Kudos to the Villain in me.

SUBJECT: the new number


"Hi. I pray you are doing well. I am writing to apologize for lying about having a new number and my usage of profane words. I lied because I no longer wish to have someone a part of my life who has repeatedly disrespected me concerning reliability and lack of manners. I wanted badly for us to remain friends always, but it seems you don't know how to be a good friend. No hard feelings so much my way in target of you anymore. I'm coming to realize sometimes one must allow another's pattern to set as it is sewn. I can no longer alter your disheveled treatment towards the meaning of friendship into the redundantly forlorn hope that you will one day change. May you be blessed in everything fruitful that you do. May you learn from what you lack. Peace."

THE ABOVE WAS SENT TO The Villain in an email on today, just minutes ago...

I'm Not Proud of Myself.

(If you have not read "The Villain in Me..." this might not mean much to you. It's a follow-up)

The Villain texted me the other day.
His number registered as 404-917-6*** as he is now an unknown in my registry of numbers.
Here's what he had to say.

"Good morning
Hope all is well"

And here's how I responded.

"Who the ***k is
this? U got the
wrong d***
number dis early n
d mornin"

It was 7:21am. I'd only been home from work an hour.
I'm used to being up early.


...SOMETIMES WE THINK WE KNOW OURSELVES.
UNTIL WE ARE CONFRONTED.

Here's how The Villian responded.

"Wow...really???
This is N----"

I was delighted. The dumba** bought it.
(I'm not generally one to curse. But this is how I was thinking at the time of my temporary insanity.)

I respond back with
NOTHING.

The Villian finally realizes he's not as cerebral as he thought he was...
He finally gets it.

"I'm sure u
knew who this was....so whatever," he says.
(End of conversation)

I'D WANTED TO MAKE HIM THINK I'D CHANGED NUMBERS & THOUGHT SO little OF HIM I DIDN'T EVEN THINK TO LET HIM KNOW. (I thought this might hurt him more than just me not responding)

I WANTED TO STING HIS MILDEWED HEART WITH AN EARLY MORNING APPETIZER OF CRUDE LANGUAGE AND OBLIVION TO MY WHEREABOUTS.

I WANTED TO 409 HIM, SuperClean HIM, bleach HIM. SO HE COULD KNOW THAT I'D GONE THIS TIME. FOR GOOD.

before I'm Thirty...

I will.

become an expert web designer.

learn graphic design.

take a photography class.

write a novel. aunonomously. based on my life.

become a certified PC repair technician.

learn Portuguese & travel to Brazil.

take an art class?

acquire a degree in furniture design?

AND

most importantly

Love God more than me.


P.S.
I'll also come back to read this periodically to remember to do all this--before I'm 30.

The Villain in me or the Lack There-of and Love-UNEDITED

I can't honestly say I'll never talk to him again. I can only say untruthfully that I won't. Because, you see, out of all the villainy lurking within me that seldom shows--except for in times like this--the greatest of it is in opposition to myself.

I wish I could be a villain in the way The Villain was one to me. I wish I could make him hurt and not even care that I did (this blog will mostlikely be the extent of my revenge). I'd lure him into my lair with an irresistable force so powerful that even you, dear reader, would not dare to read my words in description of it for fear of your own intoxicated plight. And at the height of The Villain's oblivion via my irresistable weapon of allure, at the height of his deepest intrigue with me, I'd de-magnitize "our aura" faster than what encompasses the rules of gravity. I WISH I could do all this, but the Heart of me can't. My Heart is a flow that won't stop loving. And THAT is the greatest of the villainies within me.

When I was a child, I was angry. I could hate. And I could do it genuinely. I will not elaborate much because if I did, you'd instinctively tense up tighter than King Kong in a size 12 girdle from the chilling reality of it all, and I care too much about my readers to allow you to undergo the affliction of restricted blood flow, teeth-chipping chattering teeth and clenched fists that leave nail-imprinted palms. Besides, this metaphor's getting kind of scary. King Kong probably would bust out of that size twelve, know what I mean? But, ahmm, as I was saying, when I was a child I was angry. About alot of things. And I spent a great deal of time cultivating Hate so that I could do it better and better each time. I wanted so bad to feel so much evil inside so that I could become numb to hurting people. But then, one day the most eventful, life changing things happened. One, I saw one whom I'd oppressed act as an oppressor to a lesser. And Two, I actually BECAME the oppressed by my formerly oppressed.

