To Show U Sum Love

A little after 1 pm yesterday, I stopped into the Starbucks in Kenneth Hahn Plaza in the Willowbrook/Compton area to get a chai and check my email. I was sitting there, sipping my chai, listening to the mellow sounds of Duke Ellington playing in the background and clicking through random work emails. Thinking too much, as I'm prone to do sometimes. And, just when I was starting to think that my day really sucked, that I should start a new blog entitled worst + day + ever = my life -- just as I thought I might actually cry (yes, it was a day like that), two teenagers came in the door. One of them was talking very loudly into one of those walkie-talkie type phones.

"Why you ain’t got no boyfriend?"

"What?" came back through the phone speaker.
He rephrased his question, "I said, you got a man? Yes or no?" His friend laughed and poked him good-naturedly in the arm as they strolled across the Starbucks.

They both took a seat the table right behind me. The back and forth dialogue with the girl continued. She eventually asked him what he was doing and he replied, "I ain’t doin’ nothing, just trying to come to your house!" -- to which his friend added, "Stop it, that's my ex, man!"

Good grief, I was hearing a teenage booty call and the first guy had already dated this girl? I really was not in the mood so I turned around and stared them down. You know, the teacher stare, the stare your mom gave you that let you know you were gonna get it when you got home.

They had the courtesy to end the conversation. "Sorry, miss."

I'll admit, they seemed contrite so I replied, "It's ok, but you know when you talk into those things, everybody can hear what you're saying. Some stuff should be private, you know?"

"Yeah, sorry," said the taller of the two boys, "but you hear how he was tryin' to get with my girl? What kind of friend is that?"

They started laughing back and forth and then approached the counter to ask for some water.

As they chatted with the barista, I got to thinking again about my day and it's suckitude. But, in case my thoughts got too maudlin, my teenage friends approached my table with their water, interrupting me once more.

"Hey, you got internet access on that laptop?"
I nodded yes so they continued, "Can we check our MySpaces?"

I asked the question you are certainly wondering...and if you're not, you should be.

"Aren't y'all supposed to be at school? Where do you go, Centennial?"

They exchanged glances and then the taller one spoke, "Yeah, but we're on lunch."

Now in my mind, I was thinking, yeah, right. Y'all aren't on lunch. It's too late for lunch. But what the heck...maybe they'd break my laptop in two by spilling their waters on it, thereby taking my day to the next level of worst.day.ever.

They told me their names were AJ and DJ and they've been friends for a whole grand three months. Both were sixteen, which explained the girl-crazy attitude.

Neither one had ever used a laptop before. They couldn't figure out how to use the little red mouse dot in the center so I had to show them how to work it. My desktop popped up and they wanted to know "Who are those white dudes in the picture?"

"Oh, that's Depeche Mode." They'd never heard of them but they fixated on the date in the photo, 1988.

"You were alive in 1988? You ever meet those dudes?"

Um, no.

Now that I felt seriously like a granny, I watched them access their MySpace pages where they each had several hundred friends. Mostly teenage girls in various provocative poses. Girls that left them comments like the utterly profound, "IM JUS STOPPIN BY TO SHOW U SUM LOVE ON YO PAGE. DO THE SAME".

"Do you actually know all these girls?" I asked

Of course, they didn't and when they asked me how many friends I had on my MySpace page, I had to tell them, "Not many but that's because I only accept friend requests from people I actually know." This concept baffled them and I found myself having to explain to them that if it's not someone that I believe would come rescue me if I had a car crash, someone that I actually know and can count on, then they aren't my friend. They thought this was completely dumb.

I started to think that maybe my day didn't suck as much as I thought. After all, I know that someone isn't truly a friend if they only leave flirtatious messages on my MySpace page or send me emails or call me on a walkie talkie phone. I know that someone that can just delete me off of a "friends" page or, without a second thought, delete my email address out of their contacts, is not really a friend.

AJ and DJ laughed as they said that a friend is, "A girl that looks good and gives us money." I guess that's why AJ was trying to get with DJ's ex...maybe they don't really have a concept of true friendship.

They hung out for awhile longer, bugging me and the barista (who finally gave them two free frappucinos.)

