THE RAIN, Enigma and Valentine deFrancis Video

MASTER OF THE REALM AT BARNES AND NOBLE

Kicks keep getting harder to find

You were sad the other day, remember?
She had left a note, she had gone away
And when I didn’t see you at our usual place
I thought it strange,
since you never missed our dates

You used to talk about her and how she would never smile
I used to tell you about him and that he was never around
She ignored your funny jokes, your innuendos, your little pokes
He never had a kind word, or understood my loneliness

Remember when you told me that you spent your whole check on a ring
I reached across the table to hug you, and started to sing
Here comes the groom, all dressed in gloom
Then you threw a French fry at me, missed, and hit the man behind me
We laughed and laughed,
oh the fun we had
Kicks they were

Kicks

So what happened, where’d she go
Do you know ?
What about me, you ask?
let me see
not a hard task
I’ll tell you that he and I are through,
He didn’t love me, and you?
You going to call her, beg her to come back?
Does she really care
was she ever there
did she give you kicks ?

I didn’t think so
same here

his face was pasty white

His face was pasty white—a mixture of no more life and thick face powder. And, for the exception of his heavily painted-on red cheeks and red lips, he looked as if he was fake—a mask made up of stone.
As I stood before the opened casket, I couldn’t comprehend that it was my father lying there. It didn’t look like him but more like a made-up mannequin in a store window. Even his hands looked fake, having been molded into a prayer position; almost as if they were made of plaster— rock hard with not even the slightest hint of blood flowing through them.
Wrapped around his hands were rosary beads. It made him look as though he had fallen asleep while he was in the middle of praying. Suddenly I had to have them. I needed one last thing before they closed the casket and sunk him deep into the ground. A box in the ground; I just can’t accept it. How could it be? How did it happen? One minute, alive and laughing, and the next minute buried, never to be seen again.
I went over to my uncle and whispered to him to take the rosary beads from my father’s hands. He didn’t question why; he understood. After he handed them to me, he signaled to the funeral director to do what had to be done. The casket was closed.

We quietly walked from the limo to where the priest was standing. It was next to the twenty-foot bronze statue of the Virgin Mary—that’s where he was to be buried. As I watched the coffin being lowered into the six-foot hole in the ground, I realized that I’d never see him on this earth again; maybe in heaven one day, if it really existed.
It was my turn to say good-bye. I threw my rose onto the coffin.

“Bye, Dad,” I whispered under my breath. “I’m sorry for the way things turned out. We didn’t have much time together, did we?”

As I walked away, I stopped to look back one more time. Six feet of dirt surrounded the hole, and in just a few minutes, it would block out the light for eternity.

excerpt from Master of the Realm

I’m Your Puppet

I see you had no problem finding my strings
you managed to pull me apart
brick by brick
until you found them
And now that you have, you dance me on your stage

lift your left hand high in the air
and I lift mine
I dance to your tune
I bounce
and do a jig
performing at your will

So tell me
what’s my next trick?

Black Friday is a plot, I tellya

Black Friday. Why is the Friday after Thanksgiving called that? Why didn’t they name it Red Friday or Shop-till-you-drop Friday? Does anyone know? Well, I know. The Friday after Thanksgiving, and all the super-duper discounts that the retailers are giving, is a plot. That’s right. It’s nothing more than a psychological plot created by the retailers to ensure that they stay out of the red. Seriously. Are we that naive? The retailers should be giving us these so-called miraculous discounts throughout the year. Maybe if they did, they wouldn’t panic at the end of the year.
They give these tremendous, hurry-to-the-mall, discounts because they’re clearing out all their inventory for the year. In other words, they’re desperate to show an increase on their ledger sheets; whereby, keeping their books in ‘the black’ instead of being in the ‘red’. Get it? They named the Friday after Thanksgiving, Black Friday, as a symbol for staying profitable. Clever. Yes. Now I see. Maybe everyone knows this and I’m the last one to figure it out, but just in case you didn’t know it, now you do.

They have to get up prit-ty early in the morning to get over on this chickie. Hey, wait. They did.

Mustard vs. Mayo

I love mustard. I’ll put it on anything. The tangy, twang that makes my face perspire simply cannot be matched by any other condiment–not even mayo. Now I’m not saying that mayo isn’t good stuff, it is. I’m just saying that I rather have mustard on all my sandwiches. Is that a crime? Well, it seems to be around this neck of the woods. Where I come from, mayo rules. The people I know put mayo on everything–from scrambled eggs to steak sandwiches. I mean, really. That’s just gross. The heat from cooked eggs makes mayo a runny and nasty mess.

I had a male friend who put mayo on oatmeal. Can you imagine? Okay. So what’s with me talking about mayo and mustard today? There was a big thing around my house last night about which is better. I know. We’re pretty pathetic, right? But you see, the boyfriend was making a late night snack, and he put heaping spoonfuls of mayo on his sandwich. I was completely grossed out and told him so. But did he care? Nooo. He looked me right in my face as he gleefully took a monster bite of his sandwich and then laughed when the mayo squirted out from his bread and landed all over the table. AND it was all over his mouth. I don’t have to tell you what it looked like. And he knew it bothered me so he began chewing with his mouth open, displaying the most grotesque mess one could witness.

Gosh, I have so much writing to do, but I couldn’t let this go without an honorable mention–kind of like when I keep talking about nose pickers . . . Oops. Did I mention that again??

You’re living in a trailer while they get rich off of you

I don’t know how this world got to be so out of balance, but I think everyone needs to take a step back and reevaluate who’s in control. First, I’d like you to answer these few questions.

1–Who puts the president into office?
2–Who makes movie stars and musicians famous?
3–Who shops in all the stores in this country?
4–Who buys gas at the gas stations?

If you’ve answered, WE THE PEOPLE, then you’re half way there. If we can make these institutions rich, and give them power and control, then we can take it away just as easily. It is this nation, as a whole, who’s given the government, the media, the retailer, not to mention the oil refineries, their wealth. We’ve let the government take over our lives. They tax our income and after they tax our income, we have to claim the interest that we earn on our savings. They tax our land, our bridges and tunnels, and they tax our utilities. What isn’t taxed? Now here’s my question. Why are we being taxed on things that have been paid for a thousand times over?

Let’s take the Verrazano Bridge in Staten Island, NY, for example. Now, two years ago, statistics said that on the average, 195,000 cars travel over the Verrazano each day. Now, each year or just about, the cost to cross the Verrazano is raised. It now costs 11 dollars to cross the bridge. If we take 195,000 cars per day and times it by 11 dollars, that would make $2,145,000.00 that the bridge brings in each day. Now, if we take $2,145,000 a day and times it by 365 days in a year then that would be a total of $7,829,250,000.00 HELLLLOOOOOOO? That’s for one year, and I didn’t even factor in vehicles with more than four axles or increase in traffic.
This bridge has been open since 1964. If we allow for population growth and toll increases throughout the years, well, do I really have to spell it out for you? What have they done with all this money? And here’s the kicker . . . Staten Island residents have to pay the toll, as well. The only benefit we get by being a resident is that we pay half price. Well I say phooey! We pay property taxes, city taxes, sneezing taxes, and don’t forget the farting taxes. Isn’t that enough?

I’m sick of seeing money being spent on power struggles. I’m sick of seeing it being wasted on war. I say, screw the war and let’s start taking care of us. We need help. We need to reconstruct the system. We have to help those who are less fortunate. Who gives a shit about fighting? We’re all going to die sooner or later. Why fight over power. It’s just a phallic thing for these assholes.
Come on guys. We are the ones giving these people the power. If we would stick together and exercise our right to choose, they would crumble. Don’t you see? We have choices. We can vote or not vote. We can buy from a retailer or not buy. We hold the power. Think about it. If we exercise our right to choose, they’ll go down. And they will. Because history always repeats itself.

Ballin’ the Jack—Sex right up

When I was about thirteen, the word that was used to describe intercourse was “ballin”.
I don’t know how it came to be, but when someone said that they balled a chick or a dude, it meant that they had sex with them. I know, I know. How did the word ‘ballin’ get mixed up with the song, Ballin’ the Jack? I honestly don’t know. I don’t understand how Ballin’ the Jack came to be. It’s supposed to be the name of a dance, but what kind of dance? The horizontal mambo? *slight snicker*

Okay, I’ll stop being a wise a$$. But seriously, guys. Is the Ballin’ the Jack the same thing as doing the Hokey Pokey? I’m confused.
When I first heard the expression, Ballin’ the Jack, I thought that it meant that someone was having sex with a person who was referred to as a ‘Jack’. Hey, what did I know? You have to remember that I was a teenager in the early 70s. This was the lingo that all the cool people used. They didn’t go around saying, “Yo, dude, I just hit that last night”, referring to a guy having sex with a girl. They used the word, ballin’. But getting back to the song . . . what does ballin’ mean in terms of ballin’ a jack? Seriously. Does anyone out there know why the writer of this song called it ballin’? And what’s a jack?

Why do I have these questions? Is it just me? Don’t answer that.

Ballin’ the Jack

First you put your two knees close up tight,
Then you sway ‘em to the left, then you sway ‘em to the right,
Step around the floor kind of nice and light,
Then you twis’ around and twis’ around with all your might,
Stretch your lovin’ arms straight out in space
Then do the Eagle Rock with style and grace
Swing your foot way ’round then bring it back,
Now that’s what I call “Ballin’ the Jack.”

Music by Chris Smith
Lyrics by Jim Burris
Published 1913

The One Secret That Will Set You Free

 valentinedefrancis.com

Escaping the clutches of trying to out-do each other
it renders me trapped with no way out
Bars of interwoven thoughts, pure energy made of steel
it seems I can’t will it away
because its hold isn’t of this world

I can only imagine the quiet calm of all that is
I dream of floating on the lake
lavished in wealth and tranquility
my freedom dome,
the gateway to what we call heaven
even if it’s in my own imagination

But lest I give you the power to break me
I can’t be broken
nor will you be able to threaten my world
or tear it down

True freedom resides when you know you have nowhere to go but up; when you’ve sunken so low that you become aware that you have nothing left to lose

True freedom is when you come to grips with the truth that everything you’re afraid of losing has power over you. When you understand this and embrace it, you will begin to let these things go and taste the bittersweet nectar of freedom

When you understand the true nature of what you are and that you leave without your treasures, it will be then, and only then, when you will experience absolute freedom

Peace of mind can be achieved when you let go of an expected outcome and just let your dreams happen. Do what you can, and then give it to God and move on. Expectations of how our lives should unfold is being attached to the expected outcome. We can’t be free if we’re attached. Life can’t flow, if we’re attached. Desires can manifest in ways that we don’t expect, but if we hold on to a set of beliefs of how they will or should appear, we will miss their manifestation if they should appear in a different form.

True freedom isn’t acquired or stored away. It’s a feeling and a knowing that nothing in this world has power over you.

Are they freakin’ kidding me ?

Now I’ve seen it all. It’s not even the middle of October and right before my very eyes, what did I see? Christmas decorations! Can you believe that? I’m stunned. It’s not even Halloween. We didn’t get to trick-o-treat. The leaves haven’t turned colors—they didn’t fall to the ground. All the apple trees haven’t been picked and the pumpkins are waiting to be carved. What kind of clueless person puts out Christmas decorations in the first week of October? Seriously. Can someone shed a little insight as to why?

In my mind, we’re still in a summerish type of mode. We’re not into the Fall and we’re not in the Summer. You guys know what I’m saying. It’s ONLY OCTOBER 13th, damn it. Why the Christmas decorations? It’s depressing.
Last year, the same thing happened, but not quite this early. On my street, the Christmas decorations went up after Halloween. That was bad enough. My neighbors skipped right over Thanksgiving as if it didn’t exist. But now, they’ve gone too far. I can’t take it. I know the kiddies can’t wait for Santa, but come on. Let the kids wait. They shouldn’t be so spoiled. The kids need to learn patience and value. What kind of example are we setting if we indulge our kids with immediate gratification every time they whimper? Really! Our generation is messed-up beyond repair. Do we really need to indulge the young ones just to keep them from whining and crying? I can’t stand it.

Why are we rushing through our lives? I want to feel my memories of the summer. I want to keep them fresh and vivid. Time is never gone and it’s never replenished. We all have the same amount. It’s what we do with it that counts. Let’s take a moment to just be. Let’s take a stroll through the countryside and just listen to the sounds of life. Let’s reflect on why we’re here and what it means to be alive. Who gives a s$$t about rushing the holidays just so your kids don’t have a hissy fit? I say screw the kids. Teach them about life. Let them sweat it out. It builds character. It makes them strong. It will make them appreciate who they are. It will make them not take life for granted.

Listen. When you’re young, you think that life will never end. You think you’re impervious to the finality of it. Then you turn 40, and you begin to understand that life does have an ending here on earth. And when you turn 50, you start to keep track of each day, thinking about the things that you should-have and could-have done. Trust me. Life is precious in the physical world. We need to slow down and value each moment. Because just when you think that it doesn’t catch up to you, it does. There’s nothing worse than looking back on your life and regretting the way you’ve lived it.

So You’re Scared by Valentine deFrancis

So many times, after I have posted a blog, a friend will email me to tell me that my blog seemed to pertain to them. I’ve received countless comments saying the same thing that somehow, someway, I just knew what they were going through at that particular time; how did I know it? I can’t answer that question. I can only believe that I had to write what I did for a reason. I can wake up and have numerous ideas, yet when I sit down to write, it’s as though my fingers have a mind and will of their own. So why do I write what I write?

Here’s something that came on me strong in the middle of the night. I believe it’s something that so many of you need to hear today.When I was growing up, I always doodled. You know, scribble stuff on a pad or notebook; write and draw anything that popped up in my head—even if it didn’t make sense. In school, whenever we had to write a composition, a paper, or story, I’d always get an A. My paper was the paper that always got read in front of the class. I was the leader in the writing arena, yet I didn’t understand why. I wrote like everyone else, so what made my words stand out from the others?
As I continued through the schooling process, my writing grew stronger—I knew it did. But whenever I showed my mother what I had written, she’d laugh and say that it was corney—in other words, ridiculous. Well years of hearing that my writing wasn’t up to the Ernest Hemingway standards had made me not want to write. I was embarrassed and felt quite unworthy. Yet in spite of what my mother said, I continued to get A’s in every single paper that I had written. And this continued on through college, where there too, my papers were the ones to get singled out and read in front of a room full of adults. So why didn’t I follow the path of becoming a writer at an early age? In a simple answer … the fear of being a failure.
If I can count how many times I stopped myself from doing something that I knew in my gut I was supposed to do, I’d be counting in the millions. Throughout my entire life I knew that I was meant to do something big—something that would be recognized by others—something that would make a difference to the people around me. This feeling was so strong that I was afraid to feel it. Whenever this feeling popped up, I would get so nervous that I would quickly think of something else to distract myself from dealing with it. Years of pushing down the truth and burying it, finally took its toll. I felt unfulfilled and empty. I felt as though life didn’t have a purpose and that there wasn’t a point in living if it meant living a meaningless existence. Then my miracle happened. I got sick, and I became desperate to get well. And in my quest for finding the truth, I found it. I found my purpose. I received my answer. It was in front of me all along, only I was afraid to know it. I was a writer. And my purpose was to write! My purpose was to help! And this purpose could no longer be held down. You see, for all the years that I hovered in my make believe prison cell, I let my dream and my purpose stay buried. I let myself die a very slow death all because I was afraid to fail. Can you imagine? I was afraid to fail! Once God put me on track to find my purpose, there was no holding me back. The fear was there, but I made the decision to walk through it. I took the time to learn about me,  and that without taking my chances in this one life that I was given, what’s the point in being here? Because honestly, there isn’t a point in being here if you’re not doing what you are supposed to be doing.

