiar faces who, we just knew, were going to get it. It also played off the current online/Twitter/Facebook social media craze and incorporated it brilliantly.

Oh yeah, and it was scary. Ghostface could have been anyone, anywhere, at any time. There were plenty of suspicious characters, red herrings, and “no, don’t do that!” moments. I love that the character of Sydney continued to evolve and how can you not root for Dewey and Gale?

I found Hayden Panettiere’s (Heroes) Kirby to be the most likable character in the movie – and that surprised me because I was certain we were set up not to.

And I didn’t guess the identity of the killer. In fact, I was so sure it was one person I fell for a bit of sloppy writing that I’m now sure was done on purpose, just to feed the suspicions of people who felt the way I did. I don’t know if I can forgive that, Kevin Williamson. But I can, and will, forgive some of the cheesy one-liners; they’re par for the course. The shrieks, jumps, and chills down my arm every time the phone rang made it all worth it.

- Nina

P.S. Courtney Cox-Arquette and David Arquette? I really hope those crazy kids work it out.

P.P.S. I own the box set DVDs of 1, 2, and 3, but I will have to upgrade to the four box set in BluRay.

P.P.P.S. (Minor spoiler): I’m so happy I got to see two of the most annoying TV characters get killed, finally: Julie Taylor from Friday Night Lights and Sookie Stackhouse.

Growing Pains

My daughter is 12 today. A pre-teen. A young lady.

Mama needs margaritas.

Long-time readers may remember me mentioning this before, but right before each birthday I notice a change in my children. I don’t know if it’s natural or if, as parents, we automatically start looking for signs of change. Whatever it is, I notice.

I’ve spent the past month or so preparing for the release of my book. I could go whole weekends without seeing Kali except for the few times she’d poke her head into my bedroom and ask what we were having for breakfast, lunch or dinner. My response? “Go ask your Dad.” Any guilt I felt was assuaged with, I’m doing this for them. What kind of mother can I be if I’m miserable, waiting for others to see fit to make my dreams come true? Why not take my fate in my own hands and make them happen? And what better way to start than with a book that my daughter inspired?

And this did the trick up until this past weekend when Kali admitted that she kept forgetting her birthday was Tuesday. She was not excited about it. Anytime we asked what she wanted or what she wanted to do, she would shrug and say, “I can’t think of anything I want or need.” I joked that this was a good thing. When I was her age, if someone asked me what I wanted, I’d respond with a list as long as a New York City block. “When I was your age, I didn’t have shit!” We both laughed.

But I felt horrible. She may be turning 12, I thought, but that’s still a child. Children should be excited about their birthdays whether they have a wish list a mile long or not. Everyone wants to feel like their birthday matters and I’d done a piss-poor job of doing that for Kali. If she can’t think of something she needs or wants, then it’s my job to come up with something. To surprise her with things she didn’t know she wanted or needed. It’s my job to create magic because this day matters. This day, twelve years ago, changed my life and it should be celebrated every day, but especially today.

Yesterday, when she got home from school, we went to my nail salon and got our nails done. I did not cringe (outwardly anyway) when she chose black polish.

 

We went to Claire’s next and I bravely endured the constant nose tickling as it seemed everywhere I turned, a feather-adorned accessory was invading my nostrils. I did not pass judgment on the fingerless gloves or the belt with skull and crossbones on it – I simply thanked God the skulls were surrounded by rainbows.

Next we went to Aeropostale for new shirts and then Charming Charlies where she picked out the cutest zebra print slip-on shoes and purple hat.

As I watched her beautiful fingers with their black nails brush over fabrics and patterns, and her face react in either pleasure or distaste, I realized she was well on her way to being her own person with her own tastes and style. And sure, I could say no and only agree to buy the things that we both liked, or worse, the things that I liked whether she agreed or not, but doesn’t that defeat the point? Hadn’t I raised her these past twelve years with the desire and knowledge that she’d eventually become her own person? How can that happen if I insist on lots of pink and frills in a vain attempt to keep her “my little girl?”