(perhaps I'll elaborate on these for you one day. but for now...)

Actually seeing my hate in action by another, and in the same EXACT manner as I'd use it is what First woke me up. It was literally like watching a secretly recorded video of myself doing an action I'd deny with sincerity had I not seen it with my own eyes! I knew I was hateful, but not THAT hateful. I'd have never given myself that great of credit. And seeing my hate in action taught me that I wasn't as hateful as I tried to indicate I was. After feeling a sadness of regret for the one I saw oppressed, I realized, somewhere deep within that I wasn't a monster afterall. I discovered that I could love.

For the time when I BECAME the oppressed, I can honestly say I WAS. SCARED. TO. DEATH. You see, this occurrance happened AFTER I witnessed the above mentioned, upon which I began to immediately willingly defragment the hard shell surrounding my heart. By then, even though, I still had a bit of a temper, I'd learned that love was stronger than anger. Love had pushed aside my quest of hatefulness like the flick of a switch that turns on the light in a dark and empty room. Now that the light was shining brightly amidst the unfilled room of my heart, the room could finally be filled with lovely things. See, my perspective had changed and so had my heart. So I couldn't be angry in retalliation to the extent I used to in the past, not even if my oppressor had showered hate on me with the ferocity of 50 strategically thrown daggers at it's enemy target. Witnessing my oppressor's extreme lack of self-control was empowering to me--simply because it made me feel like crap. Finally, I'd felt the way I made others feel. And it was awful. Just awful.

And all this, dear readers, is why my heart is a flow that won't stop loving. This is why the greatest of my villianies is towards myself.

If The Villian ever calls me again, or emails, or texts, I don't know if I can ignore him as others would, as he IS quite deserving of this minor act of revenge. And it's not because I'm in love with him that I most-likely won't ignore him. I stopped loving him the Summer of 2006 when I finally woke up and realized I could do much better for a mate. And it's not even because I want to keep him as my friend. I woke up and realized I could do much better for a friend the moment he'd villianized me for the Christmas Holidays, the same as he'd done just previously during Thanksgiving of which I was very forgiving. In fact, I believe it's safe to say The Villain is not even worthy to be my AQUAINTANCE, or perhaps we'll lessen him to that of a passersby, even more deservingly reasonable of course. I can honestly say I don't know if I can ignore him, for the simple existance of etiquette. Etiquette. Ah, in learning to love I've learned to love past subjectivity, past affliction from others. Hence, I'm very forgiving--and also very easily taken advantage of. Seemingly. But please, dear reader, don't test me. Grrrrrr. Taking advantage of me requires the subtlety of Snow's gentle landing and Water's forming and breaking of bonds, ambiguous to the naked eye. I'm quite the intrinsic when it comes to accurately percieving!

Yah. So, back to The yucky Villian.

He's not worth a 15th of a cent, if such a thing even exist as tangible, which I'm sure it doesn't. Why would it? A 15th of a cent is Worthless.

He's not worth the dung hanging half-endedly from the butt of a barren cow in a field of undernourished grass from which the cow eats and will soon die.

He wouldn't be worth it even, if he were a piece of meat and the last of it on earth, amongst millions of hungry faces and hands craddling empty bellies that roar with the same growlings as Lions. Not one hungry soul would dare to feast on The Villain for fear of taking on the worthless likeness of him.

But strangely, The Villain IS worth loving. Why? Because if he's not worth loving, then he's worth a relapse into the snare of anger waiting to consume me as it once did so long ago. And he's not worth that. He's not worth my disempowerment. Love is always stronger than hate, stronger than any negative force around. And I choose it as my weapon. Afterall, didn't you know? God=Love! And I want Him on my side. Not anything else...

Now if you'll kindly excuse me, I've got a few pictures to delete from my laptop, a few letters to dispose of, a couple of numbers to delete, cards to--oh, you know!

I love hard. But I'm nobody's fool but God's.

Peace. And please do have a magnificant day.

untitled

It is some random day of which I can't remember the likes of from last week.