Look at all of your famous artists, scientists, athletes,  and doctors … they all failed in the beginning. None of them made it to the top right away. What is the secret that made them the epitome of success that we regular folks don’t know? You want the answer? It’s that they didn’t give up! They went after their dream. They didn’t let failing stop them. They forged ahead with their brilliant plans and lived it! They accepted the challenge and worked through it. They worked through the ridicule and the setbacks. They focused on the neon-signs that blinked success. They let nothing stand in the way of what their gut told them had to be done. And through all of their countless and futile efforts to find their niche, they stumbled, fell hard, yet they got back up and tried again. Man! They followed their dream to wherever it was going to take them. They fell and got cut up, but they dusted themselves off, slapped on a band-aid, and tried again. And they made it! They became stars. They became contributors to this world. They became what they were meant to be. And all they did, and what separates them from us, was not give up!

We can live the impossible dream.  We all have a dream that can be fulfilled. Step out of your comfort zone.  Life goes very quickly, and before you know it, we are up to our necks in regrets. Go for it. What’s the worst that can happen? You’re not a failure if you fall. You’re only a failure if you never try.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Get The Hell Out Of My Head, Damn It !

I can’t sleep. I’ll turn to my right side. There. I’m still thinking. Stop thinking,Val. I’ll turn to my left. It’s still here. Stop it. Stop it. Okay. I can do this. Lay still. I won’t think if I lay still. Okay. This is good. This is working. I’m doing great. Crap. There’s a tiny crack in the ceiling. I hope it doesn’t get any bigger. I’ll go to Home Depot tomorrow and buy something to patch it. Home Depot. I don’t have a home of my own anymore. I had a gorgeous home until it happened. How could they? Look what happened. They took it away, those freakin’ liars! It’s mine not yours. Who the hell died and left you in charge? Screw you both. I hate you! I have to toss. I’m pissed. Who the hell do they think they are? I’ll fix them. My eyes are opened. Gee, the wind is blowing outside. I used to love that song. And windy has stormy eyes and dum deedee dum, dum, dum. What are the freakin’ words? What time is it? Let me look. It’s 3 am. Shit! I have to wash my hair in the morning. I’ll use the melon shampoo this time. I wonder if the cantelope is ripe? Oh, no. I’m out of conditioner. I’ll look like a Q-tip. The red tee shirt will go good with my jeans. Partay, Marvin Gaye. I’m doing it again. Stop it! Damn it! I’m still thinking. Get the hell out of my head already. Val, let it go. It happened 4 years ago. Let it go. I can’t do this. I’m getting up. I have to get out of this bed.

How many times has this happened to you? You have a thought and it totally takes over your life. You think it over and over. It occupies you while you work. It occupies you while you drive. It occupies you so much that you are actually reliving something that has happened days ago, weeks ago, or perhaps even years ago. It eats you up slowly. It’s there when you wake up. It’s there and it won’t ever leave you. Never. You’re doomed. It’s over. Your life is over. You’re a failure. You’re a loser. I’m fat. I’m no good. Look at me. Who will love me? No wonder he left me. She’s gorgeous. I’m hideous. I’m nothing. I’ll never be anything. My life is over. I’ll die this way.
Sound familiar?Our thoughts are like a reactive bomb.

Thought ——–>repeat thought ———>same thought ——->belief ———>now etched in stone.

If you’re anything like me, you’ve had these messed up repeated thoughts that consume your life and put you into a horrible state of stagnation. Maybe you’re obsessing about your spouse who has left you for someone else. Maybe your partner is cheating on you and you’ve found out and now you can’t get over it. Maybe a person at your job is causing you grief everyday and you keep rehashing the same scenerio over and over and over, each time with a different outcome. Maybe you despise yourself and keep saying how fat and ugly you are. Doe it matter what you’re saying? Yes it does. Can you stop the vicious cycle of habitual thoughts? Yes you can. Is it difficult? No, it’s not, but it takes some work and commitment. You can do this.

I’m going to be posting a blog on Oprah.com about our thoughts. I would love for you to come by and give me your thoughts. Maybe you have ideas that you can share. For now, you can post here. When I get the blog posted on Oprah.com, I will let you know.

Sharing your ideas is the only tool for helping others. We are here to help each other. Why can’t anyone get this? If you want your life to change, change it. Change it by helping others. Be their source of comfort. We are all the same, and if you have a good idea that helped you, perhaps it can help someone else.

 

 

 

 

  

 

Thoughts. A terrible thing to waste.

Blog Browsing Friday

So I thought that today, Friday October 24, 2008, I would take time and read some other people’s blogs–you know, to see what’s happening and to see how they write. Hey, I’m a writer, and this is what I do. I’ve read some awesome points of view, and I’ve read some poorly written blogs that had great ideas and content, but were grammatical bombs.

Here’s one person’s blog which I found very note worthy, and if you have the chance, you should read it. I’m going to put the link right here where your iddy, biddy finger can just tap the mouse. This blog is written by Susan Loone. Check it out. Police arrest 6 year old

Also, a note worthy read is an article by James Pinkerton–yes, another Obama masterpiece. Talk about the existence of the devil. Wow! Check it out here FOX WORTHY READ

So I’m off now to scout more good reads. In the meantime, if you have a blog worth reading, hook me up. Hugs!

Valentine

From Hottie to Nottie

Yo! Whaz up, whaz up, whaz up???

Okay. Now that I got that out of my system. 

Let me ask you something. When did growing old become something that only happens to the elderly? I mean, really! Do you honestly believe that you’ll never get old?  Do you really believe that you’re going to stay in your 20’s?

If you are an average, healthy human, eventually you will become old. That’s right. Listen carefully, hotties–and that includes all you hip-hop, carefree, yo-yo-yo’ers. Eventually, you’re going to get married, raise families, and sache into that good ole mid-life crisis thingy.

Right now, you think you’re so cool, so savvy, so on-it. You just wait, my dears. Because one day, you will be sixty and look like this.

 

 
Yo, whaz up, dude?

 

 

 

 Just think. When it happens, you will be referred to as old, and everyone will mock you and point their fingers at the old-dude with the balding head and big beer belly who’s trying to be so cool.

And you my sweet, chickie. Fingers will be pointing at you, too, about your sagging jaw line and the girth around your waist. Oh boy. I can’t wait to see you when you’re old. I hope I’m around long enough to see the morphing of young, she-like-models into over-the-hill she-like model T’s.

 

 This will be you, chickie. Down below 

 

Yeah, that’s right. I can’t wait to see you when you’re in your 40’s and 50’s, pluggin’ away on your laptops blogging on Myspace.

 

 
This is who you believe you are right now ——– >

 

But this is just a temporary illusion, because every intelligent person knows that this is what you’ll end up like

later on . . .   

     

So listen up, all you young hotties who talk crap about all us people who have been there, done that, and who wrote the book. One day your coolness is going to end, and you’ll end up just like us.

 

 

If you don’t think that it’s going to happen, you just wait. You can’t escape growing old. Oh, boy. I can’t wait to see our next generation of hotties-turned-all-grown-up.   

Friday’s Blog Browsing and Other Noteable Stuff

So good morning my lovelies. Yes, today is October 31, 2008, or also known as Halloween.  This isn’t going to be about Halloween, so don’t get crazy and roll your eyes. In fact, this isn’t going to be another blog about Hollywood gossip or about McCain and Palin and Obama. Heck, I think the internet and the media have overkilled the crap out of that. Even SNL, which by the way is absolutely hysterical with Tina Faye playing Sarah, will not get mentioned. And 30Rock . . . which is just about the funniest show on national television, won’t get mentioned, either. No, today’s column is about plain ole stuff. Real stuff. Everyday in your life, stuff. So on with the stuff.

I would like to kick off this column with something that may gross you out, but I believe it deserves an honorable mention — and then I won’t bring it up again . . . what’s with the nose picking? I’ve mentioned this before and swore that I wouldn’t mention it again, but I can’t resist. I’ve seen more people picking their noses in the last week than I have in my life. And what gets me is that they think they aren’t being watched. What kind of enjoyment are these people getting? Can someone please write me here on this column and explain this.  And I won’t mention this again. Okay. Moving on.

So I’ve been talking to some friends who say that this is going to be a really cold winter here in New York. And I’m thinking that I cannot do another really cold winter. I simply cannot do another snowy, wet, gray winter. Know what I mean? I need warm and soothing, with blue skies and white, fluffy clouds rolling by–with the green ocean waves swirling around my ankles. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Oh, sorry. Got carried away. So what does a person do when they can’t afford to pack it all up and move to the west coast or a tropical island? You go and get a portable heater, a DVD about the Caribbean, one bottle of Jack Daniels–with a tiny red umbrella, and a CD of visualization exercises. Okay. Moving forward.

Mimi, a really good friend of mine, is having boyfriend troubles. She was in his apartment the other night, waiting for him to come out of the shower, when his cell phone went off. Of course, she did what any normal, intelligent chick would do–she picked it up. Turns out that the caller was another woman, but not just any other woman, his ex-girlfriend. She listened to make sure that he was still actively engaged in his shower and then played the message. It wasn’t good. The ex wanted to know if she could meet up with him at a different time for their date on the following night. Uttt ohhh. Stay tuned for this.

I have two friends who live in Florida who are roomies. One friend called me the other day to complain that the other friend is driving her crazy with her non-stop chattering. This friend talks when she gets up, while she’s eating, while she’s dumping, and even while she’s sleeping. What is a roomie supposed to do?

And guys . . . whatever you do, don’t lie to your boss. Once, twice, three times, and the ad goes into the Sunday newspaper to replace you–behind your back. And if you have a secret, keep it a secret. The fastest way to get your business around the work place is to tell a friend.

Oh, and here are a couple of groovy blogs to check out. Click here for Margaret and Helen, and Click Here for Who is Joe the Plumber?

So have a great Friday people and remember this: If you think someone is talking about you, they are.

Valentine

Friday’s blogs and Christmas ?

I’m sitting here in sweat pants and a sweat shirt, sweating my bunns off. It’s almost 65 degrees here in Staten Island, New York, and I’m thinking this is so weird. Outside, my neighbors’ homes are fully adorned in Christmas lights and Santas. I mean really! It was only Halloween one week ago. Aren’t we skipping a holiday somewhere–like T h a n k s g i v i n g? Helloooo? We are going way too fast, folks! I am not ready for Christmas, people. I am not even ready for Thanksgiving. Heck, I’m still recovering from Labor Day. Is there a reason why we are rushing into all of this? Is Christmas going to disintergrate into space, never to be celebrated again?
I don’t want to think about Christmas in the beginning of November, and I don’t want to hum Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer, and I don’t want to deal with going into the mall to conquer crowds of moms totting their screaming kids. I don’t want to! Does that make me a scrooge? Can’t a girl bask in the warm weather and ponder the days of summer, just for a little while?

Okay. So I used to own an Acura. I loved that car. It was luxurious, smooth, but most of all, soundproof. Acura makes a nice car, but alas, after ten years it went bye-bye, and I had to get a new car. Taking into consideration that I don’t have a garage to store an expensive luxury car, and taking into consideration that a luxury car gets less miles to the gallon, I decided that for my money, I would get a car that gets great gas mileage and one that I wouldn’t have to worry about–so I got a 2009 Toyota Corolla.
This little car has just about every feature that a fancy-smancy car has, except for one minor detail. Well, it’s not exactly a minor detail. OK! It’s a big detail. It’s made like doodoo. Don’t take this wrong. It’s a great car to drive. It drives fantastically, gets 34.5 miles to the gallon, has all the cool features of an expensive car, but it’s made of plastic–from bumper to bumper. What this means is that you kind of hear more shakin’, rattlin’, and rollin’ then you would normally hear in your leading luxury car. Which leads me to this little diddy.

*deep breath*  Yesterday, I was out driving, and I kept hearing a little thumping on the right side. It was driving me nuts, so in the rain, I took every single thing, including my jack, out of the trunk. The noise was still there. From there, I opened the hood and checked to make sure that the engine hadn’t fallen out–and it didn’t. My only choice was to go to the dealer, so I called.

“Come on down, we can take you right now,” the service writer says.

“Cool,” I say back, and I go.

Thirty minutes later, I pull into the service department, and they give me a ticket. “The service writer will be with you in a minute,” the guys says.

“Cool,” I say.

Ten minutes later, I hear, “G165,” being called out. I look at my ticket and yell, “Bingo!”

The writer smiles. “I get that every time,” he boasts.

So I walk into his office and sit down, and explain to him what I am hearing. He writes me up and gives the repair order to the next mechanic, who 15 minutes later comes over to me and says, “I don’t hear a thing. Take a ride with me.”

We get into the car and drive up and down quiet streets. I have my head cocked to the extreme right of the passenger side, saying “There it is again. You hear it, you hear it?”

He gives me a shifty glare. “No, I can’t hear it,” he says.

Finally, after driving around for ten minutes, we go back to the dealership, where he tells me that if it gets worse to come back. Ah, hello?

I proceed to the cashier where I am handed a bill which says $94.00 for labor. At the bottom it says $0.00. Of course, I don’t have to pay for anything as the car is only two months old, but I questioned the labor charge. After all, I found it to be more than expensive, especially since the mechanic only had the car for under a half an hour. The cashier cracks her gum and giggles, and then says, “I don’t know. I only work here.”
I turned my head and rolled my eyes, thinking . . . of course you do.

So my lovelies, I am giving all of you some advice. Don’t rush time, take a deep pause before you react, and get a really good headset that blocks out noise.

