Growth in the Flood

For a while, I was not good at feelings. Showing them, expressing them, actively feeling them… I just didn’t do the feely stuff. Somewhere in my life, I decided I never wanted people to see me cry, so I didn’t. Instead of dealing with tough issues as they were, I put them in a box to handle later, except later hardly ever came. I was the strong one. The tough one. The fixer. The rock for everyone. I didn’t have time to cry. I had stuff to do, and issues to solve.

In the last year or so, I’ve realized how ridiculous that was. Not by any grand revelation or anything, but simply by crying one good time in a moment where I felt particularly vulnerable, alone, and scared (probably on the way to one of the millions of doctor appointments I’ve had in the last year or so). In the middle of this sob fest, I believe I said “I don’t like that I have to do this right now, and it sucks.” In the midst of this tear-filled haze, I had a bit of an epiphany. You see, instead of putting my feels in a box to handle later, it’s much better to acknowledge the now, no matter how uncertain the now feels. Previously, I felt like I needed the whole picture available in order to accurately evaluate and deal. That’s not necessarily needed to validate how you feel in the moment. In any moment. I figured it was about time I started listening to the advice I gave others- your feelings are valid and yours, no matter the source. Accept it all– good, bad, and ambiguous.

Here’s an incomplete yet short, list of all of the things I’ve found myself crying about in the last 10-ish months:

  • That time I tripped over my laundry basket then panicked because it could have happened in the middle of the night and I may have passed out and nobody would have known
  • Rejection from a job I really wanted
  • Rejection from a person I really wanted a better connection with
  • Good news
  • Thai life insurance commercials
  • Friends moving
  • Friends staying
  • A wedding I attended
  • A wedding I was invited to
  • A wedding I was on the way to
  • Baby announcements
  • Baby showers
  • Seeing fresh babies
  • Being surrounded by little families and realizing how much I want my own. Today.
  • Realizing that growing up with a front row seat to substance abuse has given me a very unique lens on life that I didn’t ask for
  • Slowly being okay with that and pushing aside the “can it happen to me, too?” thoughts
  • Having actual conversations with my now 3 year old niece
  • Things I can’t fix for others that I really want to
  • Things I can’t fix for myself that I really want to
  • Empath-ing all over the place and feeling all of the things when things are haywire
  • Small ponderings about whether I am, do, or have enough
  • A few books I read
  • A bunch of movies I’ve seen (the latest: Kubo and the Two Strings)
  • That time I was mentally prepared for the anxiety that accompanies opening a can of biscuits (or maybe cinnamon rolls) and they didn’t open
  • When being poked with needles for my own health
  • When being biopsied for my own health
  • When sitting in silent doctor exam rooms to check on my own health
  • Coming home and needing a hug more than anything, but being greeted with silence
  • When I wanted better for my family
  • When I wanted better for myself
  • I saw something really cute and I didn’t know what to do with myself
  • A time or twenty when I felt forgotten (#MiddleChildProblems)
  • A time or twenty when I felt overwhelming love/appreciation
  • That one time in church with the one song playing
  • Okay, maybe that 2nd-80th time the other songs played too
  • Black people getting killed constantly by the police
  • Knowing how badly I want to bring a life in this world but living simultaneously with all of the anxiety that comes with raising a Black child in 2KAmerica
  • How far I’ve come
  • The awesomeness and anticipation of what’s yet to come

Me and my yoga mat have become really familiar at this point in my life, and who would have thought at this point I’d even own a yoga mat, much less use it? Something about child pose that makes it easier– I get in a good stretch and the mat helps mop up the tears. I suppose child pose helps me tap into my vulnerability. By staring my feels in the face, searching for the roots of them, and being broken down by the “pushed aside” emotions I needed to feel ages ago, I feel myself growing. Growing and crying. Crying and growing. Learning more about myself. Releasing ideas that held me captive. Confronting my wants and fears. Shedding layers. Acknowledging myself. Acknowledging my feelings. Affirming my need to be here for this moment even if I am a puddle of tears. Feeling stronger as I stand up. I’ve needed to keep a stockpile of Kleenex for the tough stuff, and there has been plenty of tough stuff. I’ve grown to embrace my sensitive nature. I whelm in my overwhelm. I am, in gamer terms… leveling up. Unlocking achievements all over the place.