That's when it happened. But I didn't notice it until the wee beginnings of this week. You see, I'd stubbed my toe and of course I knew of it. But in stubbing my toe I apparently inadvertently succeeded in detaching half my toenail from its proper habitat. My skin. And as I don't have insurance to see a doctor (I guess I'd need to see a Podiatrist), I decided to let nature take its course and optimism take my heart.

It would reattach itself.

The hardness of my toenail would be miraculously drawn by the yearning of my skin for its past coexistence as two being one. The hardness of my toenail would equally and endearingly beckon for my skin to meet it halfway as well. They would one-day link skin to toenail again. Both could feel the surety of it in the very abyss of their cells. The two would work together simultaneously, lessening each other’s own burden of the feat AND proving the intense depth of the liaison by the latter. Yes, everything would be just fine. Two would become one again.

(Especially since I prayed about it)

:)

And sure enough, I awoke the next day to find my toenail and the skin on my toe had rekindled their liaison. Wow. Amazing. I got down on my knees and thanked God for sparing me a bulky doctor’s bill. If it had not healed, I’d have eventually given in to going to see a doc, insurance or no insurance. And so, I allowed a great big bubbly feeling of genuine happiness to overtake me, casually tossing aside the previous coping mechanism of forced optimism upon which I'd relied so heavily on my yesterday. I tweedle-dee-dummed my way on to work, happy as a one would be if he/she woke to find their once blind eyes could see, and sporting a pair of old worn out flip flops.

But behold, the problem with miracles is that we all too often become so filled with the aura of happiness that we forget from whence we came. We forget that miracles, although supernatural, are not beyond fragmentation. And so, as the work day wore on I carelessly sported my little flip flopped laiden miracle. Happily. I carelessly bumped my toes turning corners. I carlessly kept balance when walking up and down stairs. I carelessly allowed the kids to step on my feet. And I carelessly brought up a cloud of dust from a congregation of gravel and dirt onto my flip flops while at the local park. Happily. Needless to say, by my work day's end my little miracle had become undone. And with the same sort of sadness that comes when one knows he/she fluked the big game when the shot was clearly wide open, I whipped out my laptop and started researching ways to patch up the effects of a shot gone bad. After an hour and a half of research I finally found out I could just go ahead and pull my dangling toenail off. It would grow back within a few months. And so I gently ended the liason with the slight tug of my fingers and a small whimper of complaint from the skin on my toe in the form of a dot of blood.

That night, as I lay in bed awaiting the unconsciousness of sleep to visit me, I wondered just how many times in my life I've ever undone the acts of God's graciousness to me and pondered the ignorance of delayed satisfaction I force upon myself by my own inadequacies. And you know, I have to say there's probably way more times than I could ever recall. I thank God for his mercy. I thank God for even Thinking to bless little old me.

if we'd all just Jump In...

Let me first start off by saying if you don’t believe there is a God you’re dead wrong (oh, so you’re gonna stop reading now?). And if you believe that he exists but just choose not to serve him because life feels much easier if you just go with the flow of it, you’re even more dead wrong (you made it this far—keep going). And if you believe there is a supreme entity and haven’t acted on that belief because “How can I choose to serve a God when there are a million of them out there. How do I know which one?” you’re insulting the Mighty One and you too are dead wrong. The truth of the One is evident in everything. Really I’d like to call you a fool though. But I won’t because that’s not my style. And anyways, I probably should refer to myself as a fool—considering the likes of me.  

I think it serves me right to call myself that because, you see, God’s had to prove himself to me only too many times...

It wasn’t long after my mere conception that I was introduced to him, I guess you could say. And in the comfy confines of my mother’s tummy I heard the Word probably most every Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday that the doors of Bethlehem Church of God Holiness on M.L.K. street were open.

So me and God go way back.


I first knew he was “for real” real around the age of—oh, I don’t know. It was during my middle school years or perhaps right before them, I think. And well, one Sunday morning I was all ready, dressed for church and lingering about outside the premises of my home in the cutie pie of a blue dress my mother had picked out for me to wear.
Now no one else was ready so I just HAD to find something else to do besides sit neatly waiting doing nothing in the house. So there I was standing outside on our front porch, my mothers car key in hand, when a little whisper of inquiry suddenly tickled inside my heart upon taking in all that was before me.