The girl started calling again and I had to get back to my emails so I told them I'd see them later. They wandered off to hang out in the outdoor seating area and I thought about the various friends I've had throughout my life and whether I've been a good friend.

I think I have been...and at the very least, I never tried to hook up with a friend's ex. That counts for something, right?

A Billion People Watched That Snooze-Fest?

Unfortunately, I was one of them.

Was it just me or did the Oscar's seem like a big snooze-fest to you too? Goodness, now I know why everyone takes apart the fashions...it's because the show is sooo darn boring.

I started zoning out after Marky Mark didn't win Best Supporting Actor for his performance in The Departed. I thought he was really good in that movie. Plus, I was hoping he'd win because I thought he might get up there and give us a quick rendition of "Good Vibrations" just for old times sake. Maybe he'd pull the Funky Bunch up there too and bust out with some old school moves. But no, didn't happen.

What else did happen? Yes, black people represented and got some more awards. We're just on a roll here with black actors and actresses winning at the Oscars. Depending on where you stand, you either think this is the result of the Antichrist's coming or you're thrilled and you're pumping your black power fist in the air. Well, actually, you might be somewhere in between those extremes but if you had no choice, which side would you be on? Option A: Black Power. Option B: The Antichrist.

Option B? You're at the wrong blog so have a nice life.

But, if you picked Option A, let's see what you're celebrating:

First of all, Jennifer Hudson won Best Supporting Actress for Dreamgirls. I still haven't seen the movie and I think I'll wait till it's on dvd. I don't know why I'm just not that into it. Good for Jennifer though that her little Cinderella story is tied up with a nice, neat Oscar statue. It was cute how she thanked Jennifer Holiday at the end of her acceptance speech. But, she'd better watch her back because look out world, it's gonna be time for some serious media destruction. After all, you know how our media loves to build someone up only so they can take them down. Yep, she's a prime target.

With Jennifer, I doubt we'll get crotch shots or pictures of her in a threesome smoking crack. Instead, the questions I can see coming are, "Did she really deserve the Oscar? Can Jennifer act in a movie that doesn't require her to belt out a song?" Actually I think that's sort of a legitimate question.

We can also prepare for some comments about her really needing to go on a diet. Next thing you know, there'll be eBay auctions of her alleged Oscar night girdle.

Yep, at her size, I'm not so sure what we'll see Jennifer cast in next because neither she (nor I) have Reese Witherspoon's barely there, much admired, lollipop-head body. Jennifer's a big woman and all that mess about celebrating healthy bodies doesn't mean a thing in Hollywood. I'll give it to her that she looked good, but for a minute there when she was performing, I thought her ta-tas were going to pop right out of that skintight red dress.

And then there was Forest Whittaker winning Best Actor. I really try, but for the life of me, I cannot figure out what the man is saying when he opens his mouth. The end of his speech where he was thanking his ancestors and all that...it sounded sort of good, but I just couldn't follow it. I do want to see his movie though. Someone I was talking to today said it was one of the best films of the past decade.

So, tomorrow folks will get their dresses, hair and makeup ripped to shreds. I'd hate to be one of those actresses that gets labelled worst dressed. I can just hear someone asking me what I'm wearing every day when I go out. That would be pretty tiresome. Today I'd have to tell them, "Black boots by 9West, jeans by Jeanstar and black turtleneck by...um, did I get this at Target?"

I suppose I'm just further proof that someone can live in LA, only two miles from the Kodak Theatre, and be a million miles from the glitz and glitter of Hollywood...but I obviously wasted four hours of my life watching the show waiting for something exciting to happen.

Oh wait, maybe the Antichrist does have a hand in this?

All That Happens In A Week

Seven whole days. Hello again, dear blog world.

This week whizzed by, I worked a whole lot, and before you know it, it's another Sunday and I realized I haven't written here at all. I sometimes get amazed by how quickly it all goes, how quickly time passes. I don't know why that's the case, but I suppose I still remember those days from my childhood where a week seemed like an eternity for something to happen. So, here's a few things that happened to me this past week:

Barack Came to LA: I really wanted to go to the Barack Obama rally this past Tuesday afternoon. I know that thousands of people went to it which is pretty cool given that it was at two in the afternoon. Why did thousands come out? Well, we all know Barack's inspiring. He's smart. He's got vision. He dresses better than Hillary Clinton. And...(drum roll please!) the real reason some folks probably showed up... he's really hot! The man is seriously good looking and I would have liked to go just to see if he's as smokin' in person as he is on my tv screen. Alas, I had a meeting I couldn't get out of but he got good press in LA.