Oh, and check out these really good blogs. Blamin’ Palin by Fox News and this weeks Margaret and Helen’s blowing off steam

Seeya next time.

Valentine

Friday’s and Why Do Straight Chicks Act Gay

Somebody wake me, please! With the world in total chaos and our economy in a mess, wouldn’t it make sense if we, as a nation, would stop and take stock at what is happening to our society? Let’s be honest. This society is out of control. It lacks morals and integrity. We’ve become a nation gone wild. Look at our young adults. Okay. Now this might get me a verbal ass whoopin’, but here I go. Since when did it become the norm for girls to act gay? Somebody tell me, please? There appears to be an epidemic of teenaged girls and young women who feel the need to kiss and feel each other up in clubs, parties, Spring break–any place where there is a camera. When did this become acceptable? Did I fall asleep in a field of poppies for a hundred years and miss a revolution or something? Seriously. If you’re gay, then you’re gay. Period. Who cares? But why pretend to be gay? Does it make you cool? Do you attract more guys by acting like lesbians? When did it become chic for young women to act like horney gay chicks in public?

Girls and ladies? A piece of advice. Be who you are, and stop trying to fit in. What I respect about all gays is that they are who they are. They aren’t pretending to BE what they aren’t. They stand tall, and they act proud. So all you straight chicks . . . if you want to follow the gays then follow their integrity and values. Don’t pretend to be what you’re not in order to get attention or to attract guys. Take pride. If you really need that much attention then grab an accordian, one monkey wearing a hat, and stroll up and down Broadway.

All righty then. Moving on. Telemarketers . . . good heavens, give me a break. Will ya? Has this happened to you? You get a call asking if you would like to subscribe to your local paper. You tell them that you are a subscriber. They tell you that they appreciate your business and then hang up. The next day, you receive another call from a telemarketer asking if you would like to subscribe to your local paper. You tell them in a nice way that you are a subscriber, and that someone called the day before, and would they please take your name off their mailing list. The following day, you get another call asking if you would like to subscribe to your local paper, and now you are about to explode! What the heck is wrong with these people? Listen up telemarketers. The next time you call, I’m going to talk in a thick Hindu accent and make you believe that you have dialed Citi Corp. So there! Which leads me to my next gripe. What is up with people leaving their dog poop in the street?

I don’t know about where you live, but here in New York, picking up after your dog is a law. So here I was, out for my morning speed walk, when I spotted this lady walking her Pug. The Pug was doing his thing right at the edge of the curb, unaware that he was committing a crime. The owner, who obviously isn’t smarter than the Pug or a fifth-grader, left the doodoo where it was. I was pissed. I was really pissed. Did I mention that I was pissed? What kind of person leaves their dog’s mess on a city street, knowing that it’s against the law and that someone will likely step in it? I tell ya, this world has gone to the dogs, damn it. And speaking of poop, here’s another little diddy that makes me squint . . . infomercials.

You know when you watch an infomercial and they say at the end, “Order yours now and we’ll double your order for the same price”? I’d like to know how they can afford to do that? For only 4 easy payments of $49.99, you can have two Magic Bullets, but you have to act fast. YOU HAVE TO CALL NOW. Holy torpedo! Two Magic Bullets for only 4 easy payments of $49.99? I better hurry and call before I lose out on that great offer. Geeze.

So remember. Your day can go a lot smoother if you . . .

1– Learn to speak Hindu
2– If you wear rubbers over your shoes
3– If you order a Magic Bullet right now!

Oh, and here is a great read and a good holiday gift ( shameless self promotion )

Master of the Realm. If you never believed in life after death, this just might change your mind.

Okay. That’s a wrap. Wake me when this is all over.

To order, just go to any major online store or Barnesandnoble or Amazon or Authorhouse my publisher or Valentinedefrancis

Friday’s and Have people lost their ever-lovin’ minds ?

People. I gotta tell ya. If you’re anything like me, you’ll be able to relate to this little beaut. For the last few months, I’ve been apartment hunting. At first, I was going to relocate outwest to Boulder City, Nevada. The housing issue in Vegas and Boulder is frightening. Half of Vegas and Boulder are in foreclosure, which is good news for me. I can buy a 4 bedroom, 3 bathroom house for under $300,000. Now for some of you who live in other areas of the United States of confusion, this may appear to be staggering. But for this New Yorker, the price is just right. Here in New York, you can’t buy a gallon of milk for under $3.89, yet alone buy a house for $300,000. So Vegas seemed like a plan. Well, just when I was getting all warm and cozy with the idea of moving across the country, life happened, and I had to put my Vegas dream on hold; which meant that I had to stay in New York for a while longer.
Which led me to my apartment search . . . *deep sigh*

Okay. So I said to my boyfriend one morning, “If I can’t live in Vegas, then I want to live out in Long Island.”

He was on his way out the door to go to work. “Whatever you want. Make it happen,” he yelled back.

 

 

 Now ladies. When a guy gives you carte blanche to do whatever you feel like doing, you’re going to take full advantage of it, right? So I got on it. I started with Craigslist. I know, you don’t have to tell me.

The apartments that I clicked on had photos. Many of the ads stated that their apartments were gorgeous, roomy, light and airy, but more importantly, all-inclusive. What’s all-inclusive, you ask? All-inclusive means that the rent includes gas, electric, cable, and sometimes internet. Sounds too good to be true, right? You bet your damn bootie that it’s too good to be true. Because that all-inclusive one bedroom apartment for $1350 is in a basement. Yep. A basement. An underground coffin. A musty, moldy pit with no windows, where Neanderthals and their kids stomp above your head with no regard of the time or that you’re underneath them. What nerve! Have you ever heard of the expression “Another man’s garbage is another man’s treasure”? Well talk about garbage! These trashy apartments give that expression a whole new meaning.

How dare they say that the apartment is light and airy. How dare they say gorgeous. But what really gets my blood boiling is how dare they say all-inclusive. Do you want to know why these apartments are all-inclusive? Because the apartments are illegal, and the homeowners don’t want to go through the red tape and expense of making their one family home a legal two family home. Furthermore, to re-do the plumbing and electrical work would require plenty of labor and quite a bit of money. Why should they bother when they can rent it without telling Uncle Sammy? Hense, the high rent to cover the tenant’s usage of utilities. Do they think we are stupid? I will not give anyone $1350 for three tiny rooms in a basement of an illegal apartment. They can kiss my apartment-hunting New York ass.

And speaking of asses . . .

I was in Home Depot yesterday waiting for my paint to be mixed, when a guy came over to the paint department to buy supplies. I had my eye on him because, well, I had nothing better to do. I continued to watch him as he bent over to retrieve an item from the bottom shelf. And that’s when I saw it. It was gross. It was obscene, but worst of all, it was hairy.  And I couldn’t turn away. It was almost like watching a train wreck–awful, yet intriguing.

Guys, please. For the love of God. Will you pull your damn pants up before you bend over. No one wants to see your ass crack. Gee-sus.

People, have you lost your ever-lovin’ minds?

Okay, so here’s my tip of the day.

Sorry guys, but this is strictly for you. Either get clothes that fit you properly, lose some weight, pull your damn pants up to where they belong, or shave your ass.

And this is for everyone. Remember. Be careful what you’re looking for. You just may find it.

Okay. Gotta run. Seeya next time.

Friday’s and Fios

Well, I did it. I finally found a new apartment and moved in over the last couple of days. It was grueling. It was stressful. But did I mention that it was smelly? Oh, I didn’t? Then let me mention it now. I had a smelly move. I shall elaborate. I had Verizon’s Fios Triple Play installed in my new place on Tuesday. The Verizon guy came on time and was very nice. He was courteous and helpful, and knew his stuff. But he was a tad smelly. Now don’t get all mad at me for saying this. He worked his butt off for hours, and I tipped him for his hard work, but that didn’t take away his smelliness. I mean seriously folks. I can only hold my breath for so long before I’m gonna pass out. He was so smelly that I had to open every window in my apartment, and may I remind you that it’s mucho frio here in New York. I was walking around wearing a hat and mittens. He didn’t seem to notice that I was geared up for a blizzard. In fact, when he went to show me how to use the remote with all its little gadgets, he never once mentioned that I looked a bit odd pressing the buttons with mittens on. Oh well. White Castle anyone?

So I told you about the guy in The Deppa? The one who exposed his ass crack while he was bending? Well wait till you hear this one. I was in my car trying to find a parking spot near my bank, when I saw a young man coming out of Sears and walking towards his car. He was wearing his jeans very low–down by his ass-cheeks, low. You know how they wear them, right? Well, he had those bad boys so low that when I noticed him, I was hoping that they would fall. Now don’t give me the tsk, tsk, shame on you Val speech. I know you feel the same way. But here’s the best part . . . they fell to his knees. Yep they did, and I almost crashed the Mentley–that’s my new word for my Toyota which I dreamily pretend is a mini Bentley–get it? Mini and Bentley = Mentley. Anyway, when I saw his pants fall to his knees, I almost lost control of the wheel. I screamed so loud that they heard me in Perth Amboy, New Jersey. Homie was in shock. He dropped what he was holding and looked around as he picked them up–probably hoping that nobody saw him, but helloooo? This was at the mall, people. On Black Friday, people. Do you think anyone saw him? hahahahahaha. Ohmygosh!

So did I tell you that my new landlords are I-talians? I didn’t? Gosh, what’s wrong with me lately? Yes. They are I-talians. And not just any I-talians. They are from the other side, I-talians. They have fruit trees in their back yard. Did you hear me? Fruit trees. In the city. Hello? They have fig trees, olive trees, peach trees, and something that I’ve never heard of. They grow all their own veggies, and they make their own wine. They are the cutest little couple you would want to meet, and I am lucky to know them.
Today, I rang their bell to tell them something, and I left with a cantaloupe. Can you believe that? They had gone to Costco and bought a sack of melons, and gave me one as a parting gift. Now that’s what I call being friendly. There’s just one little, itsy-bitsy thing. He’s a little hard of hearing. I said to him, thank you so much for the melon. And he responded, I no tinka da maila comma yet.

So Imma tella you-a somting. Imma tella you

1– if you wanna good-a fruita, you grow da fruita yourselfa.
2– if you canta tella the difference between the words-a melon and maila — getta hearing aida
3– whena you taka offa you shirta, and itta standa by itselfa, itta time to taka baththa. Okay? Okay.

So for now my lovelies. I bid you a big ciao and seeya next time.

Friday’s and Sneaking around and getting caught

Boy, oh boy. Have I got one for you. Okay, now try to follow me.

I moved into my apartment on December 1, and on December 7th, I received a gas bill. Can you believe that? How is that possible? Talk about not wasting any time. Well, it turns out that I was billed for two days of gas usage. I mean, really! Two whole days, people, and wait till you hear how much. It was $7.38! Well, I don’t have to tell you that National Grid was going to get an earful from me, because if you know me, you know that I don’t let anyone get away with anything. Are you with me so far? Okay, keep reading.

It all started about 7:13 am on Monday morning, December 8th. I had my gas bill in my hand, and I was ready to rumble. I dialed the number.

“National Grid, Mr. Tucker speaking. How can I help you?”

“Yes, good morning Mr. Tucker, I have a bill for 3 therms of gas usage, and I’ve only been living in my apartment for two days. I need you to clarify this please.”

“Okay, I’ll be happy to do that for you, ma’am.”

I cock my head. Did he just call me ma’am?

He comes back to the line a minute later. “Well, ma’am, it appears that your bill was an estimated bill, and that’s why it’s high.”

“Estimated based on what?” I snap back. “On what the previous tenant’s usage was last year?”

“Yes, ma’am. Their average bill last year for two months was $215.00.”

I was now tapping my fingers very firmly on the table. I’m going to scream if he calls me ma’am one more time.

“Well, you have to fix this, Mr. Tucker,” I said. “I won’t pay a bill based upon someone elses usage.”

“The only way to fix this is for you to go and read the meter, ma’am. Do you have access to the meter?”

I stare off into the air. “Well, umm, I’m not sure. Where is the meter?”

“I don’t know ma’am. It would either be in the basement of the owner’s house or outside. I can hold on while you look.”

I look out my window and rub off the frost. “Well, I’m not sure where it is, but I suppose that I can go outside and have a look around.”

“I can go with you,” he says. “Are you on a cordless?”

“I am. But what if I lose you?”

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” he says in a comforting voice. “I have your number. I’ll just call you back.”

I head for the closet and reach for the first thing–my boyfriend’s blue and white hooded jacket. It’s down to my knees.

“Okay, I’m ready,” I say into the phone.

“I’m with you ma’am. Take your time.”

I head out the door and into the freezing morning air. I look to the right of my door, and there they are. Meters! Wait. They’re the meters for the electric.

“Okay, I’m going to walk around to the back of the house. Stay with me.”

“I’m here,” he confirms.

I begin walking around the back of my landlord’s house. I’m looking up and around his patio. His vertical blinds are opened. Geeze, I hope he doesn’t see me, I tell myself. I pull my enormous hood over my head. I look like the grim reaper.

“Can you hear me?” I whisper into the phone.

“I hear you,” Mr. Tucker says.

I now see my landlord walking towards the glass doors, and I duck behind the car port. I hear him yell to his wife, “I tinka we hava teefa,” he yells. “Whereza my gunna?”

I could feel my eyes bulge from their sockets. Utt oh!

“Mr. Tucker, if you hear a dial tone, it means that I’m dead, okay?”

He laughs.

“Must be real cold by you, ma’am.”

Cold? Yeah, that’s it.

I wait for my landlord to go and get his gun, and when I see him heading out of the room, I make a run for it to the other side of the yard. I look around. No meter.

“Can you still hear me,” I whisper out of breath.

“Yep, I’m with you,” he says.

I continue skellin’ around when I hear my landlord’s wife through their upstairs window.

“I-a no seea nobody, Tony. Putta da gunna away.”

My landlord answers her. “He-a weara blue-a jacket. I no see his-a hair color,” he yells back at her.

I suddenly find myself thanking God that the landlord is a tad hard of hearing.

I am now looking up and down and notice that I am opposite the house next door. I’m standing outside their bathroom window. I pull my hood closer to my chest and crouch down to look near the basement windows. I hear my landlord.

“I-a tella you-a Maria, I tawt I saw a putty cat.”

Did he just say, I tawt I taw a putty cat?

“Ma’am, you still there?” Mr. Tucker calls out.

“Oh, yeah, I’m here. And I see meters. I have to get on my knees. Hold on.”

“Do they have the number 57684 on it?”

I carefully look. “Yes they do.”

“Okay, read me the numbers from the left to the righ.”

I’m reading him the numbers and as I’m doing so, I hear the man next door. He’s in the bathroom singing. “If you think I’m sexy, and you want my body . . .”