Her mood had lightened considerably. She even tried convincing me to buy something for myself, but I declined. As much as I wanted the bag, this shopping trip wasn’t about me.

 

This was about Kali and (I didn’t tell her this) the plan was to not say no to anything she wanted. When she spotted a t-shirt she wanted in Aeropostale and asked, “If I put back one of the other shirts, can I get that one?,” I replied, “Why not get them all?”

“I can do that?” “Yes, you can.”

I did it because I could afford to. I did it because everyone should have a shopping spree once in awhile. We went to Best Buy last and I bought the two things that I had planned to buy her anyway: an iHome system for her bedroom so she could dock her iPod at night and listen to music while it charges (it’s really cool – it changes colors) and an iTunes gift card so she can download all the Japanese music she’s into now that she’s also into Anime.

When we got home, she excitedly pulled her new clothes, shoes and accessories from their bags and showed them to her Dad. She couldn’t wait to go to school today and wear her new shoes, belt, and fingerless gloves. And here’s the cool thing about my kid: she won’t expect this from now on. This wasn’t about buying her love, acceptance, or happiness. I’d been in her shoes, thinking no one cared enough about your birthday to make a big deal. Some years the big deal may be a home-cooked meal of your choosing with cupcakes made with love for dessert. And some years the big deal may be a shopping spree with Mom as you both giggle over how pretty your nails are and drive with the windows down, singing “The Dog Days are Over” at the top of your lungs.

I watched her walk into the school this morning with a knot in my stomach. The kid has a funky style, for sure. But it’s hers and I worried if I’d done enough to teach her to own it. Then a boy in front of her stopped to hold the door as she adjusted her new white tote bag with the black butterflies and she flashed him a braces-lined smile of gratitude. And he blushed.

She owns it alright.

We’re going out to dinner tonight to celebrate. And she gets to pick the restaurant. And I just pray they serve margaritas.

Big ones.

Soap Death

I just saw a tweet that All My Children is probably/possibly going to be cancelled later this week after 41 years on the air. I immediately called my best friend, Sophie.

We were both sad, but also confused. Why were we so upset over the cancellation of a show we both stopped watching a long time ago? Sophie summed it up best. “I don’t watch it, but I like knowing it’s there.”

I think this has a lot to do with what I’ve always believed made soaps so special: they are tradition. I don’t know anyone that discovered soaps later in life. OK, one exception seems to be the men that have admitted to either currently watching a soap or watching one in their past. They discovered soaps when they were in college, in the middle of the day when they didn’t have class and there was nothing else on TV.

But for most women, soaps are passed down from their mothers and their grandmothers. I know for me, ABC soaps played a big part in my childhood. I grew up in the late 70′s and 80′s when most of the households had one television and mothers stayed at home. Whatever your mother, grandmother, or after-school provider was watching when you walked in was what you were going to be watching, too. Don’t even think about asking to turn the channel until Mama’s “stories” were done.

In our house it was Edge of Night, Ryan’s Hope, Loving, All My Children, One Life to Live and General Hospital. This was back before DVRs, and hell, even VCRs so when there was a 30-minute overlap with AMC and The Young & The Restless, I remember my Grandma used to flip back and forth during commercials. I also did my own channel flipping from 2pm-3pm to watch OLTL and Another World. (I loved me some Cass!)

Then we lost Edge of Night, Ryan’s Hope, and Loving became The City, which later became Port Charles, and then that was gone, too. All My Children, One Life to Live, and General Hospital have always been there and the thought of either of those three going away makes me deeply sad. Over the years, I’ve read about other soaps on other networks being cancelled, and I’ve felt for those fans (NBC has ONE soap left), but I never imagined it would happen to one of mine.

So, what happened? I suspect that people like Sophie and me are to blame – people that don’t watch (even though we TiVo every day) unless there’s something major going on like a beloved character dying or being brought back from the dead. If people were still watching like they used to, surely soaps wouldn’t be cancelled – seemingly – left and right. Or is that the people are still watching, but it’s no longer enough to justify the costs of keeping these shows on the air?