El Rocker Disses Annie Lennox: At first my youngest son would sing along to Red Hot Chili Pepper songs in the car. Next, he started belting out "Smells Like Teen Spirit" for no good reason. Then, his Aunty Kye got him a soccer ball-shaped acoustic guitar. Now, I have a bonafide rock star in my house.

When we're at home, that guitar is strapped on El Rocker at all times. I get demands like, "I wanna watch rock videos." The more theatrical the performers (30 Seconds to Mars, I'm talking about you) the more he likes it. The other night I was watching Vh1 Classic and the video for the Eurythmic's "Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)" comes on. I'm reliving the good ole days of the 1980's, singing along and having a great time. Is El Rocker singing along? Oh no, this is what he had to say:

El Rocker: Who's she?
Me: That's Annie Lennox.
El Rocker: She needs a guitar. Yuck. Turn it off, mommy! Turn it off!

I decided that I hate those eHarmony.com commercials: "I love everything about him. She's perfect just the way she is." And then the in-love couple stares at each other and kisses. Oh please. Does that sound like the "honeymoon" phase of love or what? Sure, you can say that when you're on a tv commercial and you're being paid to say that. You say that when you've been with the person for two years not ten and they haven't left a half eaten bowl of ice cream out on the coffee table overnight. And then there's the creepy founder of it all, Dr. whatever his name is... I'll just stop there.

Rain +LA = Traffic Disaster: It rained on Thursday. Not the light sprinkle type thing we've been getting but a real ground-soaking rain.

Pros of the rain: My car is clean again. The plants needed water and they got it. Now, lets move on to...

Cons of the rain: People here cannot drive in rain. It's like there's an unwritten law that the minute it starts raining, everybody forgets to turn on their headlights and they start to drive faster and more recklessly. And then they slam on their brakes, skid all over the place and crash into each other. Traffic turns into a real nightmare. How bad, you wonder? Well, I had a meeting out in Huntington Park on Thursday afternoon. It took me an hour and fifteen minutes to get there from downtown, normally a half hour trip, and on the way home, almost two hours...and it would have been much longer except that I finally gave up on the freeway and jumped on surface streets.

Lucky Number Six: I went to the dentist on Friday morning and, for the first time in my life, I have cavities. In fact, I have six cavities. Oh sure, they're all really teeny-tiny ones but I was depressed all afternoon. I liked being able to say that I didn't have any cavities at all. And now that's over. Sob. It must be the soy chai's I've gotten addicted to over the past year.

So, Sunday rolls back around again and the most important thing of all happened to me this morning, but I won't tell you about it. Thankfully, there' s no rain in the forecast. No clouds in the sky, only the clouds in my heart. Tonight is the Oscar's. I honestly don't know if I will watch or not. I'm still suffering from post traumatic stress disorder over Three-6-Mafia winning for best song last year.

Regardless, I solemnly swear to see you all tomorrow.

This White Devil Right Here

Romeo Must Die, Rush Hour and Cradle 2 the Grave. Three movies with Chinese and black characters and all three were on TV today. What does this mean? Is it a holiday honoring Jet Li, Jackie Chan, DMX and Chris Tucker? Are black folks about to sign some sort of alliance or treaty with China?

No, have no fear. It only means it's still Black History Month since February is not over yet. And now, it's also Chinese New Year. Welcome to the Year of the Pig!

Hmm...Come to think of it, what a combination. Y'all soul food lovers better get ready to cook up a vat of chitlins.

Since the Chinese Zodiac goes in 12 year cycles, I have some very good memories of the last time the Year of the Pig was around. If you know me in real life, you know that twelve years ago, I lived at 56 Sui Yin Lu in Guangzhou, PRC. That's the People's Republic of China.