My landlord is yelling to his wife. “I-a heara dem damma birds screaming againa,” he says to her.

She answers him. “Okay. I call Valentina to tella her to keepa her doora closeda.”

I get off the ground and tip-toe towards the patio. My call waiting rings.

“Tucker, can you hold on? I have a call.”

“Sure thing, ma’am.”

“Hello?”

“Ello, Valentina, ittsa Maria. You-a locka your doora. Tony tawta he saw-a teefa widda a purple cappa on his-a heada.”

I smile.

“Okay Maria. I’ll lock the door.”

I continue to tip-toe around the back of the house, and I sneak up to the glass doors. Tony is standing there with a rifle and binoculars.

Maria is yelling to him. “Tony, you no usa datta gunna. You-a gonna killa someone.”

“No, Maria. Da maila no comma yet,” he yells back.

I watch as he turns his head, and then I make a run for it. I get into my apartment and pretend that nothing happened.

“Ma’am?” Tucker says.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“With the correct meter reading, your bill for the two days is $1.60. Does that sound better?”

“Now that’s sounds a whole lot better, Mr. Tucker,” I reply.

So, what’s the moral to this story? I don’t know, but did I mention that the man next door saw me skellin’ around and thought that I was trying to get a peek at him? Oh, pla-eezzze. Yeah. I saw him later that day, and he came over to me.

“Wasn’t it a bit cold out there this morning?” he asked with a wink.

“Ummm, you saw me?”

“I did, but let’s keep it just between us. And for the future, I’m in the shower every day at that time.”

Only me.

So here’s my advice for today.

1–if you have to find your meter, just ring your landlord’s bell
2–if you tink you taw a putty cat, it was really a man in a purple cap
3–if your neighbor tells you what time he bathes, just tell him you’re a cop

Until next time–OAO

Friday’s and Trini Almost Got Us Arrested

You haven’t really lived until you’ve experienced a shopping trip with Trini. What started out as a quiet day planned by myself, turned out to be a day of havoc and craziness.

I heard the phone ringing but wasn’t sure if it was the Good Humor Man or my alarm clock; neither exist in my waking life. As I struggled into consciousness, I looked at the time on my TV–it was 5 am.

Who the hell is this, I hear myself ask. I quickly grab the phone, almost afraid that I would hear that someone just passed away.

‘Hello?’ I say cautiously.

‘Vallie, woman, did I wake you?’

‘Trini, that you?’

‘Do you know anoda Trini?’ she says.

‘Trini, it’s 5 o’clock. You better have a good reason for waking me,’ I snap.

‘Vallie, girl. I have to go to the mall,’ she says.

‘And you felt the need to call me at 5 am to tell me this?’

Trini’s laugh makes the phone vibrate.

‘Oh, Vallie, you so funny. I need you girl.’

I now am fully awake and sitting up. ‘Need me for what?’ I fearfully ask.

‘Girl, I saw me some sheets and a blendarrr,’ she says.

‘And you need me for what? To make you a smoothie?’

She laughs. ‘Vallie, I need you for support. You can’t let Trini spend all her money,’ she says.

The boyfriend is now awake.

‘Is that who I think it is at 5 in the morning?’ he whispers groggily.

I cover the receiver and answer him. ‘Yes,’ I whisper.

‘Okay, Trin. What time do you want to venture out?’

‘Right now girl. Get your butt up woman,’ she says loudly.

‘Trin, it’s a little after 5. None of the stores are open yet,’ I say to her.

‘Yes, they are open early today–at 6. Gettup,’ she demands.

I take a deep breath and let out a deliberate sigh. ‘Okay. Pick me up in thirty minutes. Gotta hop in the shower.’

‘Turdy minutes?’ she yells. ‘You better hurry, girl. We need to get there.’

‘Okay. Twenty, but that’s as far as I go.’

An hour later, we pulled into the mall’s parking lot, and surprisingly enough, there were cars everywhere. I turned to her.

‘I didn’t know the mall was open this early,’ I said through a loud yawn.

She ignores me.

‘My friend works in Macy’s. He said to come the back way.’

The back way, I think questioningly.

We get out of the car and quickly walk to the back of Macy’s. Through the glass door we see her friend. She bangs on the door, causing her 15 bangle bracelets to clank loudly. He comes and opens the door.

‘Woman, you made it,’ he says.

‘Trini always makes it,’ she teases.

I smile.

‘And good morning to you,’ he says exposing teeth the size of chicklets.

Trini sticks her index finger in his face.

‘Now don’t you be get-ting ideas about Vallie. She gotta man.’

‘She can use me as a spare,’ he answers.

They laugh loudly as if I’m not there–it makes me wonder if I am.

Trini turns to me. ‘Okay Vallie, do not let me buy anyting more than the sheets and blendarrr. Okay?’

‘Yes sir, Trini sir.’

She gives me a strange look. ‘Vallie, you weird, girl.’

I’m weird?

We head into the bedding section; Trini starts jumping up and down.

‘Oh, Vallie, lookie here. Soooo many tings to pick. I don’t know where to begin,’ she says.

‘Well, Trini, start from the beginning. It’s a very good place to start.’

She pulls her head back and laughs. ‘Vallie, you need to get some sleep,’ she says.

‘Ah, hellooooo? I’d be sleeping if you didn’t wake me,’ I say back.

She laughs hysterically. ‘You can sleep later,’ she says.

Gosh, make up your mind, woman.

Well, Trini starts going from one section to another and I’m following her like a puppy on a leash. She has gathered several sheet sets and now has over $500.00 worth of sheets in her hand. From several feet away, I can see that she was about to pick up another set–a purple stripped cotton.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ I hollar out.

She gives me the evil eye. ‘Vallie, deeze are so beautiful. I have to have dem.’

I head towards her. ‘Step away from the sheets!’ I tell her.

‘But Vallie, I won’t buy any more after dis. Promise.’

‘Trin, you have seven sheet sets. They’re isn’t one under $75.00. You can’t do this. You still need to get the blender,’ I say.

She stares down at the purple stripped sheet set, and then lifts her head.

‘You are right. Okay. I’m put-ting dem back.’

‘Good. I’ll wait right here,’ I tell her.

As Trini heads back to where she got the purple sheet set, something catches my attention and I walk over to look at it. Several minutes later, I turn to look for Trini.

Where is she, I mumble under my breath.

I head over to one section and she’s not there. I go towards the Ralph Lauren section, she’s not there, either. Where the hell is she, I say to myself.

‘Trin?’ I yell in a whispery way.

Nothing.

‘Trini?’ I call out again.

Nothing.

This freakin’ woman, I start to mumble loudly.

I am now walking all around the store and head over to the escalator. I take out my cell phone and call her. I get her voice mail . . .

Trini say, Put da lime in da coconut and mix it t’all up.

I close my phone. Now I’m pissed. I can’t find her, and I’m thinking of calling my boyfriend to come and get me.

I’m about to dial my house when I hear a commotion. I look up to see what it is. It’s Trini and another woman. I quickly head over.

‘I will snap you in half,’ Trini says to the other woman.

The other woman throws her stuff on the floor. ‘Who you gonna snap, you island bitch?’ she says back.

Oh Lord, I have to stop this. ‘Trini, don’t do it,’ I yell frantically.

She doesn’t look at me. ‘Vallie, leave me alone. Nobody talks to Trini like dis.’

I get up to her. The other woman is ready to kick some ass.

‘Ladies, come on. What’s the problem, here?’ I say.

The other woman speaks. ‘This bitch took my sheets. It was the last set. I placed it down for a minute and she came from behind and took it.’

I bulged my eyes at Trini. ‘Trini, I thought you were putting the purple sheets back?’

‘I did. But I saw deeze, and day were just sit-ting alone so I took dem.’

‘I’ll settle this right now,’ I say.

‘Trini, give the lady the sheets.’

‘I won’t,’ she snaps.

‘Trini, you brought me with you for a reason. Give this lady her sheets.’

The lady responds. ‘Listen to your friend. Obviously she’s the only one with a mind.’

Trini now looks like a deranged bull. She’s ready to go for the lady’s throat.

I grab the sheet set out of Trini’s hands and give it to the lady. ‘Here. Trini, let’s go or I’m leaving,’ I say.

She shifts her gaze at me. ‘Okay Vallie. I do it for you.’

After I settle that little mess, I tell Trini that I have to use the ladies room.

‘I’m going to the bathroom. Where will you be?’ I say.

‘I’m goin’ to go to the blendarr section. Meet me der,’ she says.

Well, I was only gone for ten minutes. One would think that another could be left alone for ten minutes. But I was wrong. As I approached the small appliance section, I hear people laughing. Trini has several blenders in her grasp–two in her arms and one under her arm, and she’s looking for electrical outlets. Her massive bag of sheets is sitting on the floor with her coat and purse.

‘Trini, where you going with those blenders?’ I yell loudly.

‘I’m going to plug dem in,’ she answers.

‘Where?’ I ask, not totally surprised.

‘Over here, by the restaurant. Vallie, watch my tings,’ she says.

Yeah, right. I am not leaving you alone for a minute.

I quickly get her things, and I run over to the restaurant area in Macy’s. There’s a fruit cart near the breakfast bar. Trini is filling the blender with fruit. Holy crap.

‘Trini, what the hell are you doing?’ I frantically whisper.

Trini had strawberries and melon in the blender and is looking for an electrical outlet. The waitress comes over. ‘Ladies, can I ask what you’re doing?’ she says.

Trini answers her. ‘I’m buying a blendarr, and I need to see which is better,’ she says very innocently.

The waitress stares at her like she’s insane. ‘You can’t take this fruit. And you can’t test out the blenders in the store.’

Trini was already near an outlet and plugged in the blender. She was all excited. ‘Vallie, lookie here. Dis is niiiice, girl. I like dis one,’ she says.

The waitress is now on the phone with security. And they find us. After a few minutes of trying to get out of another jam, Trini buys the blender and we leave.

We are now in the mall. Trini turns to me. ‘You know Vallie. I don’t tink I told you dis, but I really miss home. I miss the warm, balmy breezes, and I miss da water.’

With this, we pass the big fountain outside of Macy’s, and it’s filled with coins, and it’s filled with water. And I get this gut feeling, and I turn to look at Trini. She’s staring into the water.

‘I would love to walk in dis water, right now,’ she says.

I feel my eyes come out of their sockets.

‘No. Don’t do it. Please don’t do it,’ I beg.

She laughs. ‘Vallie, you gotta live, woman. You gotta live.’

Before I knew it, she had her bags on the floor, her coat off, her shoes off, and was climbing in the fountain. People are stopping and staring, and pointing at the crazy lady in the fountain.

I had to think fast.

‘Now come on, Trini,’ I say as if she is 4 years old. ‘I have to get you back to the home. If we don’t get back they won’t give you ice-cream after your dinner tonight.’

‘Dis feels so niiice, Vallie. Come on in,’ she says. She’s giggling like a little kid.

Security comes over. ‘Ma’am, are you the caretaker for this woman?’

I cock my head. Did he just call me ma’am?

I mean really, people. Why me?

Are You Loveable

Yesterday morning, I was walking with a friend, when we got into a little tiff over whether or not she was a loveable person. I know this sounds almost crazy, but it happened. You see, my friend was telling me that she can’t find a good guy because every guy she dates has big issues.

She told me that she went out with this guy on several dates, and then one day, just when she thought there was a possibility of a relationship, he was gone–just like that. No phone calls, no emails, no nothing. At first, she thought that maybe he was sick and was in the hospital–but he wasn’t. Then she thought that maybe he had gotten hit by a car and was dead–but he wasn’t. She just couldn’t figure out what happened to him, until she got desperate and tracked his ass down.

She went to his house and rang his bell; and when he opened the door, he was face to face with a furious monster. She demanded to know why he stopped calling her. She demanded closure.

Well, he invited her to come in and then told her to sit down–he was going to be honest with her; after all, she asked for it.
He went on to say that she constantly complained, and that she had a bad attitude. He said that being with her drained the life out of him.

So she said to him, “Why? What did I do or say that gave the impression that I am miserable?”

And he said, “You have something negative to say about everything–from your hair to the weather, to the food you eat in every restaurant.”

She was stunned. She didn’t realize how negative she was. Then she said to him, “But I am such a loveable person.”

And he said to her, “If you think it’s loveable to criticize every detail of life then you’re delusional.”

So here we were, taking our morning walk, when she told me this entire story.

“So, what do you think? Isn’t he a dirtbag?” she asked.

I hesitated. She glanced at me sideways and stared into my head. I knew that I had to be honest with her.

“So, why aren’t you answering me?” she asked.

“Okay. Look. I’m going to be honest with you only because you’re asking me to.”

“I can take it,” she said like a tough-guy.

“Okay. Listen. I know you for many years, and I know you’re a good person.”

She was giving me the evil eye. “Yeah, go on.”

“But you complain about everything.”

“I do not. I just report the facts the way they are,” she said.

“The facts may be negative, but constantly talking about them is draining.”

“I don’t get how war and crime and bad weather can be positive. If I have a conversation with you about world events, it’s not going to be a positive conversation. There’s nothing good about our country and what’s happening with the economy.”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “The reason our world is so wrong is because most people dwell on all the bad things instead of giving thanks when they wake up in the morning. If people would wake up and start their day with gratitude instead of attitude, then a positive chain of reaction would take place.”

“That’s bullshit!” she practically yelled. “It’s unrealistic to walk around with a smile when everything is wrong.”

“Everything is wrong because most people love to talk about what’s wrong instead of what’s right. You freakin’ people are willing this shit into your lives by talking and thinking about it all day long. There are some of us who like to talk about good things, you know.”

Suddenly we were quiet. I knew that I came on strong, but I didn’t care. Don’t ask me for the truth if you’re not prepared to get it.

We kept on walking, not looking at each other nor speaking; the air was literally thick with tension. Finally she said something. “How do I stop thinking so negatively?”

I turned to look at her. “It takes practice and hard work.”

“It does?”

I stared ahead when I answered her. “Yes, it does. To think negatively is a horrible habit that most people aren’t even aware of. You have to deliberately think positively. When a negative thought comes to mind, you have to look for the bright side of that particular thing, and you have to keep doing it, and doing it, and doing it–and never stop.”

She stared into my face, and I could feel her sadness. She’s a good person; she just didn’t know how negative she was.

“Can you help me?” she said like a lost soul.

“Yeah, I can help you.”

We just kept walking.

“It’s really cold today,” she said breaking the silence.

I smiled.

“Yes, it is, but at least it’s not snowing or raining. It’s sunny and bright.”