I looked at the bright green banana tree in our front yard with its giant, umbrella-like leaves. It was beautiful. No bananas had ever come to fruition from it but I could gaze at it for days, the green was so pure and that healthy. I looked up at the brilliant baby blue of the sky and the fat, silvery-white clouds suspended in it and hanging so low I fancied I could actually touch one if I wanted. The sky was absolutely gorgeous. And the sun—the sun sat just behind the clouds so as to produce a soothing warmth of relief unlike the sweltering heat of the day before it. My ears perked up in attention as I began listening to the calls of nature. The rhythmic chirps of birds I didn’t know the names for and the Wood Pecker’s persistent peck aligned beautifully with the ruffling sounds made by squirrels chasing about in a nearby tree. And morning banter amongst the neighborhood dogs added to the symphony.

I was in my own little wonderland that had been suspended from the elements of nature. This was not unusual, as I had come to visit this state of mind quite often that summer, without notice it sometimes seemed, until the admiration would suddenly softly fade, pushing me back into my existence.

And so, it was the taking in of all this beauty that lit the fire in my mind to have the sort of inquiry that I did. I said aloud, “God, this earth is too beautiful not to have had a creator. You’ve GOT to be real. But, oh, what if you aren’t! Are you???” I then jumped down to the walkway of our house from the porch, purposed towards my mothers van to wait for the others and still holding on to the newness of the previous. Is God really real? How can I know?? I WANT to know! I know! I’ll test him—ask him for a sign, that’s it! And as I sat in the passenger’s seat of the van with the door ajar I suddenly knew what the test would be. Far to the other end of the yard—perhaps the distance was about 25 meters—a Bumble Bee buzzed violently around the banana tree’s giant leaves. “God,” I said, “If you’re really real, then why don’t you just let that ol’ bumble come right on over here and try to sting me!”

Now listen good. I kid you NOT, that hateful bee purposed towards me just as purposeful as did the giant fish God sent to swallow Jonah! The words I had so cleverly spoken just a moment before hadn’t any more time to become a lingering in the air than a dead weight dropped to the ground. I hurriedly lifted my legs inside and slammed the car door watching from safety’s arms as the bee buzzed frantically around the passenger’s side mirror. He’s a big ol’ mean sucker of a Bumble Bee, I observed from the newly close range between us. I sat gratefully inside the car watching its malevolence for the next minute or so as my chest heaved from the scare upon which I’d just escaped. I’d never been stung by a bee before and certainly the truth it nearly just happened was a sting in itself.

“I’m sorry God,” I said remorsefully. “I shouldn’t have tested you.” And then as if on command, the menacing bee flew away.

“Well,” I thought, as I sat back in the seat relieved, “It looks like I made a BIGGG mistake.”


Now listen. This wasn’t the first time I tested God. I’ve got plenty more stories to tell but I’m afraid if I do, this particular blog entry here will gain an insert into the Guiness Book of World Records as “Longest Blog Entry Ever.” And I’m not trying to become a Lyndsey Lohan here. She’s a great actress and everything, but Hollywood’s not sucking ME in only to spit me right back out! All you Lyndsey Lohan’s out there can have the fab life. When the timings right, you’ll get your stories. :)

Now, as I was saying somewhere near the beginning of this blog entry, “…God’s had to prove himself to me only too many times...” and the above story is THE very first encounter I can remember having with God where he was made real to me. And you know, it’s because of the times in my life like these that I call myself a fool in the present.

You see, I doubt God. All the time. I get upset with him when he doesn’t answer my prayer because it lacks similitude with his will. I think to him, why couldn’t you just do this or why couldn’t you just do that. I say to him, “You see how much I’m suffering. Why can’t you just heal me??” And then I stop serving him because I feel betrayed by him. He tricked me into loving him! I loved him and I believed but he didn’t help me! I even wrote a poem about all this a few months ago:

It’s called IF THE BLISS IS REAL.

I refuse to drown myself OUTSIDE of misery.
I refuse to jump into a bliss-filled world, HAPPILY.

Drowning myself outside of misery WOULD BE JUMPING IN
And I don’t wanna be happy temporarily within.