Living in China was one of the toughest things I've ever done and one of the best things too. I didn't really know what to expect before I got there. Even though I'd read my Lonely Planet book from cover to cover a dozen times, I still wasn't really prepared for life there. For one thing, everyone was Chinese. I mean, you know that going there, but then you see the reality of it. There weren't any black people, no Puerto Ricans, nobody from Hungary or Poland, no rivers being dyed green on St. Patrick's Day. Nope, nothing but Chinese people all around.

You have to understand, twelve years ago, China was not as politically or culturally open as it is today. The Internet as we know it today, was just starting to get going. And, in a city with millions of people in it, there were two McDonald's and one Pizza Hut. There was no Starbucks to be found. There wasn't even a Wal-Mart in China yet. Not even a real shopping mall either.

Even though Guangzhou is the size of LA, there were no freeways because most people didn't own cars back then. I sometimes saw other expats or foreign businessmen if I decided to bike down to the central financial district where the McDonald's was. Sometimes I got a serious craving for scrambled eggs and pancakes and I'd splurge and bike over to the ultra posh Garden Hotel. There'd always be a couple of foreign businessmen there from France, Australia or the UK sitting at the restaurant table next to mine. Sometimes they were friendly, particularly the guys from France. Sometimes they weren't. I often got the feeling that many of them were on the prowl for Chinese prostitutes.

I remember that at the time, Hong Kong was still under British control and my phone calls to and from the U.S. were regularly tapped. I used to laugh a little at the telltale clicking and the occasional sneezes and coughs that indicated that someone was listening in on my phone calls. I suppose the phone updates from friends and family on what was happening with the OJ Simpson trial must have seemed like some sort of big American state secrets.

My life was not as glamorous as that. After all, I was only an English teacher at a private Chinese boarding school. The biggest change was that even though I was constantly stared at, it was the first time in my life that I didn't feel the kind of racism that we get so used to here in the United States. I was still black, but I stopped being black. Sounds confusing, I know, but let me try to explain: Since I didn't look like Michael Jordan or Whitney Houston, people didn't know where to put me racially. They didn't automatically think I was black. In fact, no one ever thought I was even an American because at the time, the perception was that all Americans had blond hair and blue eyes. Actually, to go even deeper, people didn't initially care where I was from. They just knew I wasn't Chinese.

If someone followed me around a store, they weren't following me because they were worried I was going to steal something. No, they were following me around because they were curious about what a foreigner would buy. No one suggested that I only got into college because of affirmative action. No one told me that my hair was ugly or that it would look better straighter. In fact, Chinese people loved my hair because it was so very different in texture from their own. Hairdressers at the shop by my apartment building got into arguments over who'd have the privilege of doing my hair. And, if I didn't see any women that looked like me on fashion magazine covers, it was no big deal because, well, there wasn't really anyone else that looked liked me around and there were billions of Chinese people.

Like I said, in China, the only thing that mattered was that I wasn't Chinese. I was simply a "guai lo" (Cantonese) or a "lao wei" (Mandarin), both of which translate into "white devil". Or, nowadays when people are trying to be PC, they say, "foreign devil". Oh, sometimes I wished Louis Farrakhan was standing next to me getting called a white devil, just so I could laugh.

Most of the time, when I rode my bike for hours around the city, I went into lots of the neighborhoods that are off the touristy path. So many rural Chinese come to Guangzhou looking for work that there were lots of folks who'd never before seen someone in person who wasn't Chinese. I got into seven bike accidents in China and half of them were with people who would freak out when they realized that a "lao wei" was biking alongside them. They'd start shrieking, "Lao wei! Lao wei!" And then, next thing you know, their handlebars would lock with mine and they'd be toppling over on top of me. And then all the bikes that had been riding along behind me would crash on top of me too. They'd apologize, and to save face, they'd invite me for tea. I actually made a couple of good friends that way.

And then, I came back to the United States shortly before the OJ Simpson verdict was read. As happy as I was to see so many of my friends and family, deep down, I was fiercely depressed and wanted to leave again. I wanted to get away from a country divided so insistently along racial lines. I wanted to go back to a place where no one was saying to me, "Do you feel proud that your people got OJ Simpson off because of fear that there's going to be another LA Riots?"