She smiled back. “Yeah, thank God it’s sunny and bright. It could be worse.”

“That’s right. We live in a great neighborhood and have food and a warm bed to sleep in,” I added.

“Yeah,” she said. “And we have money to pay our bills and we have cars.”

“And we have our health, and we have each other, and we can walk, and we’re not living in the streets without a roof over our heads. We have people who love us.”

“Oooh, I have another,” she eagerly chimed in. “And we have eyes to see with, and legs that can move. We really are blessed.”

“Yep. We really are. So who cares about one guy who doesn’t like you. There are over 7 billion people around the world. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

She laughed and then put her arm through mine. “Yeah. There’s plenty to go around.”

Agents and editors–who died and left them in charge?

***I’ve updated this blog and if you want to read it, go to, VALENTINE’S BLOG AT MYSPACE

Okay. I’m going to talk about something that may get me in trouble, but I believe it needs to be said. Here I go.
How did one person get to be the judge, jury, and connoiseur of movies, restaurants, and books? Can someone tell me please?

Let me explain what I mean. Joe Schmoe goes to a movie and says that he doesn’t like the movie. And somehow, someway, Joe Schmoe’s opinion is the only opinion that matters–he is now a proclaimed expert– a critic of all movies, who gets the final say as to whether a movie is good or bad. And because of Joe Schmoe’s opinion, this movie will either make it or break it.

The same goes for a book. Where do these agents and editors come from who get to pick and choose what’s good and what isn’t? Isn’t life all about perception? Isn’t variety the spice of life? What may be a great book to one person, may not be good to another, right? So our fate lies in the hands of someone who may prefer a story that has multiple twists and turns when you prefer a story that is more direct.

Why is it that a person who goes to school to become an editor gets to decide what manuscript moves through the conveyor belt to publication and what doesn’t? I mean really! I can’t fathom that one agent or editor gets to decide the fate of someone’s dream.

Listen up people–especially you writers. Let me give you a scenerio.

You send out your manuscript–your blood, sweat, and hard work, to an agent. This agent takes a glance at it and says, Nah, I don’t like it. Who is this agent to say “YAY OR NAY” to anything? It’s a matter of taste. So your novel is about the Hitler regime, and because the agent is Jewish and had grandparents who suffered in the hands of Hitler, he or she decides that your manuscript isn’t what people want to read. Do you think that your manuscript stands a chance getting through to a publisher with an agent who is biased? Who gave agents and editors all this power? We need to take it back. WE NEED UNBIASED REPRESENTATION.

Gosh damn. We writers and authors are at the mercy of a group of self proclaimed judges who think that their word is “THE” final say of what’s hot and what’s not.

I get that an agent will shoot for what’s marketable and what will sell, so isn’t that being prejudice? I know money is the motivator as with everything else, but once again, isn’t that being prejudice? I get that agents are in the business to make money and will pick what they believe to be a hit, but yet again, isn’t that being prejudice or biased?

I’ve seen editors who’ve hacked the hell out of manuscripts–changing not only sentence structure but the overall feel for the story. You know what I think? I think that if an editor changes the whole feel for the story, including the dialogue, then this editor ought to write their own book. Is it possible that they are frustrated writers who fear rejection? Let’s switch places with them.

Which brings me to the query letter. Good heavens. Why does submitting a manuscript have to be so rigid? If you don’t dot your I’s and cross your T’s then it’s rejected. It’s like filling out papers for the government. Is it a ploy to see how far we are willing to go to become published? Or is it a manical inside joke to watch us little guys squirm? Moving on.

And you know what else really gets me? The movie stars and public figures who get their books published by the big houses–they get it published because of who they are and who they know! Right? Since when did Britney Spears become a writer? Heck, she can’t make it as a singer, but now she’s a writer? I’m speaking hypothetically, of course. Call it nepotism, call it favoritism, call it anything you want, but you can’t call it fair or just.

I’ve read some books and stories that were praised by the L.A.Times or The New York Times that were horrible. Some of these books were incredibly hard to read and I needed a dictionary. I guess if you use long words and have an extensive vocabulary then you’ve got yourself a best seller. Give me a break. I’ve read poetry from books that had me shaking my head–poetry that I had absolutely no clue as to what the writer was conveying, yet because Jane, the agent, liked it, it got published. *long sigh*

I’ve seen some pretty shabby material go through and make it to the top. And I’ve often wondered how these agents let it go through. I’ve picked up best selling books that had numerous editing mistakes and wondered who the hell edited the book. I’ve seen movies where the editing and splicing was so messed up that how it ever got to be a blockbuster had me scratching my head. In other words, how did these self proclaimed experts get to be the ones to decide the fate of our gifts? I’ve seen their mistakes. I’ve seen their grammatical slip-ups, yet we’re the ones who aren’t good enough. Yeah, right.

I’ll tell you what. Throw a bunch of bananas into a cage full of monkeys, and I can bet you every penny that I have that the biggest monkey in the cage will get those bananas. You reading me people?

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are you dating a momma’s boy

I may not be many things, but the one thing that I am is an expert when it comes to the topic of mommas’ boys. I should know. I married one. So what makes a momma’s boy a momma’s boy?

When you date and then marry a momma’s boy what you are actually doing is battling it out for first place in your man’s life. A mother who has pampered and babied and spoiled her son will be a very hard act to follow. Naturally, the son will have extremely high standards because of this, and any woman who comes into his life will probably never measure up to his expectations of how a woman should be. And let me be really clear about this. His mother was no dummy when she implemented these ideas. She was making sure that she would always be number one.

It’s my belief that when a mother spoils her son, she does so deliberately, setting her territorial rights to him. She wants to instill a belief that she simply cannot be replaced–ever!

From the time he’s brought into this world, she does everything for him, practically rendering him helpless. She makes sure that he turns into a whiny, pathetic, cry baby, who runs to her when life isn’t going his way. I may sound a bit harsh, but I’m just being honest. Anyone who is dating or married to this type of guy knows that I’m speaking the truth.

So let’s say you’re dating a momma’s boy. The first thing that will happen is that he’s going to compare the way you look to the way his mother looks. He won’t mean to do this–it’s a subconscious thing. And if you cook a meal for him, just know that it will never be as good as his mother’s. Oh, it will come in at a close second, but have no worries. He’ll tell you to come by the house so you can get a few tips from her. But wait. Here comes the good stuff.
When you live with a momma’s boy, you can usually expect that he won’t lift a finger to help. He’ll throw his clothes on the floor, leave dishes in the sink, and expect all his meals to be served to him, just the way his momma always did for him. You’ll have to iron his shirts because his mother did. And you’ll have to make meatloaf the way his momma does. And there won’t be one thing that you will do that won’t be compared to the way his mother does it. And here’s the big one. If the momma doesn’t like you, you’re pretty much history.

When I was 22, I married a guy who wouldn’t let go of his mother’s apron strings, and as a result, the marriage suffered. No matter what I did, I was constantly being compared to her. I was # 2, never quite measuring up to the way she did things. I was always one card short of a full deck. And that one card that she had that I didn’t have was her trump card–the “you’re my baby boy” card.

She was clever and knew how to work it. I have to say that in spite of how she ruined him, we became close. Oh, it was a huge struggle for the first few years, but she resigned to the fact that he married me, and I resigned to the fact that I would never be number one in his life. That’s probably why I divorced him.

Living with a momma’s boy is a no win situation. But hey. If you’re comfortable being in second place, then go for it.

How high can we get

Have you ever thought about taking your life? What leads a person to commit suicide? Why do some people fall into a deep state of depression? Doctors and psychiatrists can only speculate the reasons to these questions from examining thousands of case studies. But how can a doctor or any person really know what goes on in someone’s mind? Our minds aren’t equal. Doctors can diagnose cancer, and through scientic studies and research, provide a treatment to put it into remission. But our minds can’t be examined in the same fashion as a disease. Our thoughts, with their underlying fears and motivators, are intricate and unique; therefore, not measurable. If ten people were asked to describe the color red in an apple, I’m betting that each person’s description would be a bit different. Perception is key, isn’t it? But here’s what got me thinking. What makes a person self destruct? Where does their wiring go wrong? Can we legitimitely blame our parents for the way we feel? I’m going to go out on a limb and say, no. I believe that we are subject to their habits and personalities, and as a result, can learn their behaviors, but there’s more to it. The mechanics of what makes a person tick is multi-faceted; and why people fall into depression has a lot to do with feeling unfulfilled.

We’ve all heard the stories about Jim Morrison, Janice Joplin, Jimmy Hendrix, and so many other famous artists and actors, who’ve overdosed on drugs at a very early age. Some of these people deliberately took their lives while others died accidentally. Their successes, and the rush that accompanies it, was achieved so early in life that they felt the need to experience something that would take them higher. What does a person do to achieve this rush after they’ve exhausted all other possibilites? What do you do after you’ve had it all and done it all? How high can we go?

People, like you and me, try our best to make our lives better, yet millions of us suffer from deep depression. Some are battling an addiction, while others are feeling so useless that they want to die. They wake up, take a good look around, and ask the frightening question that has plaqued the greatest of minds since the beginning of humanity. They ask, is this all there is?

I understand that everyone doesn’t have these thoughts. We’re not alike. But through reading and observing, it appears that deep thinkers and artists suffer more than the everyday person. Like these great minds, I too, have asked myself if this was all there was and I’m not speaking rhetorically. I’m serious. For me, the feeling of being useless and questioning my existence, pushed me into asking this very question.

I was unhappy with my life and felt that I didn’t have anything to look forward to. I didn’t have an interest in things. I was bored with the club scene. I was bored with hearing the talkers talk. I was bored with the game. When I examined what was left, I asked the question that I was afraid to get the answer to. I felt that there had to be more than merely existing. There had to be more than acting robotically. There had to be more than what I was doing–getting up, going to work, acting out the part and not receiving the applauds.

It was during this period of my life when I relapsed into a disorder known as agoraphobia. All the questions that plagued me for years, the very same questions that I asked but was afraid to get the answers to, were surfacing to my conscience. These questions made me think–they made me pick apart my life and curse my existence. I didn’t want to face these questions because facing them meant facing the answers that went along with them.
Finally, out of desperation to rid myself of the disorder, I turned to the one thing that I didn’t believe in, and that was God. I begged Him to show me my purpose. I begged Him to tell me if there was more to life than what I was experiencing? I had to know if there was more. And I found out that there is more. We can go higher if we look past the material things. Follow me on this. Buying cars and boats, and jewels and vacations only gives a temporary high. After they’re gone, how do you get another rush? Most people keep buying. They buy bigger cars and boats, bigger houses and more jewels. If you have money, you keep buying. Finally, when you have obtained it all, what’s next? Drugs? Gambling?

Listen. We can only go so high. The money can only give us so much gratification. When you’ve done it all, you have to find something else to give you that high, and drugs isn’t the answer. But reaching out to others, is. When you have it all, it’s time to start giving back. Helping people, in any capacity, is the way. It’s the only way.

I was only a young girl when Peggy Lee shot to fame with her song, Is That All There Is, and now I understand why the song went big. Ask yourself . . . is this all there is?

The greatest minds have experienced this disturbing question and felt the need to challenge themselves. Are you up to the challenge? Read Master of the Realm. I think it’s something that you’ll be able to relate to.

clawing my way up

her mind consumed with ideas
quiet conversations
beyond the comprehension of the others
reading words
studying truths,
being tested by the best
nevertheless
she always passes

and when the day is done
she wonders what will become
of all her efforts
exhausted
depleated
she closes her eyes to let it all go

but when ?
she begs to know

faith, does it matter
being pushed to the edge
backed into a dead end with no way out
she claws her way up
relentless to get to the top

and just when she believes there isn’t a road
she finds one

Cemetaries: they’re not just for dead people anymore

I was on a mission. I was out to prove, to my good friend Trini, that ghosts and spirits don’t hang out at the cemetary. I’ve been in many situations where I was in proximity to the spirits of people who had passed on, but I’ve never had it happen in a cemetary. Trini, on the other hand, was raised by an extremely superstitious grandmother who lived in the West Indies, who insisted that ghosts can only be found around their headstones. I knew she was wrong. I’ve had many experiences with the after life in my house, in hotels, and even in my car; but ironically, never by the their graves.

Anyway, it was a Thursday night, and the setting was perfect. A full moon casted a misty, white haze around the earth, giving off just enough light to pave our way. I quietly got out of the car and walked over to the old and weather-beatened headstones, which dated back to the 1600s. Trini was still sitting in the car, too afraid to come out.

“Come on,” I whispered loudly, waving at her.

She vigorously shook her head and yelled through the closed window. “No way!”

I pulled my collar up and then folded my arms against my chest to keep warm. “Will you come on? Ghosts don’t hang out here. I’ll prove it.”

She opened the door and looked up at me. “You only telling me dat because you see dem all da time, you voodoo woman.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I don’t see them. I only smell them. And I am not a voodoo priestess. Okay?”

“Den how do you know tings before day happen? Huh, huh?”

I let out a bored huff. “Your sarcasm is duly noted, and if you don’t get out of the car, I’ll put a spell on you.” I knew that would do it.

She quickly got out and came over to where I was. “Okay, don’t put no spell on me. Trini don’t need to be quackin’ like a duck.”

I decided to ignore her voodoo duck remark and pointed to a group of headstones that were nestled near an overgrown oak tree.

“Let’s go over there,” I said.

All I could see was the whites of her eyes. “Do we have to?”

“Will you stop, you big baby. How can I take pictures if I don’t go by the graves?”

“You got dat zoom ting in your camera. You can take the pictures from here.”

“No, I can’t. I have to get up closer. It’s too dark out here.”

I proceeded to walk with my camera around my neck and with Trini clutching on to the back of my jacket. As I moved, Trini moved. As I took a step with my right foot, Trini took a step with her right foot. I felt like an Abbott and Costello vaudeville act.

“Trini, can you reliquish your hold on my jacket? You’re choking me.”

“Vallie, I ain’t letting go.”

I was beginning to gag. “I’m choking. You looking to kill me?”

“Well we in da right place if I do.”

I yanked away from her grip and took a few steps back. “Oh, so you’re a comedian. Trin, if I die here, I’m coming back to haunt you.”

“Vallie, I sorry. I’m scared. What if we see a ghost?”

I sized her up and down. “You have nothing to worry about. They’ll never see you. You blend right in.”

Trini put her hands on her hips. “Woman, are you sayin’ dat Trini is black as night?”

I shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Oh. Okay. So dat’s good. The ghosts won’t see me. Day only see you? Phew. I didn’t know dat.”

I let out a deep sigh and shook my head.