Funny enough, at the end of these sessions, after I’ve flooded my apartment with tears, and my face is all puffy and unrecognizable, I smile. Why? Because like all great things, there is growth after the flood. Once you get past the rubble, clear the debris, and salvage a little, you come back a little different but never the same, and that is awesome. If nothing else, it serves me in learning I am exactly where I need to be. Maybe you need that affirmation as well, so let me be the first to encourage you to let it out. Even if you don’t have it all figured out. Sometimes a good tear duct flushing will lead you to answers faster than stressing it out.

In the meantime, I find myself answering questions about where I’ve been with “I’ve been… being.” It’s succinct, to the point, and sounds slightly better than “I’ve been wrapped in a cocoon of emotions, being refined in tears, and am ready to emerge as a fly and emotionally adept butterfly any time now.” Maybe I should say that, though. I’m in a Butterfly Season.  Getting ready to burst forth with awesomeness or something. What do you think?

But hey. Sometimes after all of this crying, I need a nap. If I actually let you see some of this tear shedding you might just be in my circle. Who’s got some shoulders I can borrow?

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Now Hiring: Girly Posse

Oh, friends…

I’m a mess. You know that, right? Anyway, when I haven’t been getting lost in the middle of unknown territory or engaging in other kinds of shenanigans, I’ve been having these periods of self-reflection. During these times, I get nice and silent, and I sit up in my thinking chair and think… think… think…

Wait, that’s Blue. She wouldn’t appreciate me jacking her thinking song.

Back off, Beez. 

So, where was I? Ahh, yes… the thinking. Since I have a lot of time on my hands, I’ve been offering this time for figuring out some things. Things about myself I like, things about myself I don’t like, things about myself that I just “meh!” about… plenty of things fall into that last category. Most recently, though, I finally came to this conclusion:

I am a “different” girl.

What, pray tell, do I mean by that? I’ve just noticed, that in the time it’s taken me to reach a quarter century of living, Beez has not been taught some of the finer points of femininity. Let’s be honest though… Beez hasn’t been really checking for it all too much, either. Blame my older sister (that doesn’t exist).

I’m so backwards, y’all. I’d rather slip on a pair of custom Chuck Taylor’s than teeter-totter in 85 inch stilettos.  Instead of talking about (well, for me, it’s more of listening) how men are crazy, stupid, blind, or whatever derogatory adjective you can find, I’d rather be playing Zelda. Instead of dressing up in frilly things that show off my best assets, I’d rather wear something comfortable, functional, and if it shows off anything, fine. If not, still fine. Apparently, that means I have so much to learn.

Mama Beez was pretty keen on keeping me covered and smothered until the years that would prove whether she drove me straight to #HoIsh or not. Her goal was to keep me sans child during my teenage years. Turns out, when unleashed to the world, I wasn’t all that bad. By then, I decided that khakis and polos weren’t all that bad, and for certain occasions, you had to about beat me to wear a dress. Even now the only ‘make up’ I wear is lip gloss, and that’s only because of the functionality it provides.  Smithers (if he had a blog… we’re working on it) could tell you about the time I freaked out in a dressing room trying to find something ‘womanly’ for my college graduation. That ranks in my ‘worst moments ever’ list after being lost in Chicago, being lost in Tokyo, being stuck in Chicago, and that one day I overslept and the world kept going on…

I’ve never liked shopping much, at least for myself. If I’m not doing it online, I don’t have the patience for it. I only shop when I need to, meaning “Oh, my pants have a hole in it. Time for new jeans.” Figuring color combinations, cuts, and figuring out whether I have to pay for a garment then pay someone to make it fit me right… these things set a fear in me that could rival the fear one has of flying, heights, fire, or Richard Simmons. I hate the redundancy of trying on things multiple times. I abhor the strategy of looking online first, then showing up to the store only to find out that your *insert product here* was sold. Add to that the prospect of doing it alone (which I dislike) or doing it with someone who’s overly enthusiastic about seeing your legs in a dress (which I may dislike more), and heck, you’ll see why I’d rather stay home. Simply put, retail therapy would send me to the nut house.