Now, If the bliss is real I’ll jump in.
I’LL JUMP IN!
But only if the bliss is real.

YOU dig?


How often do I forget that some of God’s greatest gifts are unanswered prayers. I heard that on 104.7fm, The Fish, while I was driving one night. I never forgot the words.

And how often do I forget to contrast God’s unanswered prayers with the miracles he HAS done for me. I’d rather ponder that God’s existence is a falsehood because I can’t have my way rather than chalk up the reality HE knows what’s best for me, and then move on to continuing along the narrow path he wants me to take. And THAT is what makes me a fool.

As I’ve stated before, “Yeah, I think it serves me right to call myself that.”

Don’t you?

the Nanny Blues

I'm at work (it's only one pm) and already desiring to leave. Well, no, its not that I dislike my job or anything. Although, if I could have my way with the dealings of my life I'd definitely call it a quits on this nanny thing and surrender willingly to a rather pleasurable toxicity of mine I like to call Procrastination (Yeah, that was an incredibly long sentence. I know it. But get used to it because you're going to find I make quite a habit of the skill. I mean, I haven't any other way to take your breath away, no other way to wow you. I'm not that great of a writer. So I might as well make you take a couple more breaths extra than you would normally in a standard sentence to achieve the feat. And my, you'll come to find, I'm sure, that you can suddenly run that ten minute monster of a mile you could never even think on before because of the anticipated horror of it. I'm sure of it.).   

It's not that I hate my job. I get to play mommy four days a week and its beautiful. And we all know what a mommy is: a disciplinarian, teacher, doctor, counselor, nurturer and best-friend all rolled into one. Did I forget anything? At least that's what I feel mommies should be. For eight hours each work day--and sometimes more--I'm privileged the luxury of changing poopey diapers, wiping runny noses, inventing the most grueling time outs, soothing boo-boo's, meticulously cutting the ends off peanut butter sandwiches, reading the same story 5 times in a row, trading home-made Yo Mama jokes and converting into a seemingly indestructible human-sized play toy. And that's only the fourth of it! Now, why wouldn't I enjoy a job like this that attains the miracle of coagulating so many facets into one big rewarding ooey gooey??! It's great. I like the challenge. I like having to schedule, I like organizing, I like putting up PJ's and underpants, telling Bible stories, and getting splashed on at bath time. It’s because of this job that I know I'll make a great mom someday. But you know, I guess today just isn't MY DAY. Come to think of it, neither was yesterday.

And it's all because of the BIG P.

I feel like some pregnant woman's labor pains have been reincarnated through me. That's how badly I hurt. Women, I know some of you understand the depth I'm talking about here. Guys. Imagine a 6lb. bowling ball in the pit of your abdomen with an attraction for a rendezvous with your crotch. Imagine feeling suddenly and irreversibly qualmish with nausea, when only a millisecond before you were giddy inside from plans to feed ducks with the kids at a peaceful park off 10th street. Imagine ten years worth of experience in learning patience brought down to a miniscule penny's worth!

And so...

I feel like going home to a hot shower and then crawling into bed underneath a warming blanket after devouring a hot bowl of yummy homemade chicken noodle soup. I feel like drinking 3 cups of hot Echinacea tea. I feel like giving in to Midol. But the reality of my life says I'm way too tired to take a shower, that I'd just hop into bed right away anyway. That I don't even own a warming blanket. That I don't know how to make homemade chicken noodle soup, that if I did it certainly wouldn't be yummy--it being my first attempt and all. That three cups of tea is way too much caffeine. And that I promised myself last night I'd never take any type of medicine again, drug store or prescribed, because doctors don't know shat and researchers know it but don't give a fluck. But the most important reality is that I can't leave work to go home anyway. I need the money.