And for those of us no longer watching, why not? I used to think it was that I simply outgrew them, but there are women a lot older than me still watching – and loving – soap operas. But I think it’s that and then some. I know I started to feel like it had become too formulaic and predictable. Characters rarely learned lessons. How many times can it be considered entertaining to watch the same vixen sleep around and manipulate her away into a crisis, yet never evolve? I’m looking at you, Blair Kramer! Then there was the almost cavalier way pregnancies were conceived (literally) and then terminated by awful means to jerk tears and boost ratings. I’m looking at you, General Hospital! I mean, really. BJ and Maxie all over again in 2011?

You can almost forgive them of their staple cliches because they kinda made them the iconic shows that they are:

• If you’ve done something awful that would ruin your life should anyone find out, why would you talk about it… out loud… to yourself?
• Why does everyone insist on referring to each other by their first and last names? “You’re a son of a bitch, Adam Chandler!”
• And the looong storylines? Come on!

With so many other things competing to be our escape (Twitter, Facebook, TiVo’d prime time shows, instant streaming and video games), do we really have time to give to an industry that just doesn’t seem to be changing? Or are they not changing enough, fast enough? I cannot remember the last time a soap opera surprised me with a storyline I simply didn’t see coming.

And what is it about soaps that make them so dispensable? What other family of television programming has been decimated like this? Talk shows? Still around, though we’ll see what happens after Lady O. leaves the stage. Game shows? Still kicking. They didn’t even consider axing The Price is Right after Barker’s retirement. Prime time dramas? Not going anywhere. Sitcoms? Check. Hell, we’ve even made room for a new genre: reality shows.

Even though I don’t watch anymore – at least not as regularly as I used to – I hope All My Children (and the other ABC soaps) stick around for people like my mother and grandmother who still watch every day. They still call me and ask, “Girl, did you see what Clint did to Jessica and Natalie?” And even though I find their summary enough to keep me updated on what’s going on in Pine Valley, Llanview, and Port Charles, it would still break my heart to see those shows go.

I guess, like Sophie, I just like knowing they’re there.

TCTBTF: Day 449

Read about my first foray into the wild here.

My neck! My back! My neck and my back! And by neck I mean, knee. By back I mean, knee.

My left knee has been bothering me for awhile now. Like, well over a year. Not all the time, but when it does, it’s a bitch. It really started up again a few weeks ago when I started playing Dance Central like it’s my job. I always figured that it’s due to carrying around the most weight I’ve ever held in my life. I’m pulling more weight than Beyonce when she was in Destiny’s Child.

So there’s this vicious cycle: how can I exercise and lose weight if my knee hurts, but my knee hurts due to weight gain? I’ve decided to work through the pain. I’ve birthed two babies. I watched Nip/Tuck through that final death rattle of a season. I know pain, people. I know pain. I’m gonna walk and run when I can and after losing a good 10-15lbs, we’ll see if there’s still a knee problem.

On my first day, I walked/ran the trail for 15 minutes and then turned around and did the same thing in reverse. I decided to add five minutes going in on my second evening. I got to the park, parked, and this time I didn’t have time to do my stupid stretch thing cause just as I was tying my hair in a ponytail, a little dog ran up to me.

“Where did you come from?”

*blank stare*

I ask some of the boys on the skate ramps, “Is this your dog?” No. I ask a man in a parked car next to mine. No. Right before I noticed him, a woman in a minivan dropped off some boys headed for the basketball courts. I wondered if the little dog had escaped from the van and she hadn’t noticed.

I start walking to the trail and the dog follows. For real, doggie?

“You need to go away. But stay out of the parking lot. I don’t like dogs, I don’t want you to get hit.”

*blank stare*

 

He still follows me. I run for a bit, then I guess he realized I’m an amateur runner cause he kind of trots ahead of me and hooks a right when I’m headed left. I throw up deuces and make this video:

 

 

Running Day 2

I made my way along the trail, walking more than running, annoyed that this Asian lady hair is so damn silky no scrunchie can contain it. Every time a man passed me going in the opposite direction, I smiled politely, but turned around to watch him go and make sure he didn’t double back and push me into the woods to have his way with me. This huge black guy jogs by me and when I turn my head to make sure his ass is going about his business, there’s a white guy running up on me going in my direction. It scared me so badly my heart dropped and I raised up my water bottle like I was going to brain him with it. He gave me a, “What the fuck is wrong with you” look and jogged around me.