I’ve had some success here and there with my dabbling in girly things. I bought a couple of dresses for recent events that didn’t look like potato sacks. I do (try to) keep up on the eyebrow maintenance– times is hard, and my tweeze hand isn’t the strongest, but I’m working on it. Every once in a while, I’ll even wear eyeliner or gloss. I’ve been trying to work on some kind of daily ‘look,’ but my life and its inconsistencies play a huge part in that.

Where does this come from? Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t like spending money I don’t have on things I won’t continue. I don’t have a network of girlyfolk who swap and trade things they don’t like (do y’all do this? If not, you should- saves throwing it away!). I think I need a mentor. In girl-ness. Someone to teach me to walk in heels I probably will never wear, pluck things I’ve never plucked, and get excited for things that previously ground my gears. Show me colors that work with me. Explain what ‘warm’ and ‘cool’ mean. Keep in mind, you’re going to need to not make this feel like boot camp. Loving the heck out of me is appreciated, yet unnecessary.

Is Fran Drescher busy? I’ve always wanted her to be my play aunt, and maybe she could teach me things. At least when she blathers on about Mr. Sheffield, it’s endearing. And short. I guess we could say it’s high time for a makeover. One step at a time.

My mind is everywhere, friends. Keep me in your thoughts.

Hugs and Sprinkles,
Beez

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Paula Deen: Unwrapped

Heyyyy everyone! *waves like a madwoman*

I have reached an epiphany. I’ve finally seen the light, and tasted to see that the Kool-Aid is good. Wait… what was the question again? Oh.

Anyway, the topic of one of my favorite people ever, Miss Paula Deen (aka My play-Granny), came up, and as always, I had my Southern drawl in my back pocket, ret ta go! All of a sudden, a thought came to me: What if Paula Deen had not been born and raised in Jaw-juh, and the southern accent + hospitable host thing was just a sham? After a quick check on Wikipedia, and cross referencing with material on the Food Network’s website (should just be renamed Paula’s House, IMO), I did confirm that Ms. Deen *swoon* was indeed dirty south mind blown dirty south bred… catfish fried up dirty south fed… sleep in a cot pickin’ dirty south bed…1

Then, the fun began.

But… what if? I dreamed up some ridiculous situations, placing my beloved Miz Paula’s place of origin in such places as Australia, Canada, and even Mexico. I then realized that the most ridiculous place that I could imagine Paula’s born turf is right in NE America: New Jersey. What if Paula spent her adolescence fist-pumping along the Jersey Shore, instead of preparing for debutante balls? What if she sounded more like Fran Drescher, instead of the lovable southern gramma we know her as? What if she were a Long Island (yeah, I know it’s in NY) Lolita instead of a Georgia Peach? Would you love her then?

http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UDlabjS92Xc/S8gFlqh7DVI/AAAAAAAAAYg/nt1hRgS-Hz0/s320/Paula_with_dog_s4x3_lg.jpg

So the tan ISN’T from laying hours outside with the sweet tea?!

[photo courtesy of the Food Network]

If I were in charge of the (fake) Paula’s press, the Wikipedia article would be as follows:

Paula Deen (born Claudia Francesca DiBucci on January 19, 1947) is an American cook, restaurateur,author, Emmy Award-winning television personality, and all around bag of awesome.

Deen resides in Savannah, Georgia, where she owns and operates The Lady and Sons restaurant with her sons, who people only check for just to see their mama. She has also published five cookbooks. 92.48% of the recipes contained in all of the cookbooks include some byproduct of butter, which gains her gajillions of fans each day. She continues to use the surname Deen from her first marriage professionally, although she married some schmuck a few years back whose last name contains no “POW!” factor, and is therefore deemed irrelevant.


Claudia was born around the corner from the New Jersey Devil. She grew up eating in diners, as New Jersey does not have any kind shortage of them at all, and it was at the Wing and a Prayer Diner2 that she found her calling. A frequent customer/part-time busboy, Frank Magoo (who was quite nearsighted and had bad hearing), often called Claudia by the wrong names, usually yelling at the top of his lungs. One day, when demanding Claudia for beans, he said, “Paula… Deen (like a bell ringing)!” and she began to draft her escape plan.