And I don't just feel bad for me, I feel bad for the kids. My patience is down to 1 cent so they don't have my heart today. They don't have my heart today, which means they won't give me theirs. And because they won't give me theirs, I'll probably become even more impatient. You see, if there's just one thing I could say I've learned from this whole "Mommy" thing, its that Perspective Matters Most. I used to use intimidation to get grade A performance out of the kids. I'd squint my eyes, harden my jaw--make the muscles in it pop a little, lower my voice to a demanding whisper, and tense my body tighter than an amateur up against Oscar de la Hoya on fight night. And then *Lynn happened, born March 15th 2006--the fourth child of the family I work for. My threats don't scare HER. My threats prompt defiance. My threats fuel side smiles of mischief, stubborn pouty lips, and uncooperative diaper changing sessions. My threats are just, well, threats to her. And so I quickly determined that if I was going to survive opposite of not allowing her the luxury of life past age two, I'd better get creative. Thus, I developed the Talk. Whenever *Lynn acted up I'd simply talk to her, explain to her why she was wrong and how it made me feel. It worked SOME. I needed something MORE. I then developed the Tap. When *Lynn acted up I'd pretend that I was going to go down hard on her little hand only to end up doing an over-exaggerated tap. I don't like popping much and neither did her parents at that time. It worked SOME. Of course, I needed something MORE. And so, then came the Time-out-chair. After bad behavior, I'd say to her firmly "You're going to time out because (fill in the blank)," buckle her in, place her in a corner and then leave her there until the tears started flowing. If you've been following my path, you get the drift. It worked SOME. That's when I decided to utilize the 3T's as a team instead of using them randomly and individually as I had before. The Talk became her warning bell, the Tap--her "You're getting warmer missy, better straighten up," and the Time-out-chair her "last straw." But *Lynn's one tough piece of meat. I can honestly say I wanted to quit my job at one point. She made me feel powerless and because I grew up a kid easily intimidated I've always been conscious of remaining in control.

Now it just so happened around this time that I came to the conclusion for like the umpteenth time over the course of my 24 years that I. NEEDED. GOD. I just kept reading the Gospels over and over and over again in my bible. I guess I got kinda stuck there for a minute because I wanted so much for my heart to be sharpened from the sadness there was. I've been sad for much of my life. I wanted to put myself into Jesus' time, feel his compassion, feel his sacrifice, learn his kind of love. And I remember, around this time, reading elsewhere in the bible that we should seek to give God glory in every little thing we do. After the Gospels, after learning I needed to give God the glory in everything--it was ON. I started feeling sorry for *Lynn when she was defiant because I knew it would one day beat her at her own game if she lived long enough. I started telling her "You know what, you really hurt me when you did that. But I think maybe you've hurt God more than me. I think he's sad right now *Lynn. And I think you should tell him you're sorry." I started telling her she should ask God to forgive her for doing badly. And of course she can't talk well. She's one but she's still a babe. So I pray for her with her. And you know what? The most amazing things started happening! She got better almost instantaneously. *Lynn smiles when we talk about God together. Her chubby little cheeks widen like a chipmunks jaws do when chock full of nuts from falls release. She loves clasping her hands to say grace while intermittently unclasping them to take in gobbles of food before grace is over. She thinks twice about committing her favorite tormentuous deeds after we pray to God about helping her not to bite or scratch or hit or pinch her four-year-old big sis. She says "please" and "thank you" now instead of the alternate of crying for 45 minutes because she doesn't want to. God's brings out the best of that kid. And you know, he brings out the best of me too. God's perspective is definitely what Perspective Matters Most. I'm learning its love that changes people. That's the perspective God wants us to embody. But sometimes, I feel like I can't do it, you know. Its times like TODAY that I feel like I can't. I don't just want to go home because I'm sick. I want to go home because I feel Love slipping and I don't want it to. The Big P has caused a shift in mood and a physical pain so debilitating I've become horribly impatient. Part of loving others means sacrificing impatience--realizing it's not about you, representing God PAST affliction. But I'm so pained today. So pained. It hurts to walk, it hurts to talk. Thus, our usual playtime and banter has become an evaporation, and discipline has been reduced from "God loves you. Please show love and be kind like him," to "I SAID STOP IT. DO IT ONE MORE TIME!" And of course this breeds defiance. I'm not loving the children right today and they know it. And as I said before:

"I feel bad for the kids. My patience is down to 1 cent so they don't have my heart today. They don't have my heart today, which means they won't give me theirs. And because they won't give me theirs, I'll probably become even more impatient."

Now what kind of way is this to represent God?

I've got the Nanny Blues and a bit more growing to do.