Now, twelve years later, the Year of the Pig has rolled back around. I read over at Field Negro's blog about the racial divides in the blogosphere: It's being called the whiteosphere and the blackosphere. Then, I see how charged conversations about Barack Obama are becoming. "Barack can't win if he seems like he cares too much about black people" or, "Barack's a separatist because he attends a black church." I see how revelers go celebrate Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but it feels like someone's trying to brush away the real history of a city that used to be majority black. And it all makes me wonder if China, with her new openness, has lost some of that innocence she once had.

When I was in Guangzhou, all I had to say was that I bought something in America and people would love it. I'd buy a shirt in a Guangzhou street market and if I told people I got it in Guangzhou, they'd think it was ok. But, if I told them that I'd bought the shirt in America, they'd say it was the cutest shirt they'd ever seen. I wanted to tell them, don't love all that we Americans have to offer you. Don't absorb our culture so quickly.

China has a Wal-Mart and Starbucks now, but please, I pray they don't take everything we Americans want to give. We here in America like to say to ourselves, "I'm not a racist". Because we're all living in racially integrated neighborhoods, right? And we all have a diverse group of friends that we hang out with outside of work, right? And we date or marry people regardless of their racial background, right?

In China, I could see only having Chinese friends, etc., because that's all that's around. Here though, what's our excuse?

Hey Sugar Lips! You Rock!

Do you despise Valentine's Day? It seems more and more people hate it these days.

Me, I'm not a Valentine's Day hater. Not a lover of the day, but not a hater either. I just try not to take it too seriously.

And really, how can I take it seriously with a pile of conversation hearts sitting on my desk?

As I chomped on the "Sugar Lips" heart, I tried to remember my first real experiences with Valentine's Day. By real, I mean that I wasn't taking a Valentine with a cartoon character on it to school.

It was taking me forever to remember my formative Valentine years so I decided to have another conversation heart. While biting into the "You Rock" heart, one of my colleagues got a bouquet of flowers delivered to her. Ah-ha! The memories suddenly came rushing back. You see, the last and only time I got a really gigantic bunch of roses on Valentine's Day was in high school.

In my sophomore year of high school, my friend Tanisha's brother liked me and I liked him too. It could have been a happy ending...except for the fact that I wasn't allowed to go out on dates or have a boyfriend. He was an "unofficial" boyfriend, if you know what I mean. He was the boy I only saw when I went to my friend's house. To top it off, he was an "older man". If I remember correctly, he was a sophomore in college at the time.

Valentine's Day rolled around and he showed up at my high school with at least two dozen red roses. Everybody around me oohed and aahed over this. But I was not so happy. In fact, I was mentally freaking out. Not because this guy gave me flowers. No, I was freaking out because I knew I was going to have to get rid of those flowers before I got on the school bus at the end of the day. There was absolutely no way I could go home to the most strict parents on the planet and say, "Hey, look who gave me roses today!"

I couldn't give the roses away at school because I knew my friend would tell her brother. So, I remember hastily stuffing them in my locker and then, I threw the flowers in the trash right before I jumped on the bus. He called me and asked me how I liked the flowers. I don't remember what I told him but I know that was the beginning of the end of whatever little crush he had on me, and vice versa.

It sounds sad, and it is a bit sad, but I still don't hate Valentine's Day. I just have to keep it all very light-hearted and not take it seriously. I mean after all, if there are small, heart-shaped bits of candy that say "You Rock!" on them, how serious can it be?

I hope you take a moment out of your haterade to eat some conversation hearts. If you didn't, come on, you have to seize the moment! Just do it quickly because I think there's an unwritten rule that a candy heart with the phrase " Soul Mate" on it is only cute and romantic on or around February 14th. I have a feeling that if you decide to eat these in July, everyone's going to look at you like you're crazy.

A Day At The Beach

I'm generally not a beach person. Even though I live in sunny Southern California, I rarely go to the beach.

Why?

Well, I've never looked that hot in a swimsuit, I'm concerned about skin cancer and I'm scared I'm going to catch something from polluted water. The Pacific Ocean is cold, even in summertime. Plus, I'm not going to ruin the hair I just spent three tedious hours getting done.