I continued on, with Trini hanging on for dear life, when I saw what appeared to be an appartition. Did I really want to tell her that I just saw a haze of white mist floating past a grave? Did I want to lose the bet? No, I didn’t, but at that point, it didn’t matter. Trini saw it too.

“Dear Jesus and Mary! Lord, help us. Vallie, did you see dat?”

“See what?” I casually asked.

“Vallie, you didn’t see dat ting of white floating by? Vallie, let’s get out of here. Der are too many dead people around here, and day not happy.”

I stopped short to rebuke her statement, only to have her crash right into me. “Trini, will you give me a little room?”

She stared at me, spewing Island slang through her gritted teeth.

“I don’t need no bloodclot suckin’ the life out of me,” she said.

“Bloodclot?” I was trying desperately not to laugh.

“Vallie, I tink dat dare are vampires around here. Girl, we best not be messin wit dem.”

“Trini, get a grip. You bet me that there were ghosts in graveyards, and I brought you here to prove that there aren’t.”

“But we just saw dat white ting float by.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you what. You stand near that grave, and I’ll take a picture. Then we’ll leave. Okay? Just one picture and we’re out of here.”

I could tell that she was thinking–her eyes were moving back and forth. “Just one picture?” she said.

“Yep, just one.”

“Promise?”

“Yep, I promise.”

“Okay, but let’s be quick about tit.”

I proceeded to manuever through the thick fog, mesmerized at how the moon’s glow turned the air into white streams that extended across the field. A cricket’s chirp echoed in the empty courtyard. It was eerily quiet.

“Trini, you okay?” I whispered behind me.

“Vallie, let’s hurry,” she said.

“Okay, stand by the grave.”

She carefully walked to the grave, her head pivoting in every direction.

“Is this good?” she whispered loudly.

“A little more to your left,” I whispered back.

She inched over to her left. “How’s this?” she asked.

“A little more,” I said.

She was right next to the stone. “Is this good?”

“Yeah, that’s great. Could you rest your right hand on the top of the stone–to make it look good.”

“How’s this?”

“It’s good. Stand straight. You’re hunched over.”

“It’s dis damn bra, Vallie. I took a size smaller to hold me in. Can you tell?”

“I thought you looked smaller. That was a good idea. What brand did you buy?”

“I got me a Playtex Cross Your Heart, wireless. For big girls.” She turned to her side to show me her profile.

“I don’t fit in Playtex bras,” I answered. “They’re uncomfortable for me?”

She waved a hand at me. “Vallie, I must have tried on a dozen bras and dis one was da only one wit support. I bought four of dem.”

“You know what brand I happen to like the best? I like Warner. Did you ever wear one?”

“Ooh, girl, I love dem underpants. I just bought ten pair for seven dollars.”

I gasped. “You did? Where? I need some new underwear.”

“JCPenny. You want to go?”

“Yeah. We can go over the weekend. You doing anything?”

“Just got me some laundry but dat’s it. And maybe we can go to dat chocolate shop down on Picard? Oh, girl, I can’t wait.”

“I have a great chocolate recipe that I’m dying to try,” I said enthusiastically.

Trini belted out a roar of laughter. “What?” I said.

“Vallie, tink about it. We standing in a graveyard talking about bras and chocolate. Like it’s noting. It’s kind of strange, but I can tink clearly here. I can’t tink when I’m home.”

I was still aiming my camera. “You’re right, Trin. It’s really not as scary as what people make it out to be. Hold still while I take this shot.”

She smiled, showing off her famously white teeth.

“Great! I got it.”

She started walking towards me. “I can’t wait to see da picture. You should put tit on your website.”

“And what would I put as the caption?”

She laughed. “I know. You can put like dem commercials do for pork.”

“For pork?” I repeated.

“Yeah, you know. You can say, Cemetaries, they not just for dead people anymore.”

I rolled my eyes. “Get in the car, Trin.”

Don’t look now, but they’re laughing at us

I have a question. How do babies know how to smile? How do they know to laugh? At infancy, you can get a baby to giggle its little head off. But how? It’s not like they’re listening to one of your jokes and crack up laughing, and then give you a hi-5, is it? How do they know to smile and giggle when we’re making those goo-goo faces at them? It’s not like we teach them. I really want to understand this. Someone tell me how a baby of only a week old, who can’t talk, who can’t walk, who doesn’t know right from wrong, or have any ability to reason, whose body isn’t grown, knows that we are doing something silly to get them to laugh? What makes them crack up?

The only answer that is even remotely feasable in my mind is that laughing is a innate gift from God. It has to be. There is no way that any doctor or scientist is going to debate this with me. I don’t care if they stand on their heads and point out scripture; laughing is a gift from our Father. If a baby can laugh when it can’t even use logic or reasoning, then it has to be a gift. So, now I want to know why we laugh? If we laugh it has to be for a reason. Yes, I understand that we laugh because something is funny. But why is it funny? What makes it funny? What happens in our brains that tells our insides to start the process of turning up our mouths in preparation for the fit of hysterics we are about to perform? What is the purpose of laughing like an out of control hyena?

Our bodies release chemicals when we laugh. Did you know that? Yep. It releases endorphins and mood elevaters that aid us on many levels. It’s similiar to having a built in repair shop. Why do you think they, whoever they are, all say that laughter is the best medicine? Because studies show that those who laugh are less likely to have high blood pressure; less likely to have ulcers; less likely to have heart problems; less likely to die so young. Those who laugh several times a day heal quickly after surgery, heal quickly after chemo, heal faster overall. Those who can find laughter during a breakup will be more likely to move on. Laughing is also our bodies way of fending off stress. It’s one of our many defense mechanisms. Many people laugh while they are scared. So laughing does serve a purpose. God didn’t do it just for shits and giggles–no pun intended. So that leads me to my next question. How do babies know to cry? How do they know that they are unhappy the minute they are born?

So there you have it. At infancy, a baby knows when you’re telling a joke and when the joke really sucks.

one cock-a-doodledoo is enough, thank you

So, many of you know that I was posting a Friday blog–kind of like a weekly column, filling you in on everyday stuff that we all can relate to–like guys who wear their jeans below their butt cheeks, exposing their ass cracks, and nose pickers who eat their picks, and dog doodoo left unattended by pet owners. And then life got in my way and kept me from writing about that stuff, which resulted in a ton of emails asking me when I would resume my position as the ‘WordPress blogging mayor’. And this was good. So I thought about how I would be able to keep doing my work and at the same time write a column, blog my blogs, and network, all without getting totally nuts. Yes, I know I’m already nuts, so don’t email me to agree with me.

So this made me think. What? You don’t smell the smoke? Anyway, I needed to figure out how I was going to handle all this writing on an everyday basis, so I took a pen and pad, went over to my black leather recliner in my study, and plopped my butt into it. I was on a mission to construct a system that would give me permission to be productive and still have fun.

Well, it was 9 pm when I ventured into this little task, totally unaware that I was tired. I didn’t feel tired. I didn’t look tired. But heck, I must have been tired because the next thing I knew, I was being woken by a big, sharp, piercing, COCKADOODLEDOOOOOOOOOO.

I jumped from the recliner, not knowing where I was, and looked over to my TV clock–squinting to see the time. It looked like it was 4:30 am. “What the &%%%?” I said as I walked over to my window, which overlooks several properties, to search for the culprit. I couldn’t see anything because as you all know, it’s dark out at 4:30 am. Finally, I shut the blinds and decided that I should go to bed. I slipped on my pajamas, and got into my warm bed and within seconds, dozed out. I suppose all was calm, and all was right until I started to dream.

I dreamt that I was baking chocolate cupcakes, and there were thousands of them lined up waiting to be frosted. It was scary because I was worried how I would be able to frost them all. Big vats of creamy chocolate looked like black holes of swirling Hershey’s. I wanted to taste the Hershey’s, but everytime I put the spoon to my mouth, a big, COCKADOODLEDOO, came screaming out of me. I remember running and looking back, and the faster I ran, the faster the ‘cock’ ran. He just came from nowhere. I never knew that cocks could run that fast, but I sure learned pretty quick. It was catching up to me, this cock, and it would scream its insane call at me. I ran, and ran, until I flew away. But I wasn’t safe, because the cock had wings and he kept calling me until I woke in a sweat.

I jumped from my sleep, totally out of breath, waking the boyfriend. “What’s the matter, Chu? Did you have a nightmare?”

“It was horrible,” I gushed. “I had this big cock chasing me.”

“Excuse me?” he said, now fully awake.

“Yeah, I had this big, noisy cock chasing me, calling to me… cockadoodledoo, but really loud.”

All I heard was laughter, then more laughter, then hysterics.

“What the hell is so funny?” I said groggily.

“What kind of cock was this?” he said in between his fit of hysterics.

“It was the kind with wings.”

“Did it have a head?”

“Of course it had a head. What cock doesn’t have a head?”

I leaned down into my pillow, trying to ignore him.

“Oh, this is special,” he said in between gagging. “Your cock had a head and wings. Only you would dream this.”

As I lay with my eyes shut, it occurred to me what he was thinking. “You moron,” I shouted. “I dreamed of a bird, not a you-know-what.”

He was laughing even louder.

Men. Mention the word ‘cock’ and you get a rise out of them.

You judging me ?

So many times people pick and choose who they want to like and who they want to not like. Isn’t that right? We’ve all done it to some extent, haven’t we? We may see a person, whom we never met, and within seconds, size them up to be a person we just don’t like. We have no particular reason other than to tell ourselves that we just don’t like their face or that there is ’something’ about that person that we just don’t like. Why do we do this? Why do we label some people as ‘not acceptable’ without even getting to know them?

Of course, there are hundreds of reasons why we actually do this. Maybe we’re intimidated by them, or maybe they remind us of someone who has hurt us in the past, or maybe they remind us of ourselves and what we’re trying to run away from. Or possibly they see us as a threat to their egos. The reasons are endless. And just to state for the record, I believe that we are all guilty of this at some point in our lives.

Throughout my life, I have done this to people. I’ve judged them before knowing them, and usually I was wrong. I’ve become very good friends with several of the people who I’ve misjudged, and I am thankful that I found out about how great they really are. On the flipside of this, I have been the victim of being judged. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been shunned by people who didn’t know me, but took an immediate dislike to me. And make no mistake about it that it was clearly obvious that they didn’t like me simply by how they treated me. This was and is very disturbing. Dozens of questions would smother me, wanting answers: What did I do? Did I say something wrong? Did I come off as a snob? Did I look at them cross-eyed? Was my hair not long enough, short enough, what? Tell me, somebody, anybody, what did I do?

I know many friends who are currently divorced. Many of them told me identical stories; that their spouse was ‘looking’ for a reason to leave them. The spouse would pick fights at the drop of a dime. They wanted out and looked for reasons to get out. They weren’t brave enough to go to the woman and tell her what was on his mind. Instead, he chose a cowardly way to do it. He found fault in every thing she did. He wanted to fight. He wanted to have a reason, and because he was wanting to leave, he saw his actions as justified. And he left.

The same thing holds true for relationships and friendships. Have you ever been in a situation where you just knew in your heart that a friend really didn’t want to be friends with you? Think about that. You may have done nothing wrong to them. In fact, you did everything a friend could do to prove your friendship, yet, this person was clearly keeping you around ‘just in case’. And then one day, you say one thing wrong, one tiny statement that just sends this person into orbit, and without giving you a reason why, they dismiss you, just like that. You try to talk to them to find out why your statement affected them the way that it did, but they refuse to talk to you–they refuse to acknowledge you. It’s almost as if they’re happy that you’re not friends. They found the excuse that they were hoping to find in order to cut the cord, and they aren’t going to let you back in; because they never really wanted you there in the first place. Has that ever happen to you?

Well, I say this with a heavy heart, but it’s happened to me, and is still happening. And no matter what I have tried, there are those few that just don’t like me. So I gave it great thought. And I prayed upon it, asking God for answers. I wanted to know why I was failing when I was doing my best to succeed? And I received my answers, which for me, works.

I can state stale cliches: there’s a lid for every pot, or win some lose some; but I won’t. I’m only going to say that judging others without knowing them is selling ourselves short. There are wonderful people to know, who’ve so much to offer in terms of love, knowledge, and compassion. You want to know what I really think? I think we misjudge others who threaten our egos. Those people who are rich, successful, talented, and well loved make us face what we aren’t, and that’s why we shun them.

Okay. Today is a new day. And I want to like all the people I meet. And even though that might not happen, and even though they may not like me, I’m going to put my best foot forward and keep an open mind and an open heart. I’m stepping up to the plate by saying that for those who don’t know me, who’ve misjudged me by my cover, I am still smiling, regardless if you like me or not.

Take the first step to loving yourself. We are good people. Every one of us is good. Give someone a break. Stop being so judgemental and ask yourself this: Am I a good person? Am I reallllllly a good person? I think you’ll get an honest answer that you might be ashamed to admit.

I make me sick

Most people think that they have to go to a doctor to get well. After all, this is what they’ve been brain washed into believing.
Doctors are a staple in our lives for the purpose of feeling good. We as a nation, or better yet, as a world, go to doctors for every little ailment–from a cold to cancer. We rely on our doctors to get us fixed up. We spend billions of dollars and expect these doctors to be God. We go to therapists to fix our minds and listen to what THEY believe is right. People, come on. Doctors are only people who’ve gone to school to get a license to give us their opinions which are solely based on case studies and people-tested remedies. It doesn’t make them gods.

Now I’m not knocking the medical industry. They’ve made tremendous strides in many areas and can certainly help us. But did you know that you can heal yourself of anything?

We aren’t supposed to be sick. We weren’t born to be sick. If our bodies heal cuts and minor illnesses all on their own, without us giving much thought to it, then why can’t we heal other illnesses that are bigger? It’s all in the power of belief and what we were taught to think. I have read dozens of books about the subconscious mind. I have studied anxiety disorders for over twenty years. I have had agoraphobia twice in my life and beat it without drugs, and the second time without any help at all. You see, our thoughts are pure energy which if used improperly can manifest negative outcomes in our lives, including sickness. Most people who suffer from back problems, stomach issues, allergies, anxiety disorders, and even heart attacks are people who have habitual negative thoughts. Now don’t get me wrong. I know these illnesses are real, but it’s our thoughts that are to blame.

Another point that I want to make is this: When we have problems that we don’t want to face or deal with, they manifest as symptoms in our bodies. Inner conflict can show up as a skin rash, acne, back pain, headaches, and even hemorrhoids. And avoidance of dealing with inner conflicts can lead to ulcers, cancers, and other symptoms that are internal that we can’t see. I know that a doctor would debate me on this, and I would expect that. The medical industry has a lot to lose if people educated themselves. Stress is a killer, but it’s how we deal with it and what we think about our lives and ourselves that determine the outcome of our health.

