Potpourri For $1000, Alex

I have so many things to tell you but who’s got time to write a meaningful post these days? Not me, that’s for sure. Oh, I can write meaningful crap, believe you me. My writing has made grown men cry. Just ask my husband. Anyway, I just don’t have the time right now to be meaningful so instead, I am writing a potpourri of a post. Yeah, that’s it. A post full of flowery this and that sprinkled over all the stinkiness of life. And like potpourri, this post will make you think I have spent hours working on this mess when actually, it’s just a pan of lavender scented Lysol slid under the couch. I may have just given away one of my many cleaning tips but anyway, here is what I thought you should know today.


My sister is trying to kill me. No, seriously, she is. I want it in writing for all the world to see so when she succeeds there will be witnesses to the crime. Remember, you read it here. She is trying to kill me. How do I know? Simple. I hate to fly. She keeps making me fly to Houston to meet her at MDAnderson. She even buys my plane ticket for me. On Southwest Airlines.

This Southwest Airlines. The one with the moonroof.

What? Airplanes aren't suppose to have moonroofs?

TELL MY SISTER THAT!

When I called her after the news hit the airwaves regarding Southwest’s “mishap”, I very clearly stated that I hated flying, did not want to fly ever again and definitely not on Southwest Airlines. Then I got this in my email today.

Another round trip ticket to Houston.

Or is it a one way ticket? Hmmmm?

I’ll show her. I am going to take out a million dollar life insurance policy before they drag me kicking and screaming onto the plane. That way, Bob will have money to prosecute. You have been warned, Kelly Jeanne.

Call me a chicken. I don't care.

They don't fly without a lot of squawking either. 

Speaking of my sisters, they have informed me I am not funny. They have also informed me that my writing is not appreciated as it is mostly a crock of something or other. Oh yeah, well I beg to differ. I have received a precise message from above clearly disputing these false allegations.

Read em and weep girls. You can’t fight Confucius.

The fortune cookies have spoken.

Dear Diary ~

Dear Diary ~




It’s been three months since I started my new job. Can you believe it? Three months. Time really does fly the older you get. The funny thing is, I feel younger the older I get so time flying by must wipe away some years from your mind. Just another one of my deep thoughts.



Anyway, this job has really opened my eyes to so many things. Having been raised in the church most of my life, including nine years of Catholic school, well, let’s just say I may have been a bit sheltered to certain parts of life. Oh sure, I have volunteered plenty, worked with the homeless, fostered children, you know, the usual fairly safe sort of things. But no, this job has taken me to an entirely new level of dealing face to face with humanity.



Did I ever mention, dear diary, that I am working in the inner city? No seriously, it’s what us white folk refer to as “the ghetto” thanks to Elvis. Other folks refer to it as “the hood”. My customers refer to it as home. Interesting people, my ghetto, hood, homie, customers. I should probably be quite frightened of many of them and yet I am anything but scared. I actually find myself relating to them more each day. Take for example the other day.



Bob had stopped in to take me to lunch. Seconds before he walked in the front door, one of our regular customers entered the store and stomped up to the counter demanding my immediate attention.



“Hey! Here yo money! I aint buying nuttin else from y’all neither! Y‘all discriminatin me!”



“Well, hello Shemika. Thanks for bringing your payment in. Now, tell me about the discrimination that is leading you to no longer do business with us.”



Shemika then went on to tell me how although she desperately needed an 82” television, our store manager would not sell her one. The unreasonable reason he gave? She had no money. I immediately empathized with her in regards to the obvious unfair treatment she had received and offered her a bottle of water and some cookies to help calm her nerves. I also told her I would be happy to sell her an 82” television as I steered her towards the 19” version. By the time she left the store, we were besties forever.



“Dang girl, you a crazy white girl. I gonna tell all the sistahs bout you. We stick togetha. We gonna buy all our @&%* from you.”



She then turned to the other two male managers who had been watching the scene unfold and yelled,



“Yeah, that right. We gonna buy from the crazy, white girl. We all done with you two.”



As my new bestie walked out the door with great, triumphant attitude, I turned to my manager as a line from Tyler Perry slipped from my lips before I could stop it.



“That’s in the playa handbook.”



Yes, dear diary, it’s a new day for this Catholic school girl. I think Bob is a bit concerned about this new colorful side of me. I just hope the gangsta don’t get up in my grill about all dat.



XOXOXO,



Marla

So Much To Write, So Little Time

I am having a terrible time finding the time to write these days. My new job is kicking my butt. Six months ago that would have been a good thing but now that my butt is thirty-five pounds smaller than it was back then, well, there is just not as much to kick as before so I am feeling the effects more profoundly. Have I mentioned I've lost thirty-five pounds? Oh yeah, I am awesome now. Men fall over when they see me. Women want to be me. Children marvel at my lack of girth. I'm amazing. How amazing? I'm glad you asked.

I am so amazing now, that one of our biggest customers finds excuses to come into the store just to "visit" with me. I am unmercifully teased by my co-workers about this gentleman's obvious crush on me. Take for instance what happened on Monday.

"Well, hello Mr. X! I didn't expect to see you back so soon. How can I help you today?"

"Hey there sugar! I thought I would just stop in and have a look around."

That's when my boss stepped in with this brilliant line.

"Look as long as you like, Mr. X."

Upon hearing this invitation from the general manager of the store, Mr. X stood and stared at me, smiling adoringly, to which I stood and stared back, smiling crookedly as my manager and co-workers walked off snickering. Idiots.

Let them laugh, I say. They are just jealous. I mean, what girl wouldn't want an older, toothless, long-haired, hippie calling them sugar and smiling adoringly at them at least three times a week?

Jealous, I tell you.