After 20 minutes, I turned around and retraced my steps. I once again pass a gaggle of kids practicing softball. A Dad checks me out and damn near breaks his neck to watch me pass. I wish I could say I felt sexy and gave him something to really look at, but it was right around that time that I started feeling queasy and hot. I was pretty sure I’d just swallowed some bugs and I wanted to sit down on the path and cry. Or faint. Or die.

But I kept going cause, well, I had no fucking choice. I had to make it back to my car and while there are trash cans and emergency phones along the trail, there’s no “Pussy Can’t Hang” pick up service to drive your lazy ass back to your car.

About ten minutes from the end of the trail I realize it’s getting dark. I start to panic a little cause black folks in the woods in the dark don’t usually fair so well. If I’m gonna add more time to my workout, I should at least start earlier to make sure I’m not 15-20 minutes away when it gets dark. That would really suck. I post this on my Facebook wall as I walk super fast.

Then I realize that it’s not getting as dark as I thought. I was still wearing my sunglasses.

 

 

This time, I was a tad more coordinated when I exited the woods. I wasn’t as dizzy or sore as the first time, but I was just as sweaty. (That’s what she said.) I’ll add another five minutes going in -bringing my total workout to 50 minutes total – next time.

Oh, and my knee didn’t hurt.

Track of the Day: A lot of people suggested running music and I did take some of them, but I find that I don’t necessarily want something that’s high energy or fast. I just want something I enjoy listening to – something I would love to dance to because I’m so sexy when I dance, but weight gain has made me dance a lot less. Here’s the track that moved me the most today:

Jenny Wilson \”Like a Fading Rainbow\”

Angry Black Woman

For a long time I was careful not to fall into that stereotype of  the angry black woman – mad at her kids, mad at the world, mat at her man, mad at the white man more than anything else. Just mad, mad, mad.

This morning I realized that I am. Sometimes. And I’m okay with that. Because sometimes I have every right to be mad. But what makes me really upset is thinking about the times when I’ve curbed my anger because I didn’t want to come off as the angry black woman – the number of times I hesitated saying something out loud or on Facebook because I don’t want to make my white friends and family members “uncomfortable.”

This morning I went to the Walmart. Not just any Walmart, but the Walmart, the scene of the incident. The Walmart where a redneck, douchebag, asshole looked at the Obama ’08 bumper sticker on my car and said, “Nice nigger sticker you got there,” not caring that my child was standing right next to me.

Ever since then (12/31/08), I’ve always felt a sense of dread and disgust when going back there. And not just that store, but the whole area. I started wondering how many other white people were walking around with the word nigger on their tongues just waiting for a moment, a lost election, the loss of a parking spot, anything, to let it fly.

And I’m supposed to be the bigger person. I’m supposed to “let it go” and just brush it off as a rare, isolated, event. I thought that I had, for the most part, until this morning when I decided to go back there because it was the closest place selling a video game Donny and I both wanted. I couldn’t even park near the spot from that night because it made my stomach knot just looking in that direction. I put Jack in a shopping cart and headed for the store. One of the wheels made a clacking sound in a kind of one-two rhythm. And as I pushed it all I heard was:

clack-clack-nigger sticker-clack-clack-nigger sticker-clack-clack

I just wanted to be done and out of there. See, that man had tainted the whole area. He felt safe enough to spew his hate there. Was there a reason for that? Did he know something that I didn’t?

Driving home I thought about the book I’m reading, The Help, and why (at times) it bothers me so much. It’s set in 1960′s Mississippi and follows two black maids working for white families. At first, the dialect was a little hard to swallow. Friends told me, “Well, you know that women back then spoke that way.” No shit. I have a grandmother in her 80′s, born in the south, who cleaned a lot of white houses and helped raise white babies. I know that some black people spoke that way and still do. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. And I’m allowed to have an emotional reaction to it.