When I was in a full-blown agoraphobic relapse, I was physically sick with stomach aches, heart palpitations, rapid heart rate, panic attacks, depression, and the list goes on. My thoughts everyday were habitual and negative. I kept telling myself I would never get better and that I would end up in a hospital. Once I began to pray and meditate, I began receiving information that led me to the truth and understanding that it’s our negative thoughts that keep us sick. Once I took this information and did more research on the power of the mind and what we can do with it, with the guidance of the other side, I made tremendous strides in becoming well. I turned my negative thoughts into positive thoughts that eventually changed my direction and my health.

Here is a small list of books which had a tremendous impact on me. I took what I could from these books and applied the principals. All of these books have the same premise and that is ‘what you think you shall become’.

The Bible. If you read the Bible, which was written over 2000 years ago, you will see formulas used to overcome the negative thoughts we have. It is written in the Bible that what we believe in we will receive. It is written that what we pray upon will come true. It is written that if we seek we shall find. What this means, if you break it down, is that we have a God given power to manifest every single thing in our lives. Our thoughts, which are energy, move throughout the universe and create either a negative or positive manifestation, depending on if it’s a negative or positive thought. This is a fact.

Another powerful book that I’ve read is The Power of Intention by Dr. Wayne Dyer. Again, a book based on the deliberate intent of thinking in a positive manner.

Two books by Esther and Jerry Hicks. The Law of Attraction, and Money and the Law of Attraction.

Seth Speaks and The Seth Material by Jane Roberts.

Read any book by Deepak Chopra

The Secret; it doesn’t delve into the exact how’s and why’s but it’s a decent platform to begin with.

I’ve read books by scientists and specialists. I’ve taken their theories, applied what worked best for me, and formulated my own ideas. Let me explain something to you. When I got sick, I was so desperate to get well that I did whatever I could to get well. I prayed and meditated and talked to God so much that what I began to notice was that my inner self talk was changing. My words were turning into words of love and appreciation. After all, who talks to God in a nasty tone? So the more I talked to God in my loving way, the more I saw myself feeling better. Because if you really think about it, what you think and say in your head, no matter who you think you’re saying it to, is really affecting YOU. You are actually talking to yourself and absorbing it all. This in and of itself begins the process of thought reprogramming, which in turn will make you think differently, which in turn will change your direction into how you think and handle things.

When you use loving, kind words in your mind or out loud, you begin to believe it. You begin to accept it, and by accepting it, you begin to subconsciously love yourself.

People, this is big. This is deep. You can heal yourself of anything. Read. Read as many books as you can. Learning is the key. Take charge of your life and your health.

The Hamptons made me fat

It was a lovely day in the neighborhood. The sun was shining and the temps soared into the 80s, and people were coming out of woodwork. I took it as my cue to get out of Staten Island and to head over to Long Island—to the Hamptons, dahling, the playground of the beautiful.

First and foremost, I want to say that you haven’t lived until you traveled on the Belt Parkway heading east out to Long Island. Opinions may vary, and it’s been debated that the Long Island Expressway has every road in New York beat in terms of being the worst, but I say phoowee. The Belt Parkway takes the lead, hands down. Yes, it’s a lovely ride as you travel this well-built road. You get a wonderful blend of bumper-thumpers, Nascar-driver wannabe’s, and let’s not forget the Sunday pokies, Between the potholes and the lunatics, and the accidents and JFK Airport, it’s a miracle that you can make it out of first gear. But hey, I was going to the Hamptons, and I was happy.

Once I hit the Hamptons, my first stop was Starbucks, for a latte and a pee.

I would be totally remiss in my duties if I didn’t paint a picture of the colorful characters that I had encountered while in Starbucks. In the fifteen minutes that I was there, I saw two hippies wearing bell bottoms, bandanas with peace signs, and red, yellow, and blue tye-dye shirts, a gay couple whose names were Justin and Mark–I overheard their conversation—my bad, one Andy Warhol look-a-like, a group of ladies from Connecticut who were wearing red T-shirts that said, Bob’s tackle and lobster shanty, three super models from the 60s, and then me–oh, and a sheep dog named Russell who had a scarf around his neck that said, bite me. There was so much going on that I thought that I was an extra in a Quentin Tarantino movie and someone forgot to tell me. But hey, I was in the Hamptons, and I was happy.

After I left Starbucks, I drove into East Hampton to do a little shopping. I had planned on hitting Main Beach first, but then I decided against it. I parked my car by Citarella’s and walked down Newtown Lane. Can I tell you something? Thems purdy people out there. There wasn’t a fat person in sight; not even a plump one; not even a pot-belly. It made me a bit aware of the five pounds that I put on this winter. As I continued to go from store to store, I made sure that my posture was erect and my breath sucked in–after all, I was in the Hamptons, and I think I was happy.

From Newtown Lane, I decided it was time to hit the beach. What would a trip to the Hamptons be without going to one of their magnificent beaches? Right? So I headed over to Main Beach, parked, and headed for the sand. There weren’t too many people on the beach, but I was fine with that. I just wanted to absorb the color—the beautiful green ocean, the gentle breezes, the soft sand. I wanted to bask in the sun and just let my mind drift . . . drift . . . drift. Yes, I was drifting until I heard laughter. When I turned to look, a group of men and women were setting up chairs. They were taking off their clothes. They were perfect! Not a big one in the bunch. I then turned to my left. A couple of elderly ladies were sporting big floppy hats and shorts and they looked great. Gosh, darn! I casually tucked my Doritos into my beach bag and wiped the corners of my mouth. This place made me feel fat! And I don’t mean phat, people. I mean fat, as in fatty, chubby, puffy. But all in all, I was in the Hamptons, and I was adament about being happy.

From the beach, I went to take pictures of the fields and wildlife. Every street I turned down had beautiful people jogging on it. They were lovely, with their trim bodies and hair blowing in the wind. I felt my mood slowly deteriorating. I gritted. I was in the Hamptons, damn it. And I was going to be happy if it was the last thing I ever did!

A journal confession: I’m going to end up alone

I found out that God knows how to bring it on. Doesn’t he? He gives me whatever lessons I need the most, and he keeps bringing it until I finally get it. I’m a thick-headed girl—always have been. But once I grasp the concept of something that is being shown to me, I usually get it. However, there are times when I don’t get it because it’s the other idiosyncrasies that I possess that give me trouble. When I take all of my idiosyncrasies into consideration, I realize that it’s more than one tiny thing that I have to work on, concerning my personality. It’s a series of malfunctions in my perception, which I must take one by one, analyze, and then yank them out from my core beliefs. Do you know what I’m saying? I can’t blame my inner feelings on just one particular thing. It’s never just one thing, is it? It’s a cluster of things that lead up to the ‘thing’ that eats at us. And this is what people don’t understand. When people have issues, they think it’s the ‘issue’ giving them trouble when it’s really their core beliefs. All of our experiences have formulated our beliefs. And even though we experience events, it doesn’t make our beliefs accurate. Because once again, perception can be faulty due to upbringing. Yikes! I’m turning Freud-a-neeza

During the day, I feel isolated. In order to write, I have to stay by myself. I speak to my sister and the BF for a brief moment or two, but it doesn’t make me feel any less alone. I don’t have anyone to share my thoughts with. I only have my laptop who doesn’t know how to answer me back. Not too many people I know are into paranormal psychology and metaphysics. The sister doesn’t understand it, and the BF just stares at me like I have four heads. So I know the feeling of loneliness. You can be in a room full of people and still feel lonely. I know this first hand.

For many years, I believed that I would be alone. I believed it was my fate to not have anyone to love me. I didn’t connect with guys. I dated them, but it wasn’t real. Nothing lasted. A date or two was as far as it would go because either I didn’t like the guy, or the guy didn’t like me.
And I stayed alone for many years. I gave up dating. I couldn’t be bothered with the head games–so I just turned down dates and stayed by myself. I was tired of reaching out and nobody being there, and this included friendships, as well. If anyone knows what it feels like to believe that they are meant to be alone, it’s me. Even now, I believe that I’m meant to be alone. I don’t understand why I don’t have many friends. I have online friends, but nobody here to talk to face to face. I have two close friends who live out-of-state, but they’re out-of-state.

My parents were loners, and I want to break that mold. I don’t want to follow in their genetic isolation path. I want friends, but I refuse to be anything other than what I am to have them. I’m different, and I know this. I’ve always known that I’m different. People tend to back away from me, and yet, they tell me that I fascinate them. I don’t get it. Maybe it’s my face or my look, or the way I command myself that intimidates others? But this is me, and I like me. I like me because I know that I am loving and gentle–and others would know this too, if they would take the time to look past my exterior.

You are the same as me. You want to come home to someone who you can connect with on many levels. You want to experience love and lust, and laughter and goofiness, and you want to share intimate secrets and beliefs about life and God. Yes, I know exactly what you want, and it will happen, however it will happen, and with whomever it will happen with. Just keep the faith. A person such as yourself is a gift to the person who is waiting for you. But maybe you have closed yourself up, and you’re not letting love flow in, just as I’m not letting my fame flow in, due to the fear of it. Think about that. We say we know what we want, but when we think about it too closely and examine it, we close our minds because we think it’s not going to happen, and that thought in and of itself is very scary. Yes, no? Is it possible that we are pinching ourselves off from what we want because we’re afraid of not getting it or because we’re afraid that we actually might get it?

is a duck’s ass water tight

We humans are so crazy, aren’t we?

Just the other day, I got out of bed as I normally do, went into the living room and cranked open the windows. From there, I went into my office and did the same. It was a beautiful morning. The birds were out back, calling to each other. My wind chimes were gently playing their mystifying melodies. And at that moment, all was good.

I proceeded to shower and dress, and as I was blow drying my hair, I thought it was incredibly hot in the bathroom, so I climbed into the shower and opened the window. Ahhhh, that’s better, I thought. When I was done, I went into the kitchen to grab a bite of breakfast. I walked over to the refrigerator to get the milk, when I happen to take notice of my thermostat–it read 70 degrees.

70 degrees, I said to myself, and I’m sweating?

Then I began to think. And we all know what happens when I think too much. Well, I thought back to only several weeks ago when it was cold out. While the winds were blowing gustfully and the temperature was only 35 or 40 degrees, I had my heat set at 70 degrees. I kept it that way all winter because of the high cost of gas. And because I kept it at 70 degrees, I froze my hiney off. I was dressed in sweaters, and a shawl over my sweaters, because as I said, it was ONLY 70 degrees in my house. Is anyone catching on to what I’m saying?

How come it’s 70 degrees in my apartment right now, and not only am I warm, I have every window open? Yet, in the winter when I had my thermostat deliberately set for 70 degrees, I froze my damn butt off. Can anyone relate to this?

It’s almost similar to this scenerio. During the summer, we crank our air conditioners to 65, and we’re totally comfortable, yet in the winter, if we were to keep our thermostats at 65, we’d freeze. So what’s the deal with that?

Okay. I thought enough for one morning. I know someone reading this can totally relate to what I’m getting at.

Birds . . . and men—give me a break

I woke up at my new time—3:30 am. It seems that the birds in my neighborhood can’t sleep, so they start talking and singing and having a grand ole time. Why do they have to do this in the wee hours? Can’t they do it later in the day, when everyone’s awake?

What I’d like to know is why do they complain so much?

I have this one bird who comes to my window every single day, who strikes up a conversation with me. It’s true. He goes into this whole dialogue, launching nothing but complaints, and he doesn’t let up until I answer him.

Just this morning, at about 4ish, he was going at it. I listened carefully. I did. He was saying that it was slim-pickins’ around this neck of the woods. Yep. He was complaining again. I told him to go down the street and into the woods if he didn’t like what he was getting by my house. Yes, I did. Then he laughed at me. He did! He said, Ilikeitherewithyouchirpchirp.

And I answered him back. I said, wellthenquitchabitchintweettweettweet.

Then he got quiet, and I thought, okay, maybe I can go back to sleep for a few minutes. But he sensed my sudden disinterest and reacted to it.

He said, ohnoyoudidn’tcheeepcheeep.

And I let out an annoyed sigh and answered him, like the fool that I am. I said, Idid,nowgiveagirlabreakyouaresuchaguyjerkkkjerkkkjerkkk.

And do you know what he did? He laughed at me. He went, cheeepcheepcheepyeah,right.

Polly wanna cracker? Just like a guy… toss a crumb and they eat out of your hands.

You’re NOTHIN’ without your money

Will somebody please explain this to me. Why do people with money look down at the rest of us?

I got to thinking about this last night. I woke up about 3 a.m. with this very profound thought. I don’t know where it came from–perhaps I was dreaming and it woke me? Anyway, I woke up picturing a huge stage where several rich people were standing in a line. There wasn’t an audience, and there weren’t any props.
Then, one by one, each of them had their money taken away. Their jewelry vanished. Their homes and cars were gone. All the people in their lives, who kissed up to them because of their wealth, walked away. They were stripped of everything except of their clothes. Suddenly they were like all the rest of us, and they felt belittled and ashamed. Their heads hung as the harsh truth washed over them.

They were now faced with the understanding that their money was the only factor in giving them their value. Without their money, they weren’t important. They couldn’t buy favors. They couldn’t buy friendships. And even worse, they couldn’t buy their character.

Someone tell me, please. Do people with money actually believe that they’re above the rest? Or did they forget that their money is what buys them their power? I have to be honest. I have been around very wealthy people who had about as much class as a first-grader. Their homes and cars were messy and their intelligence and attitudes lacked finesse. The fact that they had money wasn’t a bad thing, but somewhere down the line they lost their humbleness and believed that they were above reproach. Well, I have two words to say on that . . . bull poopie!

There are millions of people who aren’t rich, who are brilliantly gifted in various areas of life, who shine way above some of these rich folks. Don’t let anyone fool you. A small percent of Americans are wealthy, but does that mean that they’re better then everyone else because of it?

I want everyone in this world to be wealthy. I believe that there is enough to go around. But really, people, if you get money, remember one thing. If the day ever comes where you’re standing on a stage, getting stripped down to the bare truth, don’t come running to those who you’ve treated poorly. Learn the value of life. Step away from the money and take a long, hard look around. We come in this world without it, and we leave without it. What does that make a rich person? It makes them just like the rest of us.

Take every human on this planet and line them up shoulder to shoulder. Strip them of everything. Do you know what you’d have? You’d have equality! That’s what you’d have.

Hey, I don’t wake up in the middle of the night for nothing. Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say.

Why did God create fireflies

Why did God create fireflies? Was it to light our paths at night? I’m sure that it wasn’t a coinky-dink that their tails light up only when it’s dark out. I’m a thinker, and you know me. If there is a thought to be had, I’m probably going to have it.

