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!)
   

21 Years Later: Ready To Shuffle (or skate) Again

This afternoon, I was, as we used to say back in the day, "cold chillin'" on the couch. I was also enjoying the leftovers of Friday night's vegetable lasagna, drinking some imported French pink lemonade, and doing what every decent Chicagoland and Northwest Indiana resident (or former resident) was doing: Watching the Bears game.

As you probably already know, the Bears are going to the Super Bowl for the first time in 21 years. Last time they went to the Super Bowl, Bears mania hit Chicagoland. We even had a 45 single of the "Superbowl Shuffle" record.

In case you weren't born or you were living under a rock in 1985, the "Superbowl Shuffle" was a rap song performed by the Bears football team. We loved hearing the record and would put it on and dance to it while rapping along with the players. I actually thought William "The Fridge" Perry's rap of "You're lookin' at the Fridge, I'm the rookie. I may be large, but I'm no dumb cookie" was, like, totally awesome dude. (Hey, it was 1985!)

I was happily reliving these "Superbowl Shuffle" moments in the beginning of the third quarter of today's game when, ahem...cough...I heard the pitiful voice of my five year-old son, Olinga, asking, for the third time this weekend, "Mommy, will you take me rollerskating? You promised."

Oh great. I'd forgotten about that. I made this promise on Friday night. He wanted to go on Saturday but I had to work. So, he asked me, "Will you take me on Sunday then?"

I know I was half listening when he asked, but I did say, "Sure baby. We'll go on Sunday." I didn't take it too seriously because the way kids are, tomorrow can come and they're content to play with their action figures in the room. Plus, I didn't know know where this roller skating thing was coming from because he's never asked to go before. A friend of his had a birthday party at a roller rink a couple of years ago and he hated even having the skates on his feet. He just wanted to play the video games in the corner, which I'd said no to, and he went home with his lower lip stuck out, pouting.

Today I asked him why he wanted to go skating and he replied, "Because it'll be fun." He paused for a moment and then added, "You'll hold my hand so I don't fall, right?" Right. Sure. The truth is that it's probably been a good 21 years since I've been rollerskating, and I barely knew how to get around the roller rink back then. It's because I have this crazy phobia that I'm going to fall and knock my teeth out. I don't know why I have this phobia, but I do. So, roller skating and ice skating are generally out for me.

What a dilemma. Keep a promise to my son and spend the afternoon landing on my behind in a roller rink or finish watching the game? Tell him we'll have to wait till next week to skate or miss seeing the Bears win or lose? Go skating and potentially lose a tooth. Sigh.

Skating won. Of course it did. It killed me in the moment to actually turn the game off, but I rationalized to myself that in the grand scheme of things, the Bears are a sports team with players that make millions and an ownership that makes even more. They'd survive if I didn't watch the game...but my son, he'd remember that I'd promised and then he'd remember that I backed out on that promise.

Yes, we landed on the floor a whole lot but I think it boosted Olinga's confidence to see that he could skate better than I could. He kept saying over and over, "See, none of your teeth are going to fall out. I'm going to protect you! Just hold my hand!"

One of the rink referees helpfully pointed out to me that there are classes on Saturday mornings for kids to learn. He then added, "We also have a Tuesday night adult class if you'd like a refresher to improve your own skating skills. Lots of adults re-learn when their kids do." Hmm. Maybe if I actually take a class I won't be afraid of falling and knocking out a tooth.

When I got home, I looked online and saw that the Bears had indeed won the game. I'm as happy as can be that Chicago is once again Super Bowl bound. But nothing beat having Olinga kiss me on the cheek and whisper how happy he was to go skating.