My aversion to the beach changes when I drive up the coast to Santa Barbara. There's something about the views of the mountains to my right and crashing waves to my left that makes me want to just jump in the water. I'm here for work for a couple of days, and yesterday I pulled off the freeway at Carpinteria State Beach. The sign at the beach said that parking was $8. I told the attendant I just wanted to put my feet in the water for 15 minutes and she let me through.

Just me and the water. It was a bit chilly, but not the artic freeze you'd be getting in Lake Michigan at this time of year. Something about the waves crashing over me makes me forget about people who steal parking spots and talk on their cell phone too loud. It makes me forget about how Barack Obama is getting the, "Is he black enough?" litmus test. It makes me just think about...higher things. You know, world peace, the meaning of life, what is true love and what does it really mean to pursue happiness.

Fifteen minutes, that's all it took to come down from all the drama and all the worries and all the little things I stress out about. Hmm...Maybe I should come to the beach more often.

No Longer A Writing Contest Virgin

I did something this week that I'm very very proud of. I entered my very first writing contest. It's the Great Big Awesome (and short) Fiction Contest over at Moon Topples' blog.

The story could only be 500 words and had to somehow fit into a general theme of "vision". It was a great theme because there are lot's of places you can take it, not just the, "You need to get your eyes checked," direction or the, "I just don't think you have the vision this position requires," direction.

You can read all the entries and vote for ONLY ONE STORY (I know, so hard to choose just one!) by leaving a comment in the comments section. Just make sure to say who you are in your comment because anonymous votes are not accepted. Voting ends at 11:59 pm CST on February 13th.

I'd love to tell you which story I wrote but that would probably be stacking the deck/breaking the rules so I'll refrain. I'll only say that there are no sly, sardonic, wanna-be witty observations of folks being themselves in Starbucks.

You Like Frappuccinos?

I know y'all probably think I live in Starbucks, but I just have to share this exchange. First, let me introduce you to Mr. Cornrows. He's not officially here working but he's busy hanging out with his fellow buddies who are behind the counter. Mr. Cornrows is trying to talk to this young lady who came in here and ordered a frappuccino.

This is how weak his game is:

"You like frappuccinos? Yeah, me too. So what's your name? You don't have one? Aw, come on girl, I don't bite. What's your name?"

I'd say he's pretty unsuccessful in his efforts to engage her in any kind of conversation. Wouldn't you say so?

So, as she's heading to the exit, he calls out, "Nice meeting you. You know I work here, right?"

She looked over her shoulder at him with an expression that said, "Like I care," but instead answered, "Yes, I know." Her hand kept on pushing the door open and her feet kept right on moving.

The minute this young lady left, Mr. Cornrows, complete with bad skin, and a baggy Cal State Dominguez Hills sweatshirt on, jumped up to go brag to the other guys behind the counter.

"Y'all see how she was checkin' for me, right?" They just started clowning him. "She ain''t interested in you!" one replied. "Didn't you see her? She kept on walking!"

"Well she don't want to look like a ho in front of y'all two and you know I don't talk to hoodrats."

More laughter, as another employee said, "She's thinking your belly might make a good pillow!"

Mr. Cornrows is not trying to hear that though. "Sure I may have put on some more weight when I was working over at KFC, but that don't mean I still can't work it when it counts."

Eww... now, this young lady was probably 5'1'' and 90 pounds. Mr. Cornrows is probably 5' 8" and 240. I think he's thinking of either smothering her or crushing her to death in bed.

They're still laughing at him. "I'll bet you just wanna eat her for a midnight snack. Thought she looked good, didn't you? Good enough to eat!"

Oh lawdy, I just laughed out loud at that one and Mr. Cornrows just said, and he's laughing too, "See, why y'all gotta embarrass a brotha in front of the customers?"

They are all laughing now. And, wow, I love my life sometimes.

Am I? Are You? Are We All?

"Hi, my name is Liz and I'm a workaholic."

No, I haven't said those words yet in any official space, but maybe, quite possibly, I should. You see, yesterday I heard a question that annoys the heck out of me, and I heard it about six times: "How do you do it all?"

In response, I found myself joking, "Well, because I have no life." Then I said some mess about staying organized and being able to prioritize and "take care of the big rocks first".

Co-workers who are single and have no children are asking me this question. They're dying emotionally and physically because they're exhausted by our work schedule. So, what's my deal? How come I'm not in the same boat? My efficiency and ability to prioritize is pretty good, but it's not that good.

Driving home from work at 7 pm, I started to think about how my mom told me a few years ago that I was a workaholic. I can get pretty bristly when I get criticized by my mother. Being told, "You're a workaholic, just like your dad," was definitely a bristle-upping moment. You see, sometimes when she talks, all these memories start running through my head, ones that have nothing to do with the topic at hand, and before you know it, I'm reliving experiences and feeling emotions that are better off left alone unless I'm going to seriously consult a therapist...which perhaps I should do. But maybe, just maybe, my mom was on to something with this workaholic thing.

There have been plenty of other kinds of addicts in my family and even though I'm not a drug user or alcoholic, perhaps I also have addictive behaviors that I'm just choosing to ignore. I came home and, not knowing if it existed or not, I googled "workaholics anonymous".

The organization does exist and they have a quiz, helpfully titled: Twenty Questions: How Do I Know If I'm A Workaholic?

I took the quiz, and apparently, if you answer "yes" to three or more questions, ta-da, you may be a workaholic.

I answered yes to almost half of the questions.

Some of them were questions I thought were silly like, "Do you work more than 40 hours a week?" Umm, everyone I know does that. But other questions like, "Do you think about your work while driving, falling asleep or when others are talking?" were interesting to think about. Sure, I have dreams about being at work. Then, one of the first things I do in the morning when I wake up is check my work email and respond to any emails that have come in overnight. But that's because I know they need answering and I can't very well answer them when I'm out driving between schools (although I have tried to pick up wireless signals while sitting in really bad traffic).

On the one hand, I could justify all this by saying I really care about what I do...but then that was another question. "Do you think it's ok to work long hours if you love what you do?"

It's so hard in our culture to find balance when the work never stops, and when the first one to snooze, loses. If I stop responding to emails or phone calls after 6pm, if I don't do any work on the weekend at all, that doesn't mean my colleagues are going to stop all that. And let's face it, that's who I'm competing against for recognition, promotions, etc. Everyone around me is talking about how they were out at meetings with people till ten at night...and their workday started at like 7 am. Then there's me. Most nights, I'm trying to be home by six, but I may check my email, make phone calls and work on projects till 8 or 9. I justify working like this by saying, "At least I'm at home doing it. At least my family sees me, even if I'm reading documents half the time."

Does this make me a workaholic? I don't know. It's something to think about...

I guess I wonder, are there any decent paying jobs left in the world where you aren't expected to be connected and available at all times? Are there any jobs where people really are only working 40 hours a week?

And now, off I go to work.

Questions And Observations

I know, I know. I've been an absentee blogger for the past few days. Shame on me for neglecting this little space. "Why so incognito?" you ask. Or maybe you aren't asking that and you've actually been thinking, "Good, she's finally given up this blogging thing. I hate reading what she writes!"

First off, my youngest son got diagnosed with impetigo. Don't know what it is? Yeah, neither did I. He had a cold last weekend and I thought the rash above his lip was just skin irritation due to me wiping his runny nose. Then it began turning into something else and spreading at a pretty rapid rate. Curious to see what it looks like? Go ahead and do a Google image search on "impetigo" if you feel a desire to lose the contents of your stomach. How'd he get it? I don't know but he was quarantined at home for a few days and I stayed home with him, praying that no one else caught it...well, I'll be honest: I was praying that I wouldn't get it. What can I say, I live in LA and I'm a teensy bit vain.

On the days I wasn't quarantined, I saw and heard lots of things I wanted to write about but I was too busy trying to catch up on work, etc., so, here's a few of my accumulated questions and observations:

1. Sexist perverts are everywhere: I went to the Vons grocery store on Sunset Blvd. and got stalked through three aisles by some weirdo who, it turns out, used to work with the guy running my checkout lane. Mr. Stalker came and chatted with the cashier while my stuff was being rung up, staring and winking at me the whole time. Oh they were all smiles and laughs. The checker was so busy chatting up his pervert buddy that I bagged my own groceries so I wouldn't have to stand there waiting for the cashier to do that. "Thanks, babe for bagging those. Do you need help out to your car?"
   
   I sooo wanted to say, "No, I don't need help out to my car, you sexist, punk-ass pervert mother-f&*%#6!" But, instead I smiled and said, "No, thank you. Have a great night!" I then went to put my stuff in the car and then came back and tracked down the manager. The manager was apologetic. "I'll be sure to speak with them about that. I'm so sorry." Yeah right. Bet I see the same checker there again next time I'm in there and bet he breaks my eggs. Should I boycott Vons and start going to Albertsons or Ralphs?
   
   
2. I could be a cure for alcoholism if I was cuter and had darker skin: On Thursday, the guy behind the counter in the Kenneth Hahn Plaza Rite-Aid suggested me as an alternative to getting drunk. As he's scanning my stuff, he starts talking to the grizzled man standing behind me in line. "You know, all you need to do is get this sista's number instead of drinking that liquor. She's so pretty, I'll bet she could make you feel better than drinking that whiskey ever could. Come on, ask her for her number."
   
   The man behind me, obviously a hard-drinking, pickled-liver kind of guy, reeking like he'd been dipped in a vat of grain alcohol, was very matter of fact in his reply, which he addressed to me, "Naw, I don't think so. Heh heh. You ok lookin' but I ain't into you light-skinned gals. I'll just stick with what I got right here. Heh heh." Then he hoisted his big bottle of liquor up on the counter, gazing at it like he was staring a lover in the eyes.
   
   Alrighty then.
   
   
3. No, it's not a weave, but I'm still not interested in you: Hey trifling males of the world, I'm just in Starbucks to get some tea, not to hear your lame pickup lines. Most women don't really respond to, "Hey shawty, what your name is?" being yelled across the room at them while they're ordering their tea. (Or do they? Ladies, you tell me.) Really, any woman would have to be crazy to check for that crap. Then, when I walked past the guy without begging him to take me somewhere and have his wicked way with me, he says, "Fuck you then, you ugly ass bitch! Probably a weave anyway." Yeah, um, dude, it's not a weave but I sort of hope you burn in hell.
   
   
4. Drop off your kids, pick up a prostitute: I'm just so tired of driving past the hookers on Figueroa Street standing on the corner a block from an elementary school. I'm tired of seeing all the boo-tay hanging out for all to see. But why does it always seem like they have less cellulite than me? Is it all the standing? Do the pimps get them personal trainers? I don't get it. And by the way, when I get to this same school, I'm tired of seeing the four huge signs warning me not to bring weapons on campus or make threats. Yet we wonder why kids aren't quite so innocent nowadays.
   
   
5. What if Tara Connor was black? Being quarantined this week meant I was home to catch Miss USA, Tara Connor, discussing her cocaine use with Matt Lauer on the Today Show. All I could think of was, "Would this heffa still have her crown if she was black?" Then Matt asked her if the rumors of her sleeping around are true. She completely denied it. Hmm. Tara, you're an underage drinker, you have "dabbled" in cocaine (What does it mean to "dabble" with cocaine?) but you claim you are celibate? Yeah. Sure.
   
   
6. Today I bought a new San Martin de Porres candle. Why? Well, Martin de Porres was the first black saint in the New World and is the patron saint of black people. He's also the patron saint of race relations and racial harmony. Maybe I should send a candle to Joe Biden. I wonder if Joe would consider me clean and articulate. And I should also send two candles to whoever that clown was in Virginia that said black people "should get over" slavery. Reparations isn't only about giving someone money. Reparations is a change of heart, a change of the soul, a change in the way black people are viewed, treated, educated, loved and respected. Think of it this way: Black people have only been able to vote in the United States since 1965. That's 42 years ago. How many people do you know that are 42 years old? My brother would be 43 years old this July and my mom couldn't vote when she gave birth to him. Her father worked for Studebaker's for most of his life, paid taxes his entire life, and was only able to vote for five years of those years. Sigh.
   
   And lastly, the biggest question of all, will the Bears win tonight? My fingers are crossed and the game is about to start! Go Bears!!! (please!)