But it wasn’t until today that it hit me what’s really bothering me. The attitudes depicted in that book aren’t gone. They’re just more subtle… most times. In the past two years, do you know how many white friends have admitted to me that they have parents/siblings/in-laws/aunts/uncles, etc., that use the word nigger? More than I’d have imagined. And my response is always the same, “What do you do?” And the shuffle begins where they back step, side step, and pretty much just step in it. But I get it. These are their people. They have to share meals and holidays with these people. They may have to borrow money or ask these people to watch their kids. They’re not trying to rock the boat.

I get it. Doesn’t mean I like it because I understand it, though. It makes me feel like, “What does that say about how you feel about me? What does that say about how you feel about yourself?” I judge and I get angry. I picture them standing there with polite smiles, fitting in, standing by, while the word nigger floats around the room. Sometimes I think those people are worse. I assume that racists are idiots, so what does that say about the people that sit in the midst of the racism and sip from their cups, and pass the plate of string beans, and turn up the music, like it didn’t even happen?

I hate that people keep telling me, “Well, that was x number of years ago.” It wasn’t that fucking long ago! My Grandmother is 83. That means she was well into her life as an adult and couldn’t use the same bathroom as white people. That means she lived a long time with white folk not acting right. It would be nice to say that the true old school racists will die out soon, but Mr. Nigger Sticker was about my age. I remember glancing at his fat ass wife and later thinking how could she even tolerate that. But she probably feels the same exact way and for all I know they’re raising little mini-racists right now.

So, what the hell am I supposed to do with all that? I think I can be a little fucking angry, for one. It kills me when people want to compare struggles. Like, a white woman might say, “I know discrimination, I’m a woman!” Uh, I’m a black woman, doubly-fucked, what else you got? “I’m fat! People discriminate against me all the time.” Then lose some fucking weight! The last time I checked, this blackness ain’t washing off. You can’t even count ugly people because ugly is subjective. One man’s ugly is another man’s juuuust fine.

I think the only people that can come close to relating are mentally-handicapped people. To have something “wrong” with you, something that sets you apart, something you can’t hide when you go out in public, and then question the sincerity and motivations of everyone that deals with you while you’re out. That’s what it’s like to be black in America.

Make no mistake: being anything in America is infinitely better than being anything anywhere else. But that doesn’t mean it’s always easy. And sometimes, it’s harder. This wonderful free country where I gotta worry about a white person spitting in my food, or mistreating my child when they find out her mother is black, or being called a nigger just because.

And give me that, white people. Stop trying to sugar coat that shit. Stop telling me, “Well, you know, that was a long time ago,” or, “You have to let that go,” or, “Don’t think that way.” It’s kinda hard not to think that way when you’re getting nigger sticker thrown in your face. I don’t have the luxury of not wondering or worrying. Do you know how many interviews I’ve shown up to and seen the look of surprise on people’s faces when they see I’m black? And then I have to sit there the whole time wondering if it’s a bad thing.

So, yeah. Must be nice to not have those worries on top of all the other worries we all have like, paying bills, affording health care, making time for work, family, friends and ourselves, etc. So, cut me some damn slack.

A few weeks ago I brought up the Nigger Sticker incident while talking with some friends on Facebook and a white friend emailed me a day or so later and said that every time I talk about it, it makes her uncomfortable. And that I can’t continue to let it bother me because the racist wins.

First of all, I felt like this was her polite, white, way of saying, “Get over it.” Secondly, he already won by spewing his filth and not catching an ass whupping for his troubles. Finally, if it makes her (or you, for that matter) uncomfortable to hear about it, then take that discomfort, mix in some humiliation, a dash of fucked up history, a pinch of having relatives that remember what it’s like to fear talking to a white person wrong because they might get strung up, toss in side-eyes when you’re out with your white husband and mixed children and chew on that for a while. Then multiply it by one thousand and imagine how I feel.

Then politely wash it down with a frothy mug of shut the fuck up.

