Ode To Big Bloomers

Popular culture and alleged sex appeal say I should be ashamed, but let me boldly proclaim that I LOVE BIG PANTIES! Yes, I know that they aren't very sexy and they leave everything to the imagination with their comfy stretchable elastic waistbands, "pretty" colors like puke green and pumice stone gray, and their miles and miles of soft cottony goodness. While they may not be the most aesthetically pleasing garments, my bottom finds them simply irresistible.

When asked the question about his main turnoff, a friend of mine exclaimed, "White cotton panties!" I smiled to myself while reading his statement and shook my head at his hypocrisy. Men have the pleasure of walking around in comfy boxer briefs (the big bloomer's little brother), boxer shorts that allow maximum freedom, and briefs, which, while fitted, afford the wearer the pleasure of enjoying a somewhat relaxing fit. Women, on the other hand, get to choose between styles like french cut, which, for some of us, fails to provide enough coverage for any excess belly fat, bikini, which is cute but can sometimes roll under the spare tire, and the dreaded thong that can ride up and cause a girl to be concerned about her future as a mother. Men get underwear that covers and keeps them comfortable. Their comfort is kept in mind when their underwear is designed. On the other hand, women's underwear are made with men's desires in mind and I can't figure out for the life of me why being sexy has to be uncomfortable and at times, downright painful.

When I get out of the shower, lotion up, and proceed to get dressed, my first reflex is to grab the big drawers. I want the soft caress of cotton to envelope my skin. I love how the waistband rests ever so gently just beneath my bust line. And more than these things, I love how they manage to keep the yeast monster away. Simply put, big bloomers are a godsend. They aren't made to titillate or improve the sex life ten fold, but they are made to make mama happy. And, if mamas happy, EVERYBODYS happy, including daddy.

While I know it is an impossible task to sell men on the idea of big cotton panties being the new thong, I will continue to sell it to women who, in the solace of their own homes, would love to enjoy the soft and soothing feel of big bloomers on their behinds. It's the good stuff.

Hell On Wheels

I miss riding the light rail. On my way to work this morning, it wasn't long before I felt the usual tension and frustration of my morning commute. Everyone seemed to be trying to get somewhere at the same time. Cars were backed up for a quarter of a mile at a main light, and the usual slow-driving, looky-loos were out and about impeding the progress of those of us who needed to get to work and school. While this experience is nothing new, it still annoys me and causes me to arrive to work angry before any co-workers have the opportunity to get on my nerves first. I miss the days of working downtown and being able to take advantage of the park and ride. Sure, it did involve a few minutes of standing in the cold waiting for the train to arrive, but the train was always on time, I always had a seat, the heat always worked, and I arrived to work stress free.

Now, I arrive angry, at times, disheveled, and 15 miles worth of gas lighter in the wallet. Undoubtedly I will have cussed out loud or in my head three or four times, my brakes will have been tested greatly, and I will have used my horn at least once. I can't possibly see how these are excellent conditions in which to transition from the warmth of my apartment to the unpleasantness of the eight hours I must spend at work each day. Though the drive can be trying at best, there are some good parts to it.

Most mornings I listen to NPR on my way to work. It gives me a chance to hear news I may not get from other sources, the voices of the reporters are often soothing, and I feel enlightened and prepared to wow people at any hypothetical cocktail party I may attend. Occasionally, I hear a story that angers me changing my focus from traffic anger to social anger and action. And, there are even times I hear something that moves me to tears, softening the blow of the morning hustle.

There are also times my focus moves away from the radio and I spend time ranting in my head about how stupid the person is who thought it a good idea to put traffic lights at freeway entrances. I've yet to figure out how it is smart to have cars backed up onto the main road while waiting at a light to get onto a FREEWAY. I thought the purpose of getting on the freeway in the first place was to get to one's destination quicker while avoiding the inconvenience of traffic lights. I stand corrected. I then think about how counterproductive carpool lanes seem. Sure, they reward those who get to ride to work or school with a bunch of other people stuffed into the car with them, but more than that, carpool lanes seem to punish those of us who don't know two or three other people who live on the same street as us and need a ride to the exact same place. Some of us have standing commitments before or after work and don't have the luxury of schlepping about town with a carload full of folks. And because of this deficiency, the rest of us get to sit in three or four lanes of bumper to bumper whilst six cars full of dorks get to work on time. Perhaps the grump in me fails to see the logic here.

Most mornings, by the time I have honked, cussed, rewritten legislation with my active imagination, cried from a touching story, swerved, tested my brakes, and shaken my fists in the air at the insanity of it all, I arrive at work with teeth gritted and an incredibly unfriendly scowl on my face. Like recess and tater tot Tuesdays in elementary school, I miss the light rail. I miss its ugly blue seats covered in some synthetic material that scared me. I miss the mentally incapacitated who would speak to themselves aloud while funking up the entire train car. I miss the people who fancied themselves street performers even though their impromptu songs could cause bleeding of the ear. I miss the friends with whom I'd ride each day while exchanging stories about the lunacy that took place during the work day. I miss the thirty minutes of solace I experienced on the way to work and on the way home. Now, it's just me, NPR, and the driving idiots. Damn.

Ax The Ex

I try not to subscribe to too many absolutes when it comes to human relationships. I know we are all fallible and at times, vulnerable, so I at least try to make an effort to be forgiving and understanding. Mind you, I'm definitely not a pro at it. Most of the time, when I feel crossed, I'm quick to set a person on fire (at least in my mind) and end all contact. Some of the time, a few weeks apart helps me gain some perspective and the charred remains and I pick up where we left off. However, more times than not, once I set a person ablaze, that's all she wrote. For some reason, I haven't always been able to stick to my mantra of "what gets burnt up stays burnt up" when it comes to exes. Ex-husband notwithstanding, I can say that I have a decent rapport with anyone I've ever dated. I've never cheated on anyone or lied to anyone or just plain done anyone dirty so I can't think of too many reasons why an ex would refuse to talk to me. I have never been the perfect girlfriend, but I do try my hardest to be on the up and up. That said, I recently had an experience that opened my eyes to the idea that friendship with an ex is a terrible idea.

An ex who broke what was left of my heart a few years ago and I recently made contact. It mostly consisted of instant messages and infrequent emails. He apologized for his part in the demise of our relationship and as far as I was concerned at the time, I accepted that apology. He has since settled down with someone else and I got over any romantic feelings I had for him years ago. To me, it seemed like the ideal ex friendship. We were cool, but not too cool. We could enjoy good enough conversation without feeling weird or without my bygoned bitterness creeping in. Coasting through the world of mediocre chit chat felt great - at first. It was all ruined during a conversation in which I was fussing about something (who would I be without a good fuss?) and he inserted his unsolicited opinion about how he always felt I complained too much during the course of our relationship. For some reason, that set me off and caused me to rethink friendships with any blasts from the past.

My first thought was, "Who does he think he is"? I didn't ask for his thoughts on me when we were a couple, and I definitely didn't care. I mostly thought of talk of our relationship as off limits because it was far in the past, I certainly didn't want to rekindle it, and in our case, the cause of the demise was strictly based on his behavior. After my initial anger, I realized that an attempted friendship with him was stupid thinking on my part. Instead of tackling the tomfoolery, I let it tackle me. My level of anger and disgust let me know that his prior behavior lost him the right to be completely honest with me which is an expectation I have of my true friends. It never occurred to me to discuss what I thought were his shortcomings as a boyfriend because our relationship had long since been over and further discussion of it would only cause both of us grief and aggravation. This let me know that there were too many unspoken rules involved in an ex friendship. Unfortunately, I was the only one smart enough to think this way.

Now that I've decided being friends with an ex is stupid, for me at least, I think I'll just stick to the belief that as long as we can see each other on the street and offer a mutual smile and wave, we're good. I know that for some, being friends with an ex is a benefit they enjoy. They meet up at coffee shops, have long long talks over the phone, and sometimes meet each other's new "boos". I look at these people and think, "God bless 'em" because I know that I can never go back there again. Instead of making attempts to be friends with exes, I plan to simply work on being friends first and a girlfriend second with my future exes. From now on, all my exes will stay axed.

Who You Gonna Call?

Here at work it was that time of year to update our emergency contact information. I managed to read the email while rolling my eyes, a task I have mastered over my almost three years of working here. I couldn't remember what I'd put down last year so I thought it best to update my information to remain on the safe side of things. What happened when I opened the email attachment is something that I found more sobering than the strongest cup of coffee; I only had one true emergency contact.

Granted, I am social when I want to be. I have at least four really good friends who I can depend on in a pinch and I know that is more than many folks have. Outside of that small group, I was born and raised in the same town where I still live today so I almost always know a guy who knows a guy when it comes to meeting my basic needs like car repair or where to get a good turkey burger. I'm a member of rather large church and can scarcely go anywhere in town without seeing one other member. I've been a member of the same gym for about seven years. I've even taken to doing some volunteering which is opening me up to a whole new group of people. Regardless of all this interacting and networking, when it came time to fill out my emergency contact card, I had only one true contact and couldn't really think of a reasonable second. Despite my connections and old school friendships, I am still a 35 year old divorced woman with no children and four younger siblings, three of whom living in a different city, and one of whom is still a dependent and therefore not qualified to be anybody's emergency contact. Like many people I know, I am completely unfamiliar with my neighbors. I've been working the same job for a while but only like two people in a building of three hundred. I've been at the same church for almost twenty years but have only really connected with two or three people there. And, I've been a member of the same gym for about 7 years yet I've never had a workout buddy from there.

The implied aloneness really got to me. I couldn't really determine whether or not my lack of an alternate emergency contact was a side effect of circumstance or a result of my own anti-social or stand-offish behavior. Of all the local friends I could think of who would come through in a pinch, only one "sort of" fit the criteria I think would apply to being someone's emergency contact. All this time I'd been living under the guise that I had it good in that I had more than one friend. However, when it came to the possibility of something grave occurring, I had no idea who I could turn to other than my mother.

I considered past scenarios in my life. I'd cut off friends for being dishonest, for being unscrupulous, for having questionable morals, for not showing up when they said they'd show up, or worse, for simply hurting my feelings with the truth. Perhaps some of those in my friendship graveyard could have been my alternate emergency contact. Maybe the guy who wanted to make something work with me but couldn't get me to respond romantically to him was my contact. Or, perhaps it was one of the many who didn't want to date me romantically anymore but "still wanted to be friends" who was my alternate emergency contact. I questioned my ability to hang in there with other people who aren't perfect and to grant second chances like the ones I've been given in my mind while I silently cursed my mother for not having more children when I was a small so one of them could be my alternate emergency contact. However, none of that mattered in the moment.

It is my job to find and connect with those who could potentially be on my emergency card. I need to loosen up my extreme empectation and realize that sometimes I can't even meet them. Simply put; I need to get my panties of the bunch they've been in for a while now. I must exit hermit land, step out of my protective shell, and return to the place where I can connect with others for real relationships and perhaps, a place on my emergency card.

That's What's Up, Or Is It?

So, after months of consideration, I've decided to steal an idea from my seventh grade English teacher and ban the use of certain trite and overly used phrases. Based on one of my Facebook posts, a list has been compiled and is to be placed in the PHRASE GRAVEYARD. Let's see how long we can actually keep these things buried.

1. That's what's up. - People, PLEASE stop using this phrase. It sounds ridiculous and is especially so when used before a statement has been made. For example, "Good morning, Bob" to which Bob replies, "Yep, that's what's up". Um, what exactly is up? Nothing has even been said. Let's put an end to this one ASAP.
2. At the end of the day. - Oh my goodness, this one has gotten so much wear and tear in recent months. I cringe each time I hear it and secretly curse the likes of Frankie and Neffie (or, as I like to call them, Dummy and Other Dummy) for using it to death. And death is exactly the fate of this phrase. Let's add it to the pile of bones.
3. Woopty Woop/Blase' Blase'/Woo Woo- Um, these just sound dumb. Let's keep life simple and make a return to Blah Blah Blah. That was a good place.
4. It is what it it. - Of course it is, dummy. What else would it be other than what it is? Just stop it.
5. You know what I mean?/You know what I'm sayin'?/Feel me?/You know? - Perhaps if people would invest time in being articulate, there would be less need to constantly ask others if they know what the speaker means or if they feel him. We would all learn to "feel" others if they would first learn to communicate. Feel that.
6. Do the damn thing. - Let's just safely assume the damned thing has already been done thereby negating any need for us to further encourage it to be done. Let's just end the damn thing. Thanks.
7. When it's all said and done. - Whatever sentence follows this will already imply that the end of the scenario has or will happen soon. Trust me.
8. Holla! - It just doesn't make sense to use this word in a slang context. And why in the world would anyone holler out the word, "holler"? Seems like overkill to me.
9. No worries. - This seems to just be something people say as if it's supposed to fix everything. It fixes nothing at all. As a matter of fact, now the other person not only has to deal with the actual problem, but he/she now has to also deal with the pressure of having "no worries" regarding the matter. Thanks a lot.
10. I'm no rocket scientist but ____. - Um, first off, chances are the fact that you are not a rocket scientist is common knowledge so no need to continue to confirm that information. Secondly, why would there be any rational need to assume that a rocket scientist would have all the answers to the Universe's questions? If you've got a question about rocket science, he's your guy. If you have a question about baking the perfect pound cake, a rocket scientist would probably not be the right person to ask. However, who am I to say this? I mean, I'm no rocket scientist...

GET OUT OF MY HAIR

I have to admit that I’m very excited about the release of Chris Rock’s docu-comedy, Good Hair. At first glance, and I think I may be right, I assume that the film is about women’s obsession with the appearance, texture, color, and sex appeal of our hair with a particular focus on black women. I’ve also assumed that by the title, he would be tackling the concept in the black community of “good hair” only being that hair which is of the same texture and quality of white women. I think he is going to touch on dispelling the myth that the only way for a black woman to be beautiful is by straightening, weaving, or “wigging” her hair in order to hide any hideous kinks that may lurk beneath the lie of it all. Hopefully, I will find that I’m correct when I go to see the movie. And, while I am very excited about Chris Rock, I’m kinda angry with Oprah (what else if new).

Chris was a guest on the Oprah show last week. Against my usual routine, I DVR’d the show so I could hear what he had to say. During the course of the interview, Oprah told Chris she felt that viewing the movie helped to create open dialogue between herself and her white employees with regards to women's hair and the secrets that seem to surround it. She said that many of the Harpo employees were suddenly asking her which of her previous hairstyles had been weaves, wigs, or (gasp) her own hair. She seemed excited about the fact that now they could all sit around and air their dirty hair laundry thanks to Good Hair. Well, I beg to differ. While I absolutely love the idea of this movie and wholly hope that the audiences will be multi-racial, I do not want it to be some cinematic invitation for more random people to start walking up to me and asking me questions about my hair. I’ve always found it annoying and it has often made me feel like an animal in a zoo or a rare piece of art on display in a museum. And, while it’s nice to have others appreciate what beauty and mystery they feel I may possess, I prefer to keep things just that; a mystery.

Regardless of what may be in that movie, I do not feel like having sudden discussions about what kind of products I use or whether or not I wear wigs or where I buy my hair. I don’t want to discuss how my hair went from medium length to shoulder length in a twelve hour span of time. I don’t want to talk about what I use to color my hair. And, I definitely don’t want to talk about how often I wash my hair. I am not a novelty. I am a human being. Though I’ve been locking for a little over a year now, I’ve still kept my affinity for wigs. Each time I’ve worn one, I've gotten a million and one questions about whether or not that’s my real hair or how many hours did I spend “getting it like that” or I get the other annoying statements like, “You know, my granddaughter is bi-racial and she also likes to wear braids.” Ugh. It disgusts me to no end. After being cornered and questioned at the break room sink, I recently told a white co-worker that I was wearing a wig. When I wore that particular wig a few days later, she exclaims in her unreasonably shrill voice, “I LOVE THAT WIG!!!” all while winking at me. Now, I’ve never tried to pass anything other than what I grew myself as my real hair. However, I also don’t arrive at work with a sign attached to my shirt that informs everyone of the synthetic item attached to my scalp. When I thought about it, I realized that it wasn’t the fact that she loudly outted me as a wig wearer that pissed me off the most. It was the fact that it pleased her to know that I, and many other black women she knows, wear wigs. It was as if she felt she had one up on us. She wasn’t operating from a place of interest and desire to connect. She was coming from a place of sheer nosiness with a touch of “hate”.

I’m hoping that when people see this movie, they will no longer feel the need to ask a bunch of stupid questions about me and my hair. I’m hoping they will see enough to quench their curiosity and inform them that some questions just don’t need to be asked.

Say What?

I love grammar. I have since I was a little girl. English was always a subject for which I had passion and I excelled in it. I know everyone doesn't share my love for English spoken and written well, but at the very least, we can make an effort to follow the rules before we write something or allow something to come out of our mouths. Realizing that human error in the form of typos happen, I'm really thinking outside of what spellcheck may be able to catch. There are times a word is spelled correctly but used in the wrong context. There are also times when common phrases are regularly misstated and accepted anyway because people have been saying them wrong for so long. Repeating the wrong thing multiple times has never made it transform into the right thing. Wrong spans time and space. Having said that, I'd like to go ahead and list some of the misused, misspelled, or misstated words and phrases that get my dander up:

• The thing I am typing this blog entry on is called at LAPtop. It is not a LABtop. I would imagine if there were a labtop, it would be the counter on which one would sit a Bunsen burner and a couple of flasks. However, the thing we actually sit on our laps and use for various purposes is called a LAPtop for the most obvious reason.




• You're vs. your - Um, I really feel this is something that should have been covered and understood sometime during the elementary school years. You're is short for YOU ARE while your implies possession such as, "Is this YOUR laptop?" to which one could reply, "No, it isn't mine. YOU'RE mistaken." I know it may seem minute, but using these improperly can cause some real problems for the reader.




• They vs. Their - It is NEVER okay to say, "They just took they stuff and left." It is not, and never will be, "THEY STUFF". It is their stuff. They simply identifies a group of two or more people. Their is possessive and implies to whom the stuff belongs. And as a side note, THERE is a place and is not to be confused with THEIR.




• Library vs. Liberry -The place we sometimes visit with all the wonderful books, cds, and dvds we can check out as long as we have our handy dandy membership card is called a LIBRARY and not a LIBERRY. A library employs the nice lady or man who constantly admonish us to be silent. I don't know what the hell a liberry is, but if I were to take a guess, I'd say it's something that goes between two layers of crust, is baked, and then served with ice cream.




• Ask vs. Axe - When one would like to make an inquiry, one would simply ASK someone for the answer. We do not AX questions as this sounds as if we are lumberjacks out in the Inquiry Woods chopping down questions. This is more than likely something that can happen on Sesame Street but I doubt it would play out in the real world.

• Could vs. Couldn't - When something is so unimportant that one has absolutely no desire to invest any interest in it, it is safe to say that one "COULDN'T care less.". The phrase is not, "I could care less" as this implies that one actually cares. To say one couldn't care less firmly states that one cares so little it is impossible to have any less concern. I hate it when people say this phrase wrong. It's even in a song which annoys me. I mean, to actually write down and record something so off base simply baffles me. If people actually took some time to think about what they are saying, they'd realize how crazy they sound.

• Know vs. No - To know something implies that one has some type of knowledge of a person, place, or thing. "Yes, I KNOW Tom well. He and I went to college together." On the other hand, NO is a negative response to an inquiry as in, "NO, I've never met Tom."

• Rottweiler vs. Rockwilder - Um, I understand that some people feel comfortable saying the wrong thing after saying it for so long but this has to stop. Seriously. If one is to own a pet, it is incredibly important for that person to know how to spell and/or pronounce the name of that pet. That big old dog in the backyard probably chained to a tree is a ROTTWEILER not a ROCKWILDER. There is no dog called a Rockwilder. While I'm at it with the dogs, one can own a Pit Bull but it is highly unlikely that one, especially a city dweller, would own a Pet Bull. One of these is a species of dog while the other is a huge beast with horns and is not exactly a garden variety pet. If, however, anyone reading this is the happy owner of a pet bull and resides in the city, please let me know so I can avoid happy hour in your home.

I totally understand that everyone doesn't feel the same way about language that I do. To some, language is relaxed and open to interpretation. For me, I believe the occasional slang word is okay to insert in a conversation providing the person using the slang knows it is grammatically incorrect. However, there is a difference between use of slang and use of words completely out of context or use of words that simply do not exist. I believe that once we know the difference, our conversations will be taken to a different level and I don't see a thing wrong with that.