As documented in official sources, DiBucci claims to have suffered from agoraphobia and would not leave her house. Could you blame her though? She was in Jersey. *fist pumps* She is a proficient Southern cook, a talent she used to help her deal with her condition, and also to stack that cheese and get out of dodge ASAPtually. In 1986, she felt well enough to take a job as a bank teller, where she and three of her friends proceeded to lead a string of successful bank robberies, otherwise, setting it off. After that she and her sons moved to Savannah, by way of Greyhound. She legally changed her name to Paula Deen, and began a catering service, never to be known as Claudia again. She made sandwiches and other meals, which her sons Jamie and Bobby delivered, since they weren’t going to make Thriller or anything.


Fame didn’t take long at all to reach Lady Paula. When Paula blew up, she blew up expeditiously. These days, Paula’s face is everywhere, from her signature line of cookware to the cakes in the Walmarts. She’s got more pages with her name on it than the law should allow. She found Bad Boy’s basement, then cooked a good Southern meal for its inhabitants (They later got the itis, and didn’t get a chance to escape. #SucksToBeYouHomie). She will be here from sea to shining sea, so if you harbor any resentment towards her charm, her style, or her ability to make deep fried butter sound like the most awesomefreakindelicious thing ever, you might as well trade the frown for a spot on a VH1 “love” show. Good night and good luck.

And that…is just proof that I’m long overdue for rest.

Hoping to Catch You in Hibernation,

Beez

1- Ludacris, “Throw Dem Bows”

2- From Tyler Perry’s “The Family That Preys”

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Operation: Situation Moisturization

*peeks in*

Hey, y’all. How’s everyone been?

*ducks cat being thrown at me*

Now, who did that? *straightens collar* Anyway, I just wanted to check in since it’s been a while. Tax season’s winding down, and my new gig (as Nanny McBeez– more on that later) keeps me plenty busy. The reason I’ve come today is because I’m going through quite an awkward phase with my hair.

You know I have my views on embracing the natural beauty within and all that gobbledygook, but for some reason, my hurr has not been complying. I’ve been experiencing 5 seasons of dryness and 7 whole days of shedding. My roommates may quit living with me, because with my hair falling out left and right, we might don’t make it much longer. 🙁

I have some theories as to why this has happened…
*Winter is over, and now it’s relenting for all the dryness I subjected it to by keeping the heat on.
*Spring is near, and my ends just need a trim like Tiger Woods needs to not be in the news.
*I’m going bald. And this is just the first of many awkward stages. Help me, Gaga.

Because I don’t like my hair falling out in clumps and stuff, I’ve been tryna “moisturize my situation,” as (P.?) Diddy coined in the Proactiv ads of years past, in order to restore my hair to its full glory. Spring’s coming, and I’ve gotta let my soooooOOOOOUUULLLLL GLOOOOOWWW!

Feeling oh, so silky, smooth.

So far, I have taken the following steps (with minimal results):
*Washed my hair and slept in a cap of deep conditioner. Result: Crunchy dry mess.
*Washed my hair the next day, slept in a cap of deep conditioner + olive oil. Result: Dry shiny mess.
*Upped my moisturization to twice a day. Result: my hair going #nomnomnom, but otherwise, still dry.
*Two-strand twisting my hair and letting it alone for a while (my usual “let your hair saddown” style). Result: crunchy twists (not to be confused with cheetos).
*Pseudo-trimming my ends, because yet and still, I don’t trust myself with scissors. Result: A little less breakage, but breakage nonetheless.

Did I mention I’ve done all of this over the past week?

HELP ME GAGA!!

Girl, I got nothing for you. Ooh- a Kermit! Rah rah, ooh la la…

So anyway, I’m at a crossroads of sorts. All signs say “get thee to a stylist” but all cheapness/brokeness says “you havent tried everything the world has to offer.” Now, I solicit you, fair reader(s). Any products/styles that you use for special “pimp my hair” situations? Any routines you suggest for me? I’ll post pics when I’m back at home, but the madness must end. Uh.mee.juh.lee!

Yours in Dryness,
Beez

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“The key to success is often the ability to adapt”

… I’m currently working on my adaptability. This past week has made it rather hard for me to do so, though. Just when I think there’d be a lull in activity, something comes at me and hits me all over again. yippee!

I sleep on a futon at a friend’s, and perhaps tarnished the trust an individual has had in me over something I perceive to be minor, but hey, you never know the other side of the story with these kind of things. Currently working on righting the wrong.

My back kind of hurts.