Take It or Leave It: Friend or Foe and Mother’s Day Woe

Dear Nina,

My son has two best friends, Jimmy and Connor who live on our street. Not only do they walk to and from school together every day, but they play with each other after school as well. Jimmy is having a birthday party on Saturday. Connor was invited, but my son was not. We heard that it is because Jimmy is only inviting third grade boys to the party. My son is in fourth grade. Needless to say, my son is very upset about this. It doesn’t help that Jimmy and Connor have been talking about this party when they all walk to and from school. My son feels excluded and has now heard that some fourth grade boys ARE invited.

I called Jimmy’s Mom and asked (just to clear things up) if fourth grade boys were invited because my son was so upset when he heard they were. I told her that I’d probably be taking my kids on a day trip the day of the party so that my son wouldn’t have to deal with knowing there was a party going on next door that he couldn’t attend. She got angry with me!

“First of all, fourth graders aren’t invited. Second of all, I can’t believe you’re making me feel bad about throwing my son a party! Fine, I’ll just cancel it cause I don’t need this drama. I didn’t say anything when your kid didn’t invite mine to her party!”

I tried to explain that for my daughter’s party, we decided to only have five kids over and to make it fair, we drew names from a hat. She wouldn’t even let me finish and hung up on me. What should I do? I don’t think I did anything wrong? Isn’t she overreacting?

Hurt In Harrisburg, PA

Dear Butt Hurt,

You’re both overreacting!

Children’s birthday parties are a tricky thing. I personally dread Kali’s birthday because I don’t want to deal with the social minefield of deciding who should be invited. It’s exhausting! Also, I don’t like other people’s kids, but I digress.

Seriously, I’m sure you know – seeing as how you opted to only do five kids one year – that planning your child’s birthday party can be stressful and expensive. Between the invites, thank you cards, food, cake, beverages, decorations, gift bags, etc., it adds up. (Not to mention you still have to buy your child an actual present!) I think we need to give parents a break when it comes to who gets invited.

Restricting the guest list to boys/girls, classmates, or family only isn’t unusual.  Unfortunately, in this instance, your son got his feelings hurt. This could have been a teachable moment, the perfect opportunity to show your son that these things sometimes happen. I’m sure there were kids disappointed that their names weren’t pulled out the hat for your daughter’s party…. which brings me to the phone call…

How would you have felt if a parent called you? And let’s be honest, you know better! What you did was a passive aggressive attempt to, at best, wrangle an invite for your child and, at worst, make your neighbor feel shitty for not inviting your kid. She knew he wasn’t in the third grade when she made the guest list! What you did was put her in a tough spot, and she acted as people often do when backed into a corner. She lashed out.

Of course she’s not going to cancel the party and she didn’t need to know that you were planning a whole “day trip” around not being there when her guests arrived. You were both engaging in emotional blackmail. Frankly, you both deserve the tension that is sure to follow. I think you should have just explained to your son that he’s not always going to be invited to parties and then (without making a big show of it – you don’t want him thinking he gets some special day out whenever things don’t go the way he wans) made arrangements to do stuff away from the house/neighborhood so as not to rub salt in his wounds.

Your friend might give you an apology for overreacting, but I think you need to make the first step and be like, “Listen, didn’t mean to make the party planning stressful. My son was just disappointed he didn’t get an invite. I hope you guys have a good time and we’ll drop off a present before/after the day of the party.”

Booyah.

***

Dear Nina,

I have been a mother for nearly 7 years and my mother has yet to even give me a card for Mother’s Day. It’s almost as if she doesn’t acknowledge me as a mother and she is the only one to be celebrated on this blessed day. Not only that, she seems to expect a gift and expect to celebrate with our family. It’s not just her day, although she seems to think so.

Miffed on Mother’s Day

Miffed,

Some people have really weird ideas of etiquette when it comes to certain holidays. Perhaps she feels as if only the child should do the appreciating and gift giving?

When I call my stepmother on Mother’s Day she wishes me a good one as well, and so will my Dad if I happen to speak to him. But that’s it. I don’t expect cards, flowers, gifts, or even well wishes from anyone that didn’t come out of my vagina… or isn’t responsible for putting them there. Sure, acknowledgment from others is nice, but not necessary.

Is it important to me that those close to me (read: parents) think I’m a good Mom? Sure. But I don’t need a card on Mother’s Day to tell me that. However, it does sound like this is, at least somewhat, important to you. I’m a firm believer in first weighing the consequences, and then dealing with the situation head-on. With Mother’s Day right around the corner, now would be an excellent time to call your Mom and be like, “You know, you’ve never given me a card for Mother’s Day. What up with that?”

As for celebrating with your family, that’s tough. Without hurting her feelings directly, you may have to just make yourself “unavailable” every other Mother’s Day. Maybe say something like, “My husband planned this all day surprise for me with just us and the kids, isn’t that great?” She’ll get the hint. Hopefully.

***

Nina,

Years ago, I had this circle of friends who I was really close to. If you’d asked me then, I’d have said that we’d have been besties-4-life. But then, I moved away. Not, like, “other side of the country” moved, but about 200 miles. When I left, they all did the whole “oh, we’ll stay in touch, we’ll always be together” thing that people do. And I believed it. I mean, we’d been like family.

Flash forward a decade. It’s been at least two years since any of them have made any effort to visit. For the first five or six years, I was the only one who ever made the effort… I went to them, they almost NEVER came here. A while back, I made the decision to basically just kinda stop being their friend. It wasn’t hard, given that we never spoke or communicated.

What pushed me over the edge? Finding out that several of them had spent a weekend about three miles from my house and never bothered to call. Anyway, recently, one of these people recently out-of-the-blue contacted me saying “Oh, hey, there’s this event near your house and I’m coming down. I thought we could hang out and I could stay with you.”

I never responded, figuring, “Wow, way to use me.” I’ll admit to missing them on occasion, but feel as if letting them back in will only lead to more heartache. I know I’m right, but I need you to tell me I’m right.

Signed,
Won’t Be Fooled Again

Fooled,

You’re right.

As we get older, we get used to the fact that people grow apart. It’s not always a bad thing, but it’s usually a sad thing.

Your visiting friend MAY be trying to extend an olive branch, reignite the friendship fires, etc., by reaching out to you for their upcoming visit, but I think your first instincts are right: you’re being used. One easy way to determine if that’s the case (if you even care to) is to write back with some excuse as to why crashing at your place won’t work (renovations, other out-of-town guests, etc.), but suggesting that you meet for coffee at some point during their visit. If this person were truly reaching out just to see you again, then the venue shouldn’t matter.

N.

And, you’re welcome.

So, what do you guys think of my advice? Should they take it or leave it? What would you do? Remember, if you have a problem you’d like me to solve (or try to anyway) send it to nina@blogitoutb.com. Make sure to put TIOLI in the subject line.

Take It or Leave It: Crotch Shots and Low Blows

Dear Nina,

When trying to get to my seat in a sporting event or movie theater do I face my ass or my crotch towards the other patrons? Thanks!

Confuzzled in Conroe, TX

Dear Confuzzled,

How bout you get there early enough so that you don’t have to worry about doing either?

I kid. I kid.

This is a serious question and something I’ve struggled with it. I’m not a big fan of putting my crotch in people’s faces (at least not for free), but I have to say that if I’m the person doing the scooting by, I’d prefer to face the person I’m annoying. I want to see the look of disgust and inconvenience as I block their view and step on their toes.

And this holds true if I’m the person seated as well. Butts are rude and I don’t want to see yours. I want you to face me so I can be sure that you see my look of disgust and inconvenience as you block my view and step on my toes.

So, my final answer is, you can’t go wrong with a crotch shot.

(Just make sure you wash your lady parts before you leave the house and you should be fine.)

***

So, what do you guys think of my advice. Should Confuzzled and Itty Bitty Titties take my advice or leave it? Anything you want to add?

And if you or someone you know needs me to solve a problem, shoot an email to nina@blogitoutb.com and you might see it featured here in future installment of Take It or Leave It.

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