I was walking this morning, as I do every morning, and from out of nowhere I say to myself, where are the firelies? How come I don’t see them during the day? Is it because they go to sleep in their little firefly beds and only come out at night? Or, are they in a firefly day care center? Where are they? Then I got to thinking. I said to myself, if they only come out at night, then God made it that way for a reason.

Then another thought came to me. And I bowed my head and chuckled under my breath. I figured it out. They’re solar powered. They lay on the beach all day, soaking up the sun and then at night, they disburse their light until it’s depleted. Then, they go back on the beach—to the nudist beach, of course–and regenerate themselves. So that’s it! They’re nudists who get too much sun.

Boy … I am really happy that God gave me this brain. I’d be sooo lonely without it.

Tipping and stuff

Have you ever kissed up to someone just to get something out of them? I apologize for the bluntness of my question, but I’m a person who doesn’t believe in beating around the bush. So, back to my question. Have you? If you say that you never have, then you’re lying to yourself. At some point in time, whether you’ve chosen to acknowledge it or not, you’ve consciously or unconsciously polished a few door knobs to get something. Maybe you’ve become chummy with your neighbor, who you’ve snubbed for years, after learning that he works for your favorite retailer. Or maybe you’ve overtipped the hostess at your favorite restaurant, just so you can ALWAYS get a table. Come on, we’ve all done it to a degree, right? But then I got to thinking. Now don’t go giving me that look. I was thinking that it’s a shame that people need to kiss up or grease palms to get a favor. It’s like we’re at the mercy of those we’re sucking up to. Are they prostitutes and we the Johns?

I don’t want this to come out the wrong way. I believe that one hand washes the other, but I also believe in helping the next guy without getting a payoff for it. I guess that brings me back to the subject of money. What if you don’t have money to grease someone’s palm? What if you’re an average Joe, earning an average income? If you can’t afford to grease palms does it mean that you shouldn’t be treated the same way as those who ‘pay’ for their royal treatment?

I realize that money is a motivator and who doesn’t love money? But what happened to doing something nice just because? Do we have to suck every last dollar out of a person in order for us to help them?
I don’t know about you, but I believe that what goes around comes around. To receive you have to give.

And what about tipping? Oh gosh, don’t get me started there. Does a factory worker, earning minimum wage, expect to get tipped? I don’t think so. So why does a waiter expect to get tipped? Think about that. A restaurant owner hires a waiter, pays him minimum wage, just like the factory worker, only the waiter expects to be tipped. If you really think about that then you’ll have to agree that there’s a glitch somewhere. And what about donut shops and coffee shops. They put tip boxes at the registers expecting us to tip them for doing their jobs. Forgive me if I’m sounding cranky, but you know what? I don’t care. Where’s the justice? Don’t tell me that a factory worker is any different from a counter person. They both make the same minimum wage. The only difference is one works with the expectation of getting their weekly salary and the other expects to get compensated for doing what they’re already getting paid to do.
So does this mean that all office workers should put a tip box on their desks? Could you imagine? This country is out of control. Tipping is required when someone works on tips only. I can totallly get with that. By us tipping we’re being more than generous. Don’t you think? But tip boxes at EZ Pass? Okay, moving on.

Maybe I’ll put out a tip box at my next book signing. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I can just see the expressions on people’s faces. Priceless.

Alone on an empty highway

What does one think about when driving alone for hours down a dark and deserted highway? Journey is blasting through my speakers telling me that I shouldn’t stop believing. But I did stop believing–a long time ago; on that day–on that damn day that never leaves my mind.

I turn up the volumn searching for a bit of comfort–maybe even a hidden truth–anything; any advice that Steve could offer at this moment. But I guess he can’t. Because if he could then I wouldn’t feel these tears running down my cheeks. And I wouldn’t see the flames of self-destruction rising into the dark sky when I look back through the rearview mirror–looking back to the life that I left behind.

The highway can be the loneliest place on earth when you’re the only one on it. During the day when the sun is out, my demons stay buried in their caves underneath the stairs of my subconscious. I’m brave when the light shines–not thinking of the past and being able to shrug off the ghosts that try to walk with me. But at night, well, that’s another story. They know that this is my weakest time. They wait all day for the sun to set, and then they slowly creep up and slither into the pores of my thoughts. The night is my cryptonite and the sad part is that they know it.

How many chances does a person get to get it right? I drive past signs telling me to bear straight, yet my wheel has a will of its own. It takes me through detours, seeking out shortcuts to get me to my destination, only I never arrive. I never seem to quite get there. The highway is so frustrating when you can’t find your exit.

I turn off the radio and shake my head to clear it. I wonder where I’m going. I wonder if this road will get me there. I wonder if I’ll ever find out who I really am.

Why do ghosts come out at night? I look into my rearview mirror and I see darkness–the fires have gone out. It feels like there’s nothing there–no life left behind, no realness, no past. It reminds me of a conveyor belt that pulls me forward, around and back through the same scenery. How ironic. I’m stuck. I have millions of frequent flyer miles, but there’s no gas. If there was ever a time to scream, it would be now, but then I’d be able to hear it. I would have to listen to the echo of my pathetic shrills.

I reach forward and press the button to turn on the heater. It gets so damn cold during the night.

©valentine defrancis. 2009

Shamwow’s claim doesn’t hold water

You’ve probably seen the infomercial or the commercial for the miracle pickerupper, Shamwow—that’s the cloth that absorbs a gazillion times its own weight in liquid. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? I bet you’ve purchased one, right? If you haven’t, don’t. If you have, I’d like to hear what you think about it. My take on it is simple: it’s nothing more than a glorified handy wipe with a high price tag.

The boyfriend went to the store recently and returned saying that he bought me a present. Oh boy, a present, I said, clapping my hands like a five year old. Then he whips out the Shamwow box and says, look what I just got you. People, can we talk? I know the BF meant well, but I wasn’t expecting a box of Shamwows. When the BF comes home and says that he has a present for me, it better be jewelry or chocolates, otherwise I’m not interested. So what was my BF thinking when he gave me that box of Shamwows?

Okay, so moving forward with the story. After giving him the evil eye and grunting like a pig, I grabbed the box from his hands and proceeded into the bathroom to test it out. I mean, how could I resist the temptation to watch it absorb a gazillion times its weight? Know what I’m saying?
I decided that I would attack the glass shower doors. I got in the tub, without my shoes and socks of course, and turned on the water. Then I began to soak down the doors by washing them with Mr. Bubbles. After using the shower nozzle to remove Mr. Bubbles, I reached for the superduperwaterscooper, Shamwows. I took out the orange Shamwow and began to dry the doors. At first, I was nodding slowly, thinking that I was wrong about the Shamwows, but then I noticed that not all the water was absorbed, so I had to rewipe the doors. In fairness to the Shamwow, it had absorbed the water, but it didn’t leave the shower doors dry. In fact, I had to rewipe the doors with another Shamwow. So really. What was the point?

Trust me. Save your money and stick with Bounty. It’s the quicker pickerupper.

Valentine deFrancis doesn’t lie

In case anyone hasn’t noticed, I’m a writer. I am, damn it. No seriously, I am. Annnnd, I’ll be one of the featured authors sponsored by the Barnes and Noble outdoor event this Saturday, September, 12th at Westerleigh Park in Staten Island, New York.
I’ll be promoting my book, Master of the Realm; my true story of how I overcame agoraphobia with the help of the spirit world . . . YES, SPIRITS AND GHOSTS, people. What? You don’t believe? Afraid to believe? If you read my book, you’ll understand that they’re around you, whether you believe it or not.

Anyway, if you’re reading this and you live in the area, come on by. Admission is free. Would love to meet you. If it rains, it will be held the next day, Sunday, September 13th.

You see? I told you I was a writer. Gosh, Vallie doesn’t lie.

Later.

To Tweet or not to Tweet

Okay guys, hear me out. I know Twitter started out as a hot commodity. It was just so groovy to post my thoughts and my whereabouts all week long. But can I tell you something? I don’t have the head to keep posting my thoughts and my whereabouts. It’s not that I don’t want you guys to know my whereabouts. It’s just that, well . . . do you really give a rat’s ass what I’m doing all day long? Does anyone really care about my bad hair day or that I’m on my way to have martini’s with my gay friends? Or that I got my stiletto heal stuck in the metal groove on the escalator in the Menlo Park Mall? I don’t think so.
Why are we telling the world what we’re doing and who we’re with and what we want to aspire to when we grow up? I mean, really guys. Who has the time? But here’s what gets me.
We complain that the government knows too much of our business. We worry over identity theft. We’re afraid of being stalked. Hello? If you keep Twittering all day long, you can pretty much bet that your life is out there for the whole wide world to see.

Okay. I feel better. I just had to get this off my chest. Maybe I should have Tweeted this. Hmmm, not such a bad idea. Heck. What’s one more Tweet for the road?
Valentine deFrancis on Twitter

Tapping can get you anything you want—-listen up kids

EFT stands for Emotional Freedom Techique and this technique uses what’s called, tapping. When I first read about this, I had to try it. I was fascinated at how tapping one’s fingers on meridian points in their body could release clogged-up energy and reprogram subconscious beliefs. This is leading edge science, kids, so you really should listen up.

Tapping has been around for thousands of years. It follows the path of acupunture and acupressure, but uses one’s fingers instead of needles on the body’s pressure points in order to release negative energy. Also, tapping on our meridan points while using affirmations can reprogram subconscious distorted beliefs. It can help us overcome fears, addictions, phobias, and social disorders. Check out this site EFT for a better life by Gary Craig

I’m a studier of anything related to the mind. I’m willing to indulge in this leading edge technology if it means getting rid of unconscious beliefs that have been keeping my life in a stagnating funk. Don’t you think it’s worth a try? It’s free and you can do it without anyone’s help. You don’t have to take classes, and you can do it anytime, anywhere, whenever you have something negative affecting your thoughts. Try it.

Here’s a video by Pamela Bruner that shows exactly what it is. Take a look at what she’s doing and what she’s saying and then substitute what she’s saying for what’s going on in your life. Just look at it, okay?

The Secret was never a secret—

The average person believes that they must go to a doctor to get well. After all, this is what they’ve been brain washed into believing since they were old enough to understand life. Doctors are a staple in our lives for the purpose of feeling good. We as a nation, or better yet, as a world, go to doctors for every little ailment–from a cold to cancer. We rely on our doctors to get us fixed up. We spend billions of dollars and expect these doctors to be God. We go to therapists to fix our minds and listen to what THEY believe is right. People, come on. Doctors are only people who’ve gone to school to get a license to give us their opinions which are solely based on case studies and people-tested remedies. It doesn’t make them gods.

Now I’m not knocking the medical industry. They’ve made tremendous strides in many areas, and can certainly help us. But did you know that you can heal yourself of anything? Oh you didn’t? Then read this.

We aren’t supposed to be sick. We weren’t born to be sick. If our bodies heal cuts and minor illnesses all on their own, without us giving much thought to it, then why can’t we heal other illnesses that are bigger? It’s all in the power of belief and what we were taught to think. I have read dozens of books about the subconscious mind. I have studied anxiety disorders for over twenty years. I have had agoraphobia twice in my life and beat it without drugs, and the second time without any help at all. You see, our thoughts are pure energy which if used improperly can manifest negative outcomes in our lives, including sickness. Most people who suffer from back problems, stomach issues, allergies, anxiety disorders, and even heart attacks are people who have habitual negative thoughts. Now don’t get me wrong. I know these illnesses are real, but it’s our thoughts that are to blame.

Another point that I want to make is this: When we have problems that we don’t want to face or deal with, they manifest as symptoms in our bodies. Inner conflict can show up as a skin rash, acne, back pain, headaches, and even hemorrhoids. And avoidance of dealing with inner conflicts can lead to ulcers, cancers, and other symptoms that are internal that we can’t see. I know that a doctor would debate me on this, and I would expect that. The medical industry has a lot to lose if people educated themselves. Stress is a killer, but it’s how we deal with it and what we think about our lives and ourselves that determine the outcome of our health.

When I was in a full-blown agoraphobic relapse, I was physically sick with stomach aches, heart palpitations, rapid heart rate, panic attacks, depression, and the list goes on. My thoughts everyday were habitual and negative. I kept telling myself I would never get better and that I would end up in a hospital. Once I began to pray and meditate, I began receiving information that led me to the truth and understanding that it’s our negative thoughts that keep us sick. Once I took this information and did more research on the power of the mind and what we can do with it, with the guidance of the other side, I made tremendous strides in becoming well. I turned my negative thoughts into positive thoughts that eventually changed my direction and my health.

Here is a small list of books which had a tremendous impact on me. I took what I could from these books and applied the principals. All of these books have the same premise and that is ‘what you think you shall become’.

The Bible. If you read the Bible, which was written over 2000 years ago, you will see formulas used to overcome the negative thoughts we have. It is written in the Bible that what we believe in we will receive. It is written that what we pray upon will come true. It is written that if we seek we shall find. What this means, if you break it down, is that we have a God given power to manifest every single thing in our lives. Our thoughts, which are energy, move throughout the universe and create either a negative or positive manifestation, depending on if it’s a negative or positive thought. This is a fact.

Another powerful book that I’ve read is The Power of Intention by Dr. Wayne Dyer. Again, a book based on the deliberate intent of thinking in a positive manner.

Two books by Esther and Jerry Hicks. The Law of Attraction, and Money and the Law of Attraction.

Seth Speaks and The Seth Material by Jane Roberts.

Read any book by Deepak Chopra

The Secret; it doesn’t delve into the exact how’s and why’s but it’s a decent platform to begin with.

I’ve read books by scientists and specialists. I’ve taken their theories, applied what worked best for me, and formulated my own ideas. Let me explain something to you. When I got sick, I was so desperate to get well that I did whatever I could to get well. I prayed and meditated and talked to God so much that what I began to notice was that my inner self talk was changing. My words were turning into words of love and appreciation. After all, who talks to God in a nasty tone? So the more I talked to God in my loving way, the more I saw myself feeling better. Because if you really think about it, what you think and say in your head, no matter who you think you’re saying it to, is really affecting YOU. You are actually talking to yourself and absorbing it all. This in and of itself begins the process of thought reprogramming, which in turn will make you think differently, which in turn will change your direction into how you think and handle things.

When you use loving, kind words in your mind or out loud, you begin to believe it. You begin to accept it, and by accepting it, you begin to subconsciously love yourself.

People, this is big. This is deep. You can heal yourself of anything. Read. Read as many books as you can. Learning is the key. Take charge of your life and your health.