Lyricism in Dallas, Redux

Grilling weenies and burger chops
on butternut-coated petrified rocks
to give it that sweet sweet flava that you sava.
Catch the oozy yum from that.

Beautiful boy, point to the stars
and whisper reassurance in my ear.
My smile it reaches wide and high,
Pull back – I’m a prism light refraction in your eye
and that made my smile make me sigh.

Back on my own, my queendom
resurrected, new beginnings
and sultry weather.
I’m curiosity now,
Unabashedly
Weaving my web after one or two drinks.

I’m a femme fatale façade.
Got a heart stitched up from pieces.
You wandered to my side and charmed me with your jive,
Put on quite a show.
But at the end of the day,
You was just a gypsy gigolo.

Silly boy, silly girl,
Stack ‘em up now that house of cards of wonder.
Creamy milk sugar daddy,
I can’t take that glucose high,
You curious why?

Test my water,
Swish it ‘round.
Ripples roaring, makes your head pound from the sound of
Dallas dams exploding.
Flood the bulldozed flattened
Land of the Cowboy man and step aside, gentle
sprinkles on your eyes as
Niagra rushes by.

I’ve kicked the clutch and notched it down,
A step, then two, then three.
Endorphins no longer reality
But in actuality
This ain’t the last of what is me.

Family

As Mom and I sat in the waiting room for Dad to come out of his second spinal surgery, I realized I hadn’t prepared myself at all for the risks that were involved. Partially because I still see Dad as invincible and partially because I just can’t allow my mind to go there. Even for a younger person, two spinal surgeries within two months is high risk. But it was necessary. So when the doctor asked our permission to say a prayer before the first surgery, we gratefully said yes. And the prayer that he gave was so sincere and beautiful that it brought me and my mom to tears. He did the same thing before the operation this morning. Five hours later, when he came into the waiting room and told us he was finished and Dad was fine, Mom and I could hardly believe it was finally over – months of worrying and praying and trying not to think about the possibility of losing him, had come to an end.

As I drove home, I started crying and couldn’t stop. Knowing that he had been spared paralysis or worse by the grace of God, realizing that, for the twilight of his life, he wouldn’t have to suffer the pain that had plagued him for years – I can’t even express the gratitude that I’m feeling. And just like he did after his first operation, even though the anesthetics hadn’t worn off, he asked if Mom and I had eaten yet. No matter what he’s going through, he’s always looking after us first.

Throughout this ordeal, I’ve thought about how Dad was the strength, balance and pillar of our family. I thought about how he always put the happiness of me and my mom first, and never made any selfish decisions that would negatively impact us. How his nature was sweet and caring, but if someone dishonored my mom or me in any way, his fighting Army sergeant side would come out. I remember how he would send me long, lecturing emails when I was doing something in my life that worried him, and hurting from the harsh words he would use or the judgment he would pass on me. But I think back now and realize that, even though he may not have always used the most loving words, he did everything he could to protect me and Mom from the brutal realities of life, and to keep me from making foolish decisions.

I remember the decisions I had made that left them hurt, disappointed and worried. They didn’t swoop in and rescue me from every mess I got in, instead allowing me to learn the hard way so I could grow the hell up. But they did lift me back to my feet during those times when they knew I really needed them.

I know eventually I will lose both of them, but I’m trying to redeem myself for breaking their hearts so many times throughout my life. And I haven’t made up enough ground yet.

I’ve also realized that I hardly ever tell them I love them – it’s something I have a very difficult time saying to anyone, but it’s something that family should hear regularly. And not just hear, but feel. We all want to think that we don’t take our families for granted, but how often do we take the time to show them how much they mean to us, and how much we appreciate having them in our lives?

With parents, it seems that the smallest things make them happy. Going to church with them every once in a while, coming home for dinner on a dependable night, sitting and talking with them, doing chores that are easy for you but difficult for them. They don’t ask for much, but they give their entire lives to you, making quiet sacrifices every day in order to make your life better.

I’m ending the night with a heart filled with gratitude, love, hope, happiness… faith.

Mo

You know how you meet lots of people in your lifetime, but only a small percentage of those people are ones that you hope to still be friends with when you’re hunchbacked, wrinkly and shuffling along with a cane? And within this small percentage, there may be a few who have made such an indelible impression on you that you hold them close to your heart even if you lose touch with them.

That would describe my girl Monique, aka Mo.

As I logged onto Facebook one night, I saw a friend request notification in the corner and clicked it open, expecting to see a friend of a friend or an old co-worker. I squealed in delight when I saw that it was my long-lost friend Mo. Well, twice long-lost friend would be more accurate, but more on that later.

Mo had moved down from Washington D.C. with her little toddler daughter. We worked together at this little teleconferencing company that was like the most feminist workplace you could ever imagine. All female executives, mostly female employees, a couple of boys here and there for decoration. Most of these women were very type A, in your face kinda chicks. And I, being a Capricorn, don’t befriend women easily and personally find the super type A female personality scary and off-putting. However, in the midst of this feminazi soup, was sweet, soft-spoken Mo. (Make no mistake, Mo was lovely and easy-going until you f*** with her and then she’ll absolutely make you regret it – my favorite kind of girl.)

Within months of meeting each other, we became thick as thieves. I was about 21 or 22 at the time, had just moved out of my parents’ house and had no clue about anything. But I was impetuous as hell and wanted to explore the exciting world that my folks had compulsively sheltered me from – smothered only child syndrome. Mo was in her mid-20s, mature and had hella street smarts. Basically, she was the cool older sister than I always wished I had. I don’t know how she even put up with me back then. If I had the 21-year old me in front of me now, I would totally smack me both backhanded and fronthanded. But among Mo’s many great qualities are her patience and understanding.

Mo is a classy Nubian princess, and most of the time we just hung out and chilled at her place with her daughter. But when we went out, I always learned something new. Like how to maneuver through a hip hop club without getting my boody grabbed. Or how to knock back an impressively strong manly drink like crown and coke and not fall off my stool. (This is an impressive feat for me, being a lightweight both then and now. I can get a serious buzz off three swigs of a wine cooler.)

We did a lot of silly things together. She was with me when I got my one and only tattoo – NOT a tramp stamp, thank you. I hollered and cursed and threw a fit the entire time, causing quite an embarrassing ruckus. But Mo just held my hand throughout the ordeal, and didn’t even complain that I nearly crushed her phalange bones with my vice-like grip. Afterward, she got one of her tattoos touched up, and all she did was wince and kept her mouth closed. It wasn’t the only time that I was in awe of her gangsta-like toughness. We were also each other’s accomplice during a number of crazy shenanigans that involved boys, stunts that make me both cringe and giggle when I think about them now.

I have lots of great memories of our friendship. But what I cherish the most is that, no matter what cockamamie idea I had or what ridiculous mess I got myself in, Mo always had my back. We got through crushes and heartbreaks together, and she gave me this little purple book by Iyanla Vanzant called Acts of Faith that I would turn to in subsequent years when times were rough. Mo had a way about her that was just so wise, loving and accepting. And she was the strongest single mother you could imagine – working hard to keep her daughter in the best Montessori school available. To this day, I have not come across a child better behaved or more well-mannered than Mo’s little girl was.

My favorite memory is probably road-tripping with her to D.C. to go to her mom’s 50th birthday bash. Her whole family just had this radiant, positive energy. They were some of the most genuine people I’d ever met.

Mo moved back to DC I believe after about two years, for urgent family reasons. I moved to Texas not too long after that. At some point both of us lost each other’s contact info, but she found me in 2002. And then, inexplicably, we lost touch again. I have always been the absolute worst at keeping in touch with old friends, but I always felt super jerky about losing touch with Mo.

After a few epic emails, we’ve discovered that over the last seven years we have gone down very similar paths. It’s like we’ve been living each other’s lives in a parallel universe.

The older I get, the more I realize the importance of family and close friends. I don’t know if it’s an only child thing or what, but for most of my life I never really sustained relationships of any kind, including relationships with my family. I always floated along in life with an “outta sight, outta mind” mentality and never grasped what I was losing with this attitude. Well, no more.

Mo and I have a lot of catching up to do, a lot of friendship ground to make up. Thanks, Facebook. I owe you a big one.

Stupid Girl

So I got my rejection call the other day. My phone buzzes and I see the UNT Brand Manager’s name on the caller ID. I know before I flip my phone that I didn’t get the job. I know this because it’s 6:08 PM and you don't usually get a congratulations call from a new employer at the end of a work day. That time slot is reserved for the sad saps who didn’t make the cut.

After I hung up with Ms. Brand Manager, I thought about the gaffs I had committed during the interview process. I don’t know anyone who likes to interview, and most people have some degree of regret over something they could have done better. I like to think that I give it a pretty good go most of the time. But sometimes I tend to throw myself right under the bus - to take an interview that's going well and then say something utterly regrettable and usually idiotic.

So I share with you a couple of not so fine moments from my recent UNT experience:

Interviewer:
“How do you think your LEED AP credential will help you with this job?”

Me:
“Probably not at all. I don’t think there would be any use for it.”

Ok, first of all, this is a fine example of me completely forgetting the Golden Rule of interviewing that no matter what is plucked from your resume, you have to make it relate to the job. Example: “How would you parlay your skill at making chimichangas into this position as an outside sales rep?” Answer: “Well, sir, like choosing the right mix of meat, vegetables and spices for a chimichanga, I would make sure I presented only the tastiest features of this Torso Track 500 to my future clients – the cushy foam kneepad, squeekless pulley coil and ergonomical hand grips.”

I did, however, go back later in the interview and toot my AP horn. A tad late at that point.

At the closing of my second UNT interview, a good hour and a half after establishing a great rapport with Mr. Director of Integrated Marketing, we began to wrap it up and he tells me I’m one of the top three candidates. A normal human being would simply give a humble acknowledgement and thank the interviewer for sharing that tidbit. So what did I say?

“Am I at the top of the top 3 or the middle?”

D'oh! Classic WTF moment. Instant remorse. It was simply another of thousands of times in my life when internal monologue came tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop it. I could feel my cheeks blazing and my armpits dampening the instant I asked that uber-tacky question. I hadn't even meant to preclude myself from being at the bottom of the top 3, but I did, and therefore sounded like a cocky jackass instead of just a jackass. The interviewer, in response, simply paused for a second and repeated “You’re in the top three.” It didn’t help that he was a rather dry man who was a poker-face master. He had smiled maybe two and a half times during the interview, but that wasn’t one of the times. I wanted to punch myself in the nose.

So… there you go. If you would like to share some of your moments of interview shame, please feel free to use this forum.