Folks, maybe you couldn’t rightly tell but I’m from the south. That simply means that I’m genteel, polite and I, occasionally, display a smile at the absurd.
I said all that to say this. I think I’ve generated myself a slight problem of sorts, on account of being so southernly nice. There’s this woman who finds me so interesting, I reckon. she’s always trying to be up and inside of my business. Look, I’m just regular, plain ole ordinary folk much like yourself, so I haven’t quite figured out why she needs to know the whys and whatnots of me taking a day off. I don’t be off much at all in the first place but it seems she feels the need to know the details of my absence.
Instead of me saying, “If you don’t get your life, I’m gonna carve you a new one,” I figured with her being so smart, being a problem-solver and all, she’d take the social cue of me staring at her without so much as a blink, and go on ’bout her nosey business. But nooooo. She stares, waiting for a response as if she’s the check signer.
Now, why I’m off has no affect on what she’s gotta do. What I absolutely loathe is folk wanting to know the whys and whats on account of being a no count busy body. They have no use for the information other than wanting to know. I was thinking to put out my business in the form of a magazine and have her subscribe for $500 a month. That way we’ll both know if what I have going on is valuable enough for her to pay for. I’d be required to disclose every why and whatnot, in that case. Maybe we could even do lunch and I’d talk about myself in the third person, saying stuff like, “She didn’t come to work ’cause her jeans were so tight, she couldn’t walk,” or “She hurt herself twerking at a Miley Cyrus concert. Pulled a hamstring like you wouldn’t believe.”
How do you gently keep folk outta your business? Or is gentle not a term you’d use to describe how you go about it?
I was definitely starting to feel claustrophobic with being stuck in the house on account of the snow. That’s how we do it down south. We stay tucked in after stocking up on eggs, milk and bread. I never understood why these three grocery items were so significant. I’m lactose intolerant, so milk wouldn’t be a good thing for me. I don’t eat bread all that much ’cause I can do without the carbs and eggs, well, we know what happens when eggs gets settled in real good in the bottom of your belly.
I just wouldn’t wanna be snowbound with folk who’ve filled themselves up with eggs. The common sense thing to me is to leave them in the store. I understand that folk get tired and angry with one another after being locked in together for so many days. Thus, may I suggest eggs may be the reason why? The answer is so simple when considering the little things ’cause little things really do mean a lot in this case. Know what I mean?
Never do I hear that stores are running outta breath mints or toothpaste. Kinda mind-blowing, if you ask me but since you didn’t…
Now, if I was one of those folk stuck on the highway, I would’ve been crying mad. I did feel bad for those folk out there. I can’t imagine being out there like that. Running outta gas. No food. No heat. No nothing. Folk have really shown the best side of humanity by helping them out though. There was a school bus that got stuck in a neighborhood and folk took food out to the kids.
I’ve been sitting at home, trying to learn a new software, blogging, eating, plotting out concepts, talking on the phone, watching TV and cleaning the kitchen. We should be good to go by Monday, right? I mean, we messed up down here but I don’t reckon we’re that messed up. Then again, I ‘spect we are, being on the national news with the Atlanta mayor arguing with the anchor woman. She was hostile but he wasn’t backing down none. Like, he should’ve said it was a massive screw-up like the governor did.
I fault employers for that too though. I mean, what happened with that? The same information that was available to the powers that be was available to the employers too. I could be wrong but like the mayor, I won’t admit it on account that I don’t think I am.
I’m gonna get some painting/drawing done now. Shoot. Gotta get myself a swallow of water too. My throat’s dry as the Arizona desert.
Laughing is not only therapeutic, it can make you lose inches from your waistline. You may have to find multiple things to laugh at or recall what’s been funny to you in the past. It’s not all the time necessary to work out hard in the gym. Besides, laughing is free. There’s no contract involved and one thing for sure, you won’t have to decide whether to do it or not or drive anywhere to do it. It’s a natural way to lose those inches without the ‘No pain, no gain’ motto.
Laughing also is a temporary cure for depression and loneliness. I know it’s hard to laugh at anything when you’re in this state of mind but you have to do something to bring yourself outta this. Laughing frees your brain from being clogged up with bad thoughts. Folk will often join in if you have a hearty laugh, whether they know what you’re laughing about or not. You can make friends this way, if you laugh from the gut. Thus, become less lonely. You should stop laughing, however, after five minutes or folk are gonna think you’ve lost your mind. Look at your watch and wind down your laughing at about four minutes. If, however, you’re alone, which you very well may be, laugh as long as you want but Lordy mercy, don’t you dare cry afterwards. Should you cry, please see your family physician and get yourself a prescription for some happy pills.
Laughing is also a way to flush out your kidneys if something is side-splitting funny. I don’t advise you to drink a lotta liquids, unlessen you absolutely need flushing out that bad. Though, you may wanna be careful ’cause you could very well flush out the back end too. Know what I mean? I don’t think you want that, especially if you’re visiting folks or sitting on the bench at the mall. Yeah, be real careful about that, with folk carrying camera phones and whatnot. You absolutely wouldn’t wanna go viral in that fashion.
I should be super uber rich, with all the jobs I have. After running down the list and giving a brief description of my duties, you tell me if I should have deep pockets…
Phone Consultant/Comedienne – I call my elderly aunt who’s kinda housebound on account of her taking care of her housebound husband. I tell lies and the truth to entertain her at least twice a week. I’m not sure if my check for doing this should come from her social security check or the government. While I’d do this for free anyway, I got to thinking and feel entitled to compensation in some tangible way. I mean, I crack her up and she often tells me she needed that. With me lowering her blood pressure and whatnot, I’m actually due a retro check and those are always nice. I also give her advice or at least make information clear and logical about matters she hadn’t considered. Am I due or what?
Poet/Rapper/Songwriter – Now, this is a fairly recent gig of mine. As of yesterday actually. But my daughter, Little Totsy, heard my rap song and she…Well, she didn’t exactly say I should put it on Amazon.com for download or anything close to that but I put in so much time and figured out the beats. It takes a lotta energy to go to that creative place and since it was such a learning curve, I feel like, while I may or not get paid for it in my lifetime, somebody will see my words on paper as valuable. Don’t you think that about your writing? See, makes all the sense in the world to you now.
Walker – I do this all day on the job, helping folk. I know, you say that’s part of the job, but my walking is excessive. I must walk about five miles a day. That’s dedication, folks. Walking was not in the job description and my feet need extra care these days.
Trash Collector/Green Artist - I collect all manner of things to repurpose them in some artistic way. I’m saving the earth and beautifying it at the same time. Whoever collects newspapers, bottle caps and all those other things I could run down the list, I have to go to their homes to collect them. They can actually save money on recycling ’cause I’ll take just about anything.
I’m also a TV Watcher, Grass Cutter (seasonal, of course), Junk Mail Recipient, Patient Driver, Line Waiter (at the store when buying things), Listener (both consciously and as a bypasser), Hanger Upper (on telemarketers), Non-Nagger (even in times when I should) and well, the list won’t stop but I will anyhow.
I don’t know where all this money should come from and it really doesn’t matter since all of what I’m doing is legal. Should I quit all these jobs, who’s going to replace me and do it as well? I mean, I feel like I’ve made an impression in a way that I’d be at least somewhat missed. I’m so clear about that. What do you think? Are you putting in work you should be getting paid for?
1. Carry breath mints.
2. Produce more than you consume.
3. Never go for seconds at the dinner table. The food will be there tomorrow. In other words, refer back to rule number 2.
4. Listen more. Talk less. Stock up with superglue, if needed. (Masking tape will work also but it may cause public humiliation.)
5. Get over what it is you’re not over. Staying where you are stunts your growth and eventually folk will not wanna be bothered with you.
6. Wear clothing fit for your body type, sex and age, not somebody else’s. Transvestites are exempt, however.
7. Mind your business.
8. Limit Facebook statuses. Nobody cares as much as you do anