Things That Make You Go Hmm...

Do you remember The Arsenio Hall show?

With his signature fist pump and trademark, “Let’s Get It On,” Arsenio was the first talk show host to have hip hop artist share a couch with Hollywood heavies and US Presidents. During the 1990's, Hall became iconic in a late night lineup previously ruled by Carson and Letterman.

Originally from Cleveland, OH, Hall joked that he drove each morning from Cleveland to LA to tape the show. This "alleged" drive gave birth to a segment titled, “Things that Make you Go Hmm…” It was a crowd favorite and so wildly popular that the 90s dance group C & C Music Factory wrote a song by the same title. So in honor of my favorite late night show, I’d like to give you my rendition of

Things That Make You Go Hmmm…


1. A few weeks ago, I was driving my son to daycare when I pulled behind a 1994 black Toyota Camry with 30 day tags. On the trunk of the car in gold adhesive letters was the advertisement “Steelz On Grillz… Gold grills starting at $80” You gotta be sh*ting me, right?

So of course I came home and Googled it to see if they had a website. I found this instead…

Note: This is for kids ages 4 and up.

Lawd have mercy! There are a whole lotta grandmomma's turning over in their graves knowing that their grandbabies are running around here trying to say their ABC's with a grill in their mouth. Hmmm...

2. I was on CNN.com reading an article about a 19 year old kid named Colton who escaped from a juvenile half way house. After his escape, he burglarized a dozen or so homes across several states. He was nicknamed "The Barefoot Bandit" because he preferred to rob with no shoes on. (Or maybe he suffered from bunions?) After realizing police were hot on his  trail, he stole a plane (a cute little Cessna) and flew it to the Bahamas. (Did I mention that he taught himself to fly?!)

Colton has been evading the FBI since 2008 and though dipping out on the secret service is a grueling job, he's still had time to amass 58,000 Facebook friends.

Open Memo to the FBI -- if you had befriended the kid on Facebook you may have caught him two years ago?  Hmmm…

3. On June 14, 2010, the iconic, King of Kings statue that stood in front of Solid Rock Church in Monroe, OH burned to the ground after it was struck by lightning. Reverend Darlene Bishop said at the very least they plan to return the statue to its original stature of 62 ft. But this time, they would make it fireproof. When asked why the decision to rebuild Rev. Darlene said, “It’s such a monument. It’s like people know Monroe by the statue of Jesus.”

Now, I’m going to go ahead and profess that I cannot even begin to know the ways of God. But I don’t think it’s too farfetched to believe he might have a little bit of control over lightning… if he struck it down the first time, then maybe he’s just not a fan.

Reverend Darlene, I don’t have address numbers on my house and people still find it just fine. But if you’re just hell bent on the idea, Ohio grows a lot of corn; maybe you could build a big corn statue for a Monroe landmark instead… Hmmm.

Catholic Beef

I've got beef with Catholics. Not Tupac and Biggie Smalls beef. You can rest assured that no one will end up shot. But if Catholics and I ever found each other face to face in the streets… there would have to be a freestyle rap battle or an Ol’ Skool dance off, at least.


Catholics believe in God and I believe in God, so in essence, we're family. But unlike most familial fights, this didn't start over money or what went down at last year’s family reunion. Our misunderstanding started over Communion.

Allow me to give you some background...

My grandmother was in charge of baking the Communion bread for our church. Every Friday afternoon, I sat in the kitchen on our rickety, step stool and watched as as she whisked together flour, olive oil, salt and water for our crispy, unleavened bread. If I did not disturb her, she gave me a corner of bread fresh off the cookie sheet. There is nothing better than piping hot Body of Christ fresh from the oven. Yummo.

If I wasn't eating advanced entrees of Communion, I was playing it with my best friend, Lelia. Since she was a preacher's daughter, Lelia played the part of pastor. We sang out of decrepit hymnals where the songs only had numbers. --Hymn #162. We chose randomly so we rarely knew the melody. We sang off key, off tune and just plain off. After singing, Pastor said a quick prayer and announced that it was time for Communion. Being the sole member of the usher board, I stepped forward to serve her crunchy bread and a shot of warm Welch’s grape juice. Needless to say, me and Communion go way back.

***
A few years ago, I attended my first Catholic mass. I was raised as a Seventh Day Adventist and one of the major tenets is modesty. I had never been exposed to the opulence of a Catholic cathedral. The domed ceiling of the sanctuary was gilded in gold leaf. Jesus’ Ascension to heaven was told in picture through Gothic, stained glass windows. The pulpit was flanked by pillared candles covered in flickering images of the Virgin Mary. Earlier I made the mistake of lighting three candles and saying a few short prayers. It wasn’t until after my prayers that I noticed the offering box requesting a quarter for each candle you light. (Ooops! Does the church accept Visa debit?)

Services started when the priest began his reverent walk down the cathedral aisle. He swung his brass censer like a pendulum while plumes of earthy incense billowed down the pews. I took deep, fluid breaths of the heady mix of frankincense and myrrh. As he walked, he sang a song in Latin that sounded like slow Lamaze breathing, "ah ha hee hee ho oh." Compared to drab church services of my youth, Catholicism was magical.

Unfortunately, I don't remember anything about the sermon. I was too busy concocting ways to score church incense and figure out reasons to sit in the confessional booth. But I do remember the priest announcing the start of Communion. We were all instructed to stand and file down the aisle to accept God's sacrifice, when my neighbor asked, "Are you Catholic?"

I'm sure he already knew the answer because I had completely flubbed the whole kneel, stand, cross over your heart routine repeatedly.

"No," I answered sourly.

"Well, then you aren't allowed to take Communion here," he scoffed and darted off to join the rest of the congregation in my row.

A breathy, “oh” escaped my mouth. I looked for someone else sitting but I was the only one. I suddenly felt like I had come to church drunk on bourbon and inappropriately dressed. I watched as each member held their mouths open as if in a medical exam and the priest pressed a single, round wafer on their tongues. Then after a quick swipe around the cup with his napkin, he tipped the gold chalice towards their lips. I grabbed my keys and power walked to the exit.

So when Dan Brown made the Holy See appear greedy and obnoxious in The DaVinci Code, I considered it payback. And when local teens stole the plaster model of Jesus on the Cross from St. Michael’s and left a note saying that he’d be back on Easter Sunday, I laughed hysterically and said, “That’s what you get, nonnie, nonnie boo boo.”

But family is family right and you can’t stay beefing forever. So I’ve decided to call a truce.

To all you Catholics out there, the next time we meet up, you bring your wafers and real wine and I’ll bring my crispy bread and Welch’s and we can have Communion… together.

PS- And just in case you wondering, I went back to that church and put a whole dollar in the candle offering.

Hey You with the Pocket Protector!

Today is my 10th wedding anniversary which is a huge feat for a commitment-phobe who thought she’d never marry. So in honor of this momentous occasion, I thought I’d share how Val and I met.

When we first moved to Ohio from North Carolina, we lived with my grandmother, Elnora. In the evenings my grandmother and I lay across her bed, drank Pepsi and watched Matlock re-runs. During commercials we talked about the family, news events and her favorite subject, boys. One evening my grandmother turned to me and said,




“Oh I got this boy I'd like you to meet.”

“Who is he,” I asked.

“Well, it’s Mrs. Cooley's grandson.”

After high school graduation I visited my grandmother and we drove to see her best friend, Ms. Cooley. Grandmother told me stories of how she and Ms. Cooley used to put on their high heels and party in Cincinnati at a club called Boogaloo. But by the time I met her; she wore a double pocketed smock, cloth headband and played the numbers twice a day. No one knows when it happened but sometime during all that lottery playing, Ms. Cooley stopped using paper and started writing the numbers from floor to ceiling on the bathroom walls. There was no way I would date her grandson. I was sure he wore penny loafers, pocket protectors and had an Excel spreadsheet of past Lotto winnings. No thanks.

I dismissed my grandmother's hookup and we went on to help Matlock solve his case.

Several days later I was outside with my younger brother. There were two young men washing a car curbside. One approached me, said hello and asked if I was new in town. I answered but was too busy watching the other guy who didn't say anything. He wore a red ball cap with the brim so low I couldn’t make out his face. He completely ignored me. Honestly, I was not used to being ignored. I was a cute girl. Intriguing.

During Matlock I asked my grandmother did she know the neighbor boys, namely the one with the ball cap.

"That's Ms. Amanda's son, Ms. Cooley's daughter. That's her grandson”

“WHAT,” I shrieked.

Grandma nodded her head and with a sarcastic grin said, “but he’s got a girlfriend now.”

The next week we moved into our own home so I spent less time at grandma's house but I still returned a few evenings during the week to watch Matlock. On this particular evening I was looking through her bedroom window when I saw "the grandson," walking out to his car. I barreled out the door yelling that I was going to get a date. I walked leisurely across the street, popped the trunk of my car and started fishing through the empty space.

Truth is that I didn't have a damn thing in that trunk. I just hoped he'd say something to me.

He drove towards my car and said,

"Hi, I haven't seen you in a few weeks."

Bingo! I walked over and here is where it gets all cheesy romantic movie-like.

He was wearing his red ball cap again but backwards. The sun was to his back and when he turned to look at me I noticed that he had the most gorgeous green eyes I'd ever seen. He could wear 18 pocket protectors, high waters and a turban, he was FINE. But I was a player; I was not going to lose my cool.

He introduced himself as Valdez and offered to show me around the city that evening. I asked about the alleged girlfriend and he said they were "on the rocks." I was sure that was a crock of bologna but didn't care. I told him to call me at 5:00….not 4:59, not 5:01 but 5:00. I slipped him my number and walked away.

After the show, I bolted home, showered and laid across the bed. It was 4:52. I watched the red digital numbers of the clock blink past, 4:58, 4:59 and right as 5:00 froze on the display, the phone rang. I almost vomited. I picked up on the 3rd ring.

Val offered a ride around the city and a quick dinner. He worked 3rd shift at the hospital and was scheduled that evening. He would pick me up in an hour.

In the car, I sat barefoot and cross-legged. I rambled about North Carolina and my family. I climbed atop my soap box and fussed about how appalled I was that Ohio residents littered and didn’t have to wear seatbelts. But during the entire speech, Val never uttered a word.

Was this the crazy, Cooley coming out in him? Was that a lotto ticket bulging from glove box?

Just as I was getting to the part about non-mandatory recycling, we pulled into a place called Magic Mountain. He led me into the door, grabbed clubs for the both of us and paid the attendant. At the first hole, there were painted alligators, mini waterfalls and play sand bunkers. This would challenge my golf skills but I was sure he wouldn’t complain. Hell, he hadn’t muttered a word yet.

I placed my fluorescent pink ball on the tee, lined up the putter and swung. Mid swing Val caught the club in his palm. In shock, I let go of it entirely. He walked closer, leaned down and whispered in my ear, "Babe, you know I'm going to kick your ass, right,” He kissed me softly on the cheek, handed me the club and motioned for me to begin, again.

Now ladies, you may want a man to whisper sweet nothings or one that tells you how beautiful you are regardless of your two bellies and five rolls of back fat… but to me, the sexiest thing in the world is a man with confidence. And this guy, with only a handful of words, had nearly made me pee my pants.

Val slaughtered me in miniature golf which he reminded me a few times over dinner. And because he worked alone, I drove back to the hospital with him. We talked nonstop or maybe I did all the talking, but what really matters is that we turned a 12 hour date into a decade of marriage.

So Big ups to Grandma Elnora for her extraordinary taste in men.

Bible Study Remix

I am a Jesus freak. Yes, even with my potty mouth, my love of wine and my secret aspiration to be a stripper, I (heart) Jesus in a big way. With that said, one of my favorite books is The Bible.

Oh shut up! I can hear you groaning now.

“But Holli, who can understand the Bible with all those Thou Sayeths and Thines. And who can pronounce all those crazy names like Methuselah and Ablimech.”

My advice: Get yourself a new version!

While I have nothing against King James, it’s easier to read other interpretations. Heck, if Windows can update every two weeks: 98, 2007, ME, XP, Vista surely the Bible can handle a version update. Bible 2.0

And who cares if you mispronounce a name or two, you’re not going to call these folks on the phone and I can assure you they don’t live in your hood. So just call them Manny and Abe, it’s totally cool.

The important thing to note is that the Bible is full of words of wisdom and great stories. Of course there’s Noah and his boat. And who can forget Adam & Eve and the whole apple incident... but there are so many stories that no one talks about. So I’ve decided that every now and then I’ll offer a Bible Study here on the blog.

So congregation, today’s words of wisdom come from the Book of Deuteronomy.

Deuteronomy chapter 25, verses 11 and 12 (New International Version) states:

11 If two men are fighting and the wife of one of them comes to rescue her husband from his assailant, and she reaches out and seizes him by his private parts, 12 you shall cut off her hand.”

Stop the presses!!! Did the Bible just talk about balls? Yes, by the handful.

I know all you King James Version purist out there must think that this is a misprint. So here’s what good old King James had his admin type up.

11When men strive together one with another, and the wife of the one draweth near for to deliver her husband out of the hand of him that smiteth him, and putteth forth her hand, and taketh him by the secrets:

12Then thou shalt cut off her hand, thine eye shall not pity her.

Church, I do believe that “taketh him by the secrets” is still balls. So call them what you will... private parts, secret places or cojones its written in the Old KJV, New KJV, Standard Version and even in the Torah.

So now that we know the Bible isn’t as dry as burnt toast, let’s get the wisdom out of it, shall we?

Holli's Life Application:

If my significant other is having an issue with another man, I shouldn't butt in and try to control the show. It’s his battle, let him fight it.  In addition, hitting below the belt is a cheap, underhanded shot. Even if my man is getting the beat down, let him take the beating...That's why God invented Neosporin, right?
In short, let a man be a man.

Now as always, let’s pass around the collection plate.

Dream Job

A few years ago, I worked at Online Computer Library Center (OCLC) in Dublin, OH. Built on several acres, OCLC was a sprawling campus equipped with an onsite cafeteria, nursing room, a free gymnasium, three sand volleyball courts and two baseball diamonds. And all of this was within walking distance of a small ravine and bubbly waterfall. OCLC was my dream job. So why would anyone leave a place like this?

They wouldn’t. I got the ax.

The first four weeks after the layoff I sat on the couch and watched marathon episodes of Spanish speaking soap operas. At first, my newfound interest in the Telemundo channel did not cause my roommate concern. Only when he found out that the only Spanish word I knew was, “Ola,” did he begin to worry. Determined to pull me from my depression, he suggested a field trip to the bookstore. If anything could pull me from my funk, it was a brand new book.

I blew my entire unemployment check on twelve books, a journal and a set of tapes called Awaken the Giant Within, by Tony Robbins. Tony promised that within a few short hours, he’d teach me how to take immediate control of my emotional, physical and financial destiny.

So during the day I watched Mariana De La Noche but at night, I listened to Tony talk about his ascent from janitor to motivational guru.

Tony’s Rules:
Dream Big
Write down your goals
Be the mistress of your universe!!

Pumped up on Tony, I went to Kroger that weekend and picked up a Sunday paper. Earlier in the week he suggested I write down the characteristics of my dream job. I narrowed them down to three essential things. I wanted great pay, good benefits, and bonus potential.

I sifted through the Weekender, the comics and then to the classifieds ads. Right there on page 3C in block paragraph was my new dream job.

Are you looking for great pay with bonus earning potential, travel, benefits, and flexible schedule?
Call (734) 525-5200

With an angelic chorus behind him singing in unison, I envisioned Tony, with his coiffed hair and capped teeth giving me the thumbs up. Bingo!

Monday morning at 8:32 am, I dialed the number from the ad.

Megan, of Vector Marketing, informed me that there was an open house that evening at 6pm. If I were qualified, I would interview that night.

I once went to an interview with knee high boots and a faux velvet skirt. I was escorted from the lobby before the interview even began. Since then, I follow the professional dress code of conduct to the letter. I pulled my only black suit from the back of my closet. Washed out my coffee colored, Brown Sugar pantyhose and shined my Payless heels with a hand towel and a dab of Vaseline.

As Megan instructed, I took the stairs to the second floor and hung a left. At the end of the hallway was an opened door with rock music blaring from it.  A girl stood in the doorway with curls so tightly bound to her head she looked like a Chia pet. She wore jeans and a monogrammed polo.

No way in hell this was the right place.

“Are you here for the open house?” she asked.

I nodded yes but by mind said, “Run. Right now. Get the hell out of here.”

But Tony interrupted and shouted, “Grab opportunity by the coattails. You are the mistress of your universe.”

Tony won.

In the large, single room, a fabric Vector Marketing sign was nailed onto the longest wall and gold plated trophies lined the floor. There was a long plastic table filled with trays of cubed cheese with hard pointy edges, crackers and stringy celery. We all nibbled, as not to be rude but we had wary eyes and wrinkled foreheads. The curly headed girl that ushered me in turned off the boom box.

“Everyone, take your seats,” she said.

I sat in one of the metal chairs near the back and balled my stale cheese into my napkin.

“Welcome to this awesome job opportunity. We’re happy to have you. We have a short slideshow for you to watch and then we’ll start talking about making money!”

As if cued with audience cards, a group of her cohorts, also donned polo shirts, cheered as if we’ve just won a sweepstakes. I felt grossly overdressed as the control top of my pantyhose dug into the underside of my thighs.

The slideshow began with an awful voice over that sounded like a 2 am infomercial selling time shares in Afghanistan. It flashed photos of young people laughing and excited. The video droned on as 15 minutes stretched to 45. At the end, the polo legion cheered again and since I still had no clue of what the job entailed, I was convinced that we were all going to be taken hostage by this cult. I pictured myself covered in purple satin sheets with off brand tennis shoes or possibly a standoff like David Koresh and ATF.

A polo girl introduced herself as Megan and asked, “Has anyone heard of CutCo?”

We all shook our heads, “no.”

“CutCo is an American company that has been in business since 1949. CutCo employs more than 800 people, earns millions in revenues each year and has never experienced layoffs.”

No layoffs? My ears perked up to that fact.

I raised my hand.

“Excuse me, but what does CutCo do.”

“I am soooo glad you asked,” she said as she clapped her hands over and over like a three year old.

Four people carried in a long, folding table covered with pale blue boxes of varying sizes. Slowly, she lifted one of the boxes open. Enshrined in a molded bed of grey velvet was a shiny, steel knife.

(And here is where the cult leader slices you open and drinks your blood…)

Megan continued, “CutCo makes special, restaurant quality cutlery. Here we have the santoku, pairing and boning knives. The knives have a lifetime warranty. They are unbreakable, do not rust and rarely need sharpening.”

She pulled out an unlabeled metal can, placed it on the table and carved through the center of it. Then with the same knife, she sliced through an over ripe tomato in one smooth chop. Her demonstration was followed by a low rumble of “oohs.”

“These knives are superior quality and are not sold in stores. You can only buy them from a certified CutCo retailer and that’s how YOU make money," she said, emphasizing the "you" part by pointing to an unsuspecting man in the audience.
"This knife set sells for $700 but we give you your first demonstration set for only $125.00 dollars! Use your knives in demonstrations like today with your family and friends. Those are your first referrals. Then you go door-to-door setting up demonstration appointments.”

Under my breath I vowed that if I ever made it home, I was going to kick Tony Robbin’s ass.

As Megan showed off a bank statement of how many hundreds she earned her first month, I tiptoed to the door where the curly haired cult member was standing guard.

“I have to use the bathroom,” I whispered. “I’ll be right back.” Her eyes narrowed as she decided if I was lying. I added, “Those knives were really something,”

“Hurry ok. I don’t want you to miss the best part,” she said as she twisted the knob reluctantly.

Before she could crack the door, I jerked it open and in my greasy shoes, ran full sprint down the hallway.

***
Don’t worry. Even without me, CutCo still makes high priced knives and Vector continues to sell them door-to-door. And in true ironic fashion, the next job I accepted was in that same building and whenever I heard music blaring or hands clapping I could never stop myself from thinking… RUN!

Uncommon Conversation

The other day my husband totally pissed me off. He lied. He’s an awful liar. So the fact that he even tried makes me even madder. I hole myself up in my bedroom and do what any angry lover does; I relegate him to the couch. But after several hours of stewing, I realize that I can’t stay angry forever. He’s my baby’s daddy, so I need to figure out a way we can talk this out. In an effort to get some perspective, I called my BFF, God.

*Phone ringing*

“Yes, Holli.” (He knows it’s me calling. He’s got the whole all-knowing thing down pat)

“He lied.” --me

“I know.” --God

“So what are you going to do about it?” --me

“What would you like for me to do?” --God

“At the very least, smote him!” --me

At this point, I remind him that I read the Bible A LOT and he’s smoted other people for far less.

He chuckles and tells me that he gave up a while back. He prefers talking it out these days. He also reminds me that violence doesn’t pay, either.

Super. The one time I need him to open up a can of whoop *ss for me, he goes all holier than thou, Billy bumper sticker on me.

“Holli,” he scolds me in that drawn out parental tone.

“Sorry for the potty mouth.”

“Forgiven,” he replies and coughs a little into the receiver.

“Hint, huh?”

He doesn’t respond but he doesn’t need to. I got the message.

But I'll keep this handy for next time...

For the Girls In the Balcony

My first boyfriend was a boy named Mickey. And before you even ask, no, he didn’t have any sort of affiliation with mice. In fact, I’m pretty sure he dealt in corner pharmaceuticals. Though at the time, I believed all those paper sack deliveries were rib bones from his father’s BBQ joint. Mickey wore an S-Curl shag like old school, Bobby Brown and sported solid gold teeth, long before Nelly made grills popular enough to sell on QVC.


Mickey was my first kiss. We were standing on the corner of 13th street, a half a block down from my house. I considered that far enough from our neighbor, nosey Miss Briscoe. All day long she sat in her porch rocker, eating fried pork skins and hot sauce. She knew everything about everyone and would promptly tell my grandmother if she saw me talking to a boy. Mickey held my sweaty, fingertips loosely in his palms. I dug my toes into the sole of my sandals as I tiptoed to meet his lips; this was exactly how it happened in all the Sweet Valley High books. Except in those stories, their mothers didn’t pull up in her yellow, Monte Carlo right in the middle of it.

Mickey never stopped running down the street, even as I yelled that my book bag he’d carried was still on his back. Mickey wasn’t afraid of getting a D in pre-algebra, gossiping Miss Briscoe or getting bust down by the police but apparently, he was deathly afraid of my mother.

My junior high crush was a boy named Dwayne Brownlow. He had a gumby hair cut and a wandering eye. I pined away an entire year for Dwayne. I slipped anonymous love notes in the slits of his locker. I looked his number up in the white pages and called his line. If he answered, I put the receiver against the speakers of my tape deck and played New Edition love songs until I heard him yell, “Hello! Hello!” then I’d promptly hang up. My girlfriends tried to convince me that there were plenty of school boys who would date me. I was smart, pretty and a popular cheerleader. Why was I wasting my time on a boy with a cock-eye?

Dwayne asked me out for homecoming. He bought me a three mum corsage with our names scribed in gold glitter down the black and yellow ribbons. I wore my mum in the homecoming parade. I refused to take it off while I cheered, even when I thought I’d bleed to death from the stick pins gouging holes in my chest. But if it weren’t for my girlfriend, Ne-Ne, coming to rescue, Dwayne’s ex would have scalped me bald in the high school bathroom. Apparently, my mum was the first time she heard that her and Dwayne weren’t an item anymore. Oops.

But no matter how sweet Mickey’s kiss or Dwayne’s flowers, my biggest crush, by far, was none other than Michael Jackson.

I fell in love with Michael during the Off the Wall album back when he rocked a long, nappy fro and sequin socks. After grandma heard me in the tub singing, “You need some lovin’ PYT, Pretty young thang….”she took my tape player for a week. Singing for Satan, wasn’t allowed in the house and Michael was considered devil music.

I couldn’t listen to Michael at home but my best friend, Lelia had a brother who was a DJ. June had pancake stacks of albums stored in black, plastic crates all over his bedroom floor. When he was away, we were allowed to play as many albums as we liked. I sifted through the stacks, one by one, and pulled out all the MJ albums.

Got to Be There (1972)
Ben (1972)
Music and Me (1973)
Forever, Michael (1975)
Off the Wall (1979) –still wrapped in crunchy, cellophane
And my absolute favorite, Thriller (1982)

I loved the albums that opened out like centerfolds. Those albums always had the lyrics to each song type printed across the art. For those albums, Lelia and I wore her brother’s oversized headphones while we listened. We cranked the music far past “deaf” on the volume control and sang off key into Lelia’s tape player. I sang as many MJ songs as I could belt out. In turn, Lelia sang O’Bryan. Don’t remember him? That’s ok, I’ll include a picture. Lelia insisted he was much sexier and more mature than boy-toy Michael.

I begged my grandmother for a Thriller jacket, a Michael Jackson doll, a sparkly winter glove … anything Michael. I wore ankle beaters, nearly put my eye out trying to hot curl a single spiral curl and on bended knee pleaded with my hairdresser to turn my “press and curl” into a jheri curl. In the end, I got nothing but for all the small perks grandma forbade, television wasn’t one of them.

In my room I had a color TV with two knobs for the channels and a single, circular rabbit ear on top. On February 28, 1984, the 26th Annual Grammy Awards were broadcast live on CBS and I was watching.

Michael won 8 awards, Album of the Year, Record of the Year, Best Performance R&B, Vocal and Song. There were accolades for the video, Thriller and thank you speeches to Barry Gordy, Quincy Jones and all his fans. But there was no better moment than when Michael stood on the podium and in his shy, quiet voice looked directly at me and said, “This is for the girls in the balcony!” as he removed his ever present sunglasses. I nearly peed my pants.

I got grounded the next day.

Apparently I had woken my grandmother screaming in the middle of the night. She believed that I had fallen out of my bed, had a nightmare or even worse, a burglar, but as she got closer she realized I wasn't yelling for help or screeching in pain. I was screaming “I love you, Michael,” ……. in my sleep.

My punishment – asking for prayer during altar call at church and no TV for a week!

As time went on my tastes changed, I fell in love with Prince, Al B. Sure and LL Cool J AND his abs but no one ever compares to your first love and Michael was definitely my first.
 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GsN_kBy3ig4

Things I Learned At Grandma's House

My grandmother was a frugal lady. She saved twist ties from the Roman Meal, wheat bread. She collected Fingerhut stamps that I licked and pasted into towers of booklets. For my sticky fingers and tongue cuts, she allowed me to open the brown paper package when the postman delivered it on the porch steps. The contents were always a curio cabinet necessity, a porcelain black angel or a lead crystal bell. Every Easter Grandma splurged and ordered out of the Sears catalog. She always settled on a picture of white Jesus, his blonde hair curled under at his shoulders and his palms touching in prayer. I once got popped in the lip for asking if Jesus was asleep. I figured if he was the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost, like grandma said, who was he praying to?


Grandma’s Lesson: Sometimes Jesus talks to himself but it’s really rude to talk about it.

To save money, my grandmother made my clothes. I informed her that all the cool girls in school shopped at Macy’s in Memphis. We lived in West Memphis, which was across the suspended, steel bridge and west of the Mississippi river. Grandma said kids in her day walked 15 miles to school, got apples and oranges for Christmas and their Mamas made their clothes. But she did promise that if I saw something that another school girl was wearing and thought it was nice; she’d make it for me.

At the time, Jams were the latest fashion craze. I explained that Jams were colorful shorts with side leg pockets and stopped right above the knee. Grandma nodded quickly in recognition and told me she saw a pattern of something similar at Hancock Fabrics.

Before school one morning, grandma rushed into my room and laid what I thought was a new curtain down on the bed.

“What’s this,” I asked.

“James,” Grandma said. “Just like your girlfriends at school.”

Grandma’s Jams were a pair of pleated, polyester culottes that hung to my ankles. Seeing the scowl on my face, she explained that more than one color for short pants was wasteful and anything above the knee was for streetwalkers.

Grandma’s Lesson: Only streetwalkers wear Jams.

My grandmother was a devout Seventh Day Adventist. I considered it Jewish Light. We didn’t eat pork. We didn’t celebrate Christmas and Halloween. We couldn’t do anything from sundown Friday to Sundown Saturday. No cooking, cleaning or watching TV. We were allowed to listen to music but my grandmother only owned one album, “Rough Side of the Mountain.” On the album cover there was a man and woman in white suits walking up a craggy mountainside. I always wondered why in the world you would be dressed in your white, Sunday suit if you knew you were going mountain climbing.

But the Seventh Day Adventist rule I hated the most was that I could not wear jewelry, specifically earrings. One Saturday while I was sitting on the porch watching the other kids play I decided to find the passage in the Bible where it said, “no earrings.” After an entire afternoon of reading, I hadn’t found where Abraham, David, Sampson or Delilah said anything about not wearing earrings. Moses didn’t even say anything and he owned a stone copy of the Ten Commandments. At the next women’s bible study, I decided to voice my 8 year old opinion.

“I read the whole bible and I didn’t see anything about not wearing jewelry,” I snipped defiantly.

Dead silence.

“So why can’t I wear earrings?”

My grandmother smacked my leg with one of those green, plastic fly swatters and said,” Little girl, you save the jewelry for the streets of heaven. They are paved in silver and gold.”

Grandma’s Lesson: Don’t wear jewelry because it’s needed to pave heaven’s streets. Jesus is on a budget.

Over the years grandma taught me many more things, like:

1. Never processes a jheri curl on grey hair, it will turn green.

2. Too tight jelly sandals will give you bunions.

3. Government cheese and Velveeta are the exact same thing.

When I get to heaven I plan to tell her all the lessons I learned. Even the ones she thought I wasn’t listening to. I pray that she will remember me. I’m not 8 anymore and I don’t leave the house without my earrings on but just in case, I’ll be wearing my culottes.

The Things You Hear at Wal-Mart (A Short)

I recently read an article about a 16 year old boy who infiltrated Wal-Mart’s PA system. He said, “Attention Wal-Mart customers, all the black people leave the store now.”

Of course this comment caused instantaneous backlash from the African American patrons and prompted a media circus to descend upon the Jersey based store.

Since I’m African American, you’d think I’d immediately become angry, call up Al Sharpton and march potholes into the storefront pavement. But anger was not my initial reaction. My first thought was,

“You hear the damnest things at Wal-Mart.”

***

Several years ago, Val and I rented a U-Haul and spent an entire Saturday moving into our new, two bedroom townhome. We were young, energetic and ecstatic to be out of his parent’s home. By 2 am we unloaded the last cardboard box.

Covered in a sticky film of sweat, dust and exhaustion, Val said, “Babe, I need a shower.”

“Me too, but we don’t have a shower curtain,” I replied.

We decided there was only one place you can buy a shower curtain at 2 am. Wal-Mart.

Besides a few men buffing the linoleum and a couple of blue smocked employees, the store was fairly empty.

We passed the glass jewelry case and the laundry baskets. I held Val’s hand and steered him away from the kitchen appliance aisle. (Val was obsessed with infomercials and had pleaded his case for a Vidalia onion slicer) when suddenly above our heads we heard the buzz of the intercom system. There was a long pause before the man spoke in a panicked, Southern drawl,

--I need a CSM to the warehouse please.

--Need a CSM to the warehouse!

--Forklift is on fire!

When the PA system buzzes on, you expect to hear, “clean up on aisle 8, license plate XYZ, you left your lights on,” never do you expect to hear the word “FIRE” in the middle of deciding between skirt steak or lamb chops.

So Wal-Mart shoppers, beware. You never know what you’re going to hear.

By the way, anyone got Sharpton’s phone number?

Gratitude

Today is my birthday. I am 34 years old today and I am ecstatic. I am an unabashed birthday fanatic! Usually, I make a list of 1000 things that I make Val troll the city in search of. One year it was a silver watch with a blue face, lol. Oh! don't feel sorry for him. We don't exchange gifts on any other holiday, not even our wedding anniversary. We screwed that up on the first pass by completely forgetting and spending the day watching Scarface. Totally romantic, I know. Don't be jealous. 

Anyway, there is no list this year. I am simply grateful to be here.

Thanks Mom!

Letter for St. James

Occasionally, I come across a situation where I’d like to say something. Oftentimes what I’d like to talk about though, is really none of my business. For example, you see a woman and your mind says,

“Girl, why on earth are you wearing orange, Spandex to the grocery store?”

But honestly, that’s really none of your business. Mine either. So, in those situations, I write letters. Wait, wait. Now before you get your crayons and scratch paper out. Let me qualify that by saying, I don’t mail the letters. I just write.

This week’s letter:

Dear St. James Catholic School,

Each morning between taking my son to daycare and arriving at my job, I pass by your school. First let me commend you on the stone, bell steeple. I believe bells are always a nice, traditional touch at religious institutions. I also adore the well manicured school grounds, which are always teeming with smiling children, dressed in plaid, knee socks and wearing their backpacks like turtle shells. I often over hear them yelling niceties to their friends. They are not playing the dozens, as I was at their age, which suggests that your school is probably a fine teaching establishment. All of which brings me to the point of my letter, your school name, St. James, the Less.

Saint James was nicknamed, “Less” so he would not be confused with the other, more famous James. That James, happens to have his own book in the Bible and I’m sure he didn’t want anyone confusing the two and messing up his rep. Understandable.

But in my opinion, unless we’re talking about drugs, drama or acne, less is not all that good. So why in the world would you name your school after the lesser James? Don’t you teach the children to strive for the top? Be the best they can be?

Why didn’t you go full throttle and name the school after Big Daddy St. James?

No one would have blamed you.

Now, I’m a bit rusty on my Catholic history and I haven’t spent a single day in CCD but I do believe Catholics and ONLY Catholics canonize people as saints. So I’m pretty sure that you all, not necessarily you Mr. Principal, canonized St. James, the Less with that moniker.

Can you imagine what that did to that man’s self esteem?

Just in case you were unaware, let me share this with you.

St. James (the Less) was a virgin, never shaved or cut his hair, never drank any wine or other strong liquor (that means no Mad Dog, no Boones Farm, not even Bud Light). Even more importantly, he never took a bath.

Mr. Principal, this does not sound like a happy man?

I hope this proves to you and the saint naming crew that you cannot get a girl, a job or one ounce of street credit if your name is followed by “the Less.”

So in the future, I hope that you will use more care in naming both your school and your saints.

Sincerely,

Holli McCall Gordon
http://www.stjames.cdeducation.org/

Testimony

I spent part of my childhood in Burlington, North Carolina. In Burlington, there was no shortage of textile mills, tobacco fields or storefront churches. God must give out awards for the most original church name because there were names like Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Double Dipped in Baptismal Water church and Jesus was Resurrected Here-Church of God in Christ. The two largest churches in town were New Covenant and Beth Salem. My parents were members of Beth Salem; therefore, I was forced to attend.

And I hated it.

We sang tired, old hymnal tunes like, “Go Tell It On the Mountain,” and “Amazing Grace.” Children were ushered, like baby ducks, from the Sunday school rooms into the sanctuary while the congregation sang, “Jesus Loves the Little Children.” We huddled together on the front pew while a church mother, dressed in thick, soled nurse shoes and compression pantyhose told us about Jonah and Whale for the 155th time. At this point, I hoped that the whale would just bite Jonah in half so we could move along to something new.

Our pastor, Rev. Gates stuck to the tried and true scriptures of honoring parents and the Lord being our shepherd. Not once did he ever try implementing 90’s R&B songs into his sermons, like “Jesus Christ will make you Jump ,Jump” (to the tune of Kris Kross). Things like that only happened at New Covenant.

New Covenant was the young, hip church. Their choir swayed from side to side as they marched, donned in purple monogrammed robes, rocking the latest Kirk Franklin remix. Church ladies wore fluted hats with feathers that flared out like peacocks. Men wore spit shined, gold tipped shoes with matching fedoras. And after church, the entire congregation met at Golden Corral where they had tables partitioned off with red, velvet rope, like VIPs.

At Beth Salem we dined in the musty basement, eating macaroni & cheese and ham out of aluminum tins. I begged my father to go to New Covenant but it was always an adamant, “no.” We were to stay loyal to our home church.

During the summer that I turned 12 my parents went out of town for the funeral of distant relative. I bargained to stay with my friend, Reva for the weekend. The rules were- obey her parents and attend church on Sunday. Reva’s parents attended New Covenant and since my dad didn’t say “which” church, I took this as my one and possibly only, chance. Though it was the middle of June, I packed my velvet paneled, Christmas dress with red stockings and black patent leathers. Even if I died of heat stroke, I was determined to look my best.

After the choir selections but before the actual sermon, New Covenant had Testimony. My church did not have this so I was instantly intrigued. During testimony people were encouraged to stand in front of the congregation and share how God had done something miraculous in their life. The first person to offer testimony was a man, dressed in a dark brown pin stripe suit. His hair was slicked back like Billy Dee Williams on that Colt 45 commercial. He confessed that he was once a drug addict. He gave us accounts of how he’d stolen pearls from his wife’s jewelry box to fund his habit. I was both horrified and captivated. There weren’t any drug addicts at my church, not even recovering ones. The man went through scenario after scenario of drug stupors and petty theft. And then he shouted, “But let me tell you what God did!”

The organ player revved up a chord, while the women in feathered hats jumped up and waved their handkerchiefs, shouting the words, “tell it” and “preach.” The man confessed that the Lord had delivered him and the entire church broke out in shouts. Completely entranced, I was the only one still sitting but boy, I was in love with this church.

After a while the congregation calmed and the preacher asked, “Anyone else got a testimony?” No one moved. I sat very still trying to telepathically force someone get up to and speak. I was not ready for this end. The minister repeated, “Does anyone else want to tell about the goodness of God.” And just when I thought my secret, 12 year old, mind control had failed me, a lady stood. Could she have been a drug addict too? Or even better a prostitute?

She was a short, round woman with a French roll so big it was surely stuffed with a tube sock. She introduced herself as Miss Gayle and began her testimony,

“You all know, I’ve been doing hair out of my house for 10, long years. I just didn’t ever think I would pass my test to get my cosmetology license. But I took it to the Lord in prayer and went on and finished my classes. Every day I’d walk out to the mailbox expecting to see my license but every day there was nothing. I was starting to lose all hope. But Friday morning when I opened the mailbox, praise Jesus… “

And before she could finish her sentence or the organist could rev up the celebration music, her full set of dentures fell clean out of her mouth.

I laughed so hard I thought my lungs would burst. I was still laughing when the usher promptly escorted me out into the lobby and laughing all the more when I was asked to leave building…permanently.

I never returned to New Covenant. I stayed with my family at Beth Salem until I was an adult but whenever the sermon got stale or Jonah found himself in whale’s mouth, again, I’d just think of Miss Gayle and her testimony teeth.

Saw-"itis"

My husband, Val can build cabinets, cook four star meals, replace car brakes and do a mean load of laundry. I didn’t marry into money but by my standards; I hit the husband jackpot. Now ladies, before you become Kelly green with envy, let me explain. Val is an only child, which in his case, is a birth defect. The medical term is called selfishness-itis. The disease is highly incurable and symptoms begin to appear in early childhood.


Val and I recently bought a home and I staked my claim on one of the bedrooms. It is a cozy room with Pepto pink walls, brown shag carpet and curtains that were violently attacked by cats. Despite its initial, shoddy appearance, this space is the future home of my reading/writing room. My decorative vision includes one desk, one daybed and all the books I can fit into its four corners. It will be a place to relax and call my own.

Enter, my husband.

Val is chock full of ideas to help me decorate this space. He suggests building a unique, corner desk, stripes along the walls, one yellow accent wall and words written in cursive, Times New Roman with green clovers, blue diamonds and purple horseshoes. I swallow hard and simply state,“I want the room calm and soothing.”
There is one idea that I’ve held onto though, he offered to build my desk. Val sketches a plain desktop held onto the wall with brackets. To cover the wood edges, he suggests a basic, wood trim. The desk will be simple, sentimental and above all inexpensive.

Armed with a plan, we pace the lumber aisles of Home Depot. The wood is stacked high like pancakes on planked pallets. Fingers outstretched, I run my palm along each top sheet, checking for bows and knots. I choose a piece of birch for the desktop. It is the color of beach sand and is perfectly level. Val nods his approval. He recommends a trim with an elegant, leaf inlay. I nod my approval. I waffle between a painted or stained wood finish so I proceed to the paint department to speak with Ryan, the paint guy.

—Yes, I know him by name. He loves chili and is a culinary student by day. DIY Commandment #31-Know Thy Paint Guy.—

Anticipating coffee ring stains and pen streaks, Ryan mixes up a crisp, white paint and primer semi-gloss. He swears, on his orange apron, that the glossy finish will always wipe clean.

With the paint tucked firmly under my arm, I look for Val. I find him in the tool aisle.

“Babe, I need a saw to cut your desk and trim pieces,” he says.

“Can’t one of the guys here just cut it for us? It’s cheaper.”

Val does not respond. Instead, his face contorts into obtuse angles and his eyelids shutter like vintage cameras. Is he having a seizure? Should I shove a spoon in his mouth so he doesn’t bite his tongue in two? But with one look into his eyes and I can see that it is NOT a life threatening emergency. It’s just the –“selfishness-itis” completely short circuiting my husband’s brain. Under the guise of building a desk, I realize the true purpose this trip.

The saws are on display, lined up like foster children awaiting their forever home. There is Ryobi, DeWalt, Porter-Cable, and Milwaukee. Val introduces me to them all. One saw has a sliding fence, the other a laser guide, a diamond blade, a place for your iPod, underwear and secret compartment for your Twinkies.

“If you let me buy a saw, I can make a toy chest for Ian, a platform bed frame or bookcases,” he says as he counts off the projects on his fingers. The pitch in his voice heightens as the list grows. I prepare for him to say that the fate of mankind rests on the purchase of this saw. But just as I start to say “no” his closing arguments include how “I” desperately need this desk for my barren, little room with its cat curtains and 1950’s carpet.

In the end, the –itis won. Although I’m not sure whose selfishness should take the blame?

So with great pleasure and a spoonful of guilt, I welcome our new addition to the family, Ryobi Compound Miter Saw -Gordon (Twinkies not included).

~h