Also found out friend that I’m currently living with has decided to move with her husband 5 months before she originally planned to (he’s with the USAF), so that gives me about a month or so to find a (permanent) job and a place to live… oy me.

I’ve started the application blitz again. I think the most logical way about this is to get the job first, then the place…

and I’ll eventually need a car.

… and a hug.

I absolutely HATE this temporary position that I’m in also. There’s no room for me to grow personally or professionally, I’m only given menial tasks (that anyone can do), but am somehow always watched like a hawk (like being timed on my capability to perform such tasks. Most of the time I finish them faster than expected, only to be met with scrutinizing glances, as if I can’t work a copier, or prepare a simple document in Excel that’s just data entry). I’m expected to answer the phones and know all of the information about the department, yet I have not met ANY of the people I end up transferring calls to. If this were a larger department, I’d understand, but this is nothing. Luckily the faculty I’ve encountered are nice, aside from the fact that most of them can’t use a copier … o_O). I gave them a huge side eye when given an “inventory sheet” to check against that was so outdated, I ended up creating my own from scratch. The closet was dusty and I had a mini-asthma attack. I kept trucking, though I lost my voice for a couple of hours. Nobody knew anything different. I’ve fought with the idea of asking for another placement, but at the same time, I really need the money. I just don’t know how much I can take. I don’t like the idea of people giving me work just to “keep me busy,” especially when I know my skills and helpfulness can be used to other degrees. Soon, it will be over. Soon.

I’m still hopeful that things will work out in my favor. Lots of prayer and self-reflection lead me to this conclusion. Times this week I’ve just wanted to cry: partially because of how this isn’t my ideal situation, and partially from gratefulness that it isn’t as bad as it could be. I sometimes struggle with the concept of being grateful and ingrateful at the same time: how does that happen? Why do we let it happen?

For now, I’ll just work on making today the best that I can make it. Forget about yesterday, and let tomorrow work itself out if/when I’m blessed to see it come. For me, that’s harder than it appears, so that’s where the “one day at a time” comes in…

Happy Monday!

–Beez

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Yep, I’m still alive. Homesick, but still alive.

I’m really not a bad person. I saw an engagement today after Bible study and didn’t cry! Actually, I had a bit of dust in my eye, but the secret gangster in me I decided to high five people instead of openly sob. I believe they’ll have a great marriage. I just honestly haven’t had the time to give a decent update in recent days. In between packing and whatnot, I got a call to temp full time for a while at the University, which started today. That left me the weekend to begin picking up the broken pieces of my heart packing, though I’m still in denial that I even have to do it… I kind of feel like the kids in Recess, from this episode.

I…shall not, I shall not be moved. I… shall not, I shall not be moved.
Apartment 301 has become my Old Rusty. My refuge when I was sick, and my hideaway when I didn’t want to be bothered. It was my home for 3 years, and heck, it felt nice to call one place home for so long… Moving around so much when I was younger left me with some kind of thing with stability. Although sometimes I couldn’t stand being here as witnessed by my weekly rants of “I can’t stand this forkin’ house!!!” I guess I’ve placed more emphasis on this than I thought I had, and it’s really just hitting me now. I’m actually feeling homesick for a place that wasn’t technically a home. For me, home’s always been “where your stuff is.” Now, home’s where my stuff and heart fight for the extra bedroom space, and I’ll miss it. 🙂

I’m sure I’ll be okay without my Old Rusty. And even when I miss it, I’ll still have the memories.

Off to bed, my sleep schedule is also forked.

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…And the Procrastinating Continues…

I honestly should be packing the apartment, but I decided to give myself the “photoshop” tutorial, by making a blog header. It’s in the upper right of the blog, for some reason. My eyelids are getting quite droopy, so now I’ll retire and talk more about this when I wake.

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Why Do I Blog?

In the style of my blog buddy Archana, I decided to do one of those tagged blogs, except I kind of came up with this on my own.

I’ve asked myself this question plenty of times since I’ve decided to pursue it. I would give myself a set number of reasons, but heck, where I stop will be where I stop.

1- I blog because I love writing.
It may not seem like it at times, but I love writing about as much as I love reading. I used to write all the time as a kid (Flashback: I remember an assignment where we had to retell a fairytale from the villain’s POV; I chose Cinderella and ended up with a 10 page detailed narrative, and I was about 11). Writing has always been my favorite outlet, from the time I started keeping a journal when I was a wee lass until now. When I felt I had no friends to listen to me, I wrote. When I couldn’t quite figure out the words to describe what I felt, I wrote. Writing was my therapy, a practice that has continued into my adult years. Sometimes, when going through the “rough patches,” as I like to call them, it’s nice to look back every once in a while and say “I got through this.”

2- I blog because I forget things sometimes.
Not like the people who have a condition that affects their memory, but sometimes there are things I think about that I basically don’t want to forget. Sometimes, they’re just things I remember from days or years past, like my Flashback Friday posts (yep, that’s tomorrow!) or the jingle tribute, but hopefully they’re things that all can enjoy… which brings me to:

3- I blog because I like sharing!
Whether it’s something that I find funny, or a random thing that happened to me, or even issues I’d like to get opinions from others about, I like sharing. If I could, I’d even share my cookies, maybe when Baby Beez comes along (in 2020 or so…), he/she/they’ll share the cookies with ya. Blame it on me being the middle child, blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol, or blame it on the boogie, I’m a sharer. I’m also good at keeping secrets and being a mediator, so if you need a buddy, I’m your gal!

In the spirit of sharing, here’s a cool find I came across this article:

100 Things Your Kids May Never Know About

Some of my favorites from the list:

  • Rotary dial televisions with no remote control. You know, the ones where the kids were the remote control. (that was me- the channel changer, water fetcher, dishwasher, etc.)
  • The scream of a modem connecting. (SCREEEEEE-URPPPPP!! wee-woo, wee-woo, wee-woo…)
  • Doing bank business only when the bank is open. (but online does help…)
  • Not knowing exactly what all of your friends are doing and thinking at every moment. (thanks Twitter! By the way, did anyone else feel lost during the DOS earlier)
  • The fact that words generally don’t have num8er5 in them. (this practice makes me sick to no end… I’d threaten bodily harm to my kids if they tried this. That’s why I don’t have any now.)
  • Pay phones. (Are these mofos extinct now?)
  • Remembering someone’s phone number. (I still remember numbers, except my own… )
  • Not knowing who was calling you on the phone. (gotta weed out the stalkers…)
  • A physical dictionary — either for spelling or definitions. (for the record, I HATE dictionary.com. I’m a Merriam-Webster girl all the way.)
  • Finding books in a card catalog at the library. (I’m sure a kid today would think the card was the book…)
  • Blowing the dust out of a NES cartridge in the hopes that it’ll load this time. (Yesssss!! Duck Hunt on deck!)

Baby Beezes are gonna be so deprived. Hopefully I’ll be able to show them a video from the olden days of the 1980s. And a boombox. What do you all remember?

Happy Friday!

–Beez

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Beauty Standards

Shh. I haven’t been here for a while, and I gots something to say.

This one’s been marinating inside of me for a minute…

I’m baffled by the concept of beauty these days. I’ve always believed that what makes one different makes them beautiful, but I recognized that there’s a pressure, particularly on young women, to conform to a set “standard” to be “beautiful.” A certain hairstyle, a certain weight, a certain way of dress are seen as acceptable and right, and any deviations are seen as the norm. Strange thing is, we’re all a bit of a deviation if you ask me. Take myself for example: I’ve got a big crazy fro, I’m a bit overweight (working on that though), and I don’t get gussied up like the average girl, mostly because I’m not all that sure of what to “do” (anybody wanna be my big sister?). When I got my last relaxer 4 years ago and announced it, all I could get in return from people is “when are you gonna do your hair?” or “what’s up with that mop on your head?” or better yet, the unsolicited yanking, pulling and touching (especially on the occasion I opt to have it straightened, to see if it’s “all mine”). For the sake of keeping this a bit brief, I’d rather tell my hair story another time. Just know there’s a story, and have your popcorn ready.

It’s funny, because with all of these stories of celebrities making changes and being scrutinized (ie Solange Knowles’ infamous public cut (left), anything Rihanna or Beyonce does, Jennifer Aniston’s hairstyle which was popular enough to have a name, the Rachel (right)[by the way, wtheck was up with that?]), it makes me wonder: why do we let these societal standards define who we are? I think of Chris Rock’s upcoming documentary “Good Hair” (a phrase which pisses me beyond the highest possible level of pisstivity, because who determines if your hair is “good” or “bad,” if God made it to grow out of your head as such? For those unfamiliar with the documentary (or the term), here’s the trailer:



I’m kind of intrigued to see how relevant this will be, considering Rebbund Al is in it, and no, I wouldn’t touch his hair. It seems to be a good idea on the forefront, but I wonder exactly who the target audience is.

I know there are many people who get it, that you are who you are, and we should just embrace that no matter what. On the other side, you have, well, a mix of people who I hate to put in a box, because this will always be a never ending list… But for today, I kind of want to focus on those who make embracing your natural beauty seem so easy. Let’s look at the college professor in Georgia who adopted a child from Ethiopia, and with no prior knowledge of how to care for African hair, used love and patience to begin shaping in his daughter the idea that she is beautiful. For a gallery of photos like the ones to the side, click here. For the full story, click here.

It’s so nice to see stories like that, and from a non-African American family at that! The time spent learning speaks volumes of that father’s love. That “supply drawer” is nothing to balk about , either! I hope that one day when I have some curly haired cuties of my own, I will be able to impart into them the message of loving yourself as you are. Sure, I’ll accept the choices they make along the way, maybe even participate in some myself. The important thing is to teach them that who you are on the outside and
on the inside are the same, but different. That’s one less thing they’ll be in therapy for later with a wacky mum like me! 🙂

Anyway, what are some of your ideals on this whole “standard of beauty” thing, and what do you do to combat it, if you choose to do so? Do you have children, and if so, how do you impart the message that they are beautiful?


Love it. Period.

Take care!
–Beez

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The “But Me” Conspiracy

Hi, all!!

Sorry for the extreme delay in posting. I spent a fantabulous (is that a word? oh, well, it is now) weekend in Chicago doing hoodrat stuff with my friends*, and had no internet access. For once, I was glad I didn’t! Started working out again (more on that at another time) and am slooowly packing up the old apartment. le sigh.

Now that we’re caught up, I wanted to explore something that’s been marinating in my mind, to see if anyone else gets caught up in, ads I call it, the “but-me” conspiracy. Most of my friends are in their 20s, an interesting time with lots of changes. Everyone’s lives are going haywire, and making progression towards the sort of “real adults” we’ll be one day. While some of us are just finishing school, others are going for round 2 or beyond, or tackling that super-cool occupation you’ve dreamed of since hitting the Quad some years ago. Some are just getting into relationships that may turn into more, while others are getting married, having children, buying homes, or enjoying timeshares. Crazy, isn’t it?

Confession: Sometimes, I feel caught up in the midst of all of these changes, and wonder why they aren’t happening to me at the rate of reproducing bunnies. Sometimes I’m quite thankful for it; other times, I’m just not sure why I’m happy they aren’t. I’m happy for my peers, but I guess I kind of want my time, too. My thought process sort of goes like this:

Everyone’s got something going great in their lives… but me.
Everyone’s got a great job… but me.
Everyone’s in a great relationship… but me.
Everyone’s getting married and starting great lives with someone who loves them… but me.
I’m a doofus, I swear. 😛

Of course I know that there’s a time and season for everything (as stated by Ecclesiates and The Byrds), and that I am not the exception to the rule ALL the time (though some of the time is quite questionable). I’ve come to the conclusion that I am simply not ready for all of that cool stuff, and when it’s my time, it’s my time. Besides, with all of the changes I’m contemplating at the time (moving, job hunting, perpetual broke-ness), where would all of that other stuff fit in my life? If I think I’m mad now, just think of how mad I’d be with another person to consider in all of these decisions

Yep. I’m better off right now without the hassle. In the meantime, I’ll just feed this (rented) fish and spread my love to the masses. I’ll keep myself ready for the big breaks, in all aspect of life Preparing for the king who’ll eventually sweep me off of my feet, and readying myself to meet the King of Kings when that time comes.

So anyway, I hope that this can be a bit of encouragement for those of you who live the “but-me” life a little more than I do. Just remember: you’re not on anyone’s timeline but your own. Live it as you see fit, and not according to anyone else’s schedule. Your “stuff” will come in time. 🙂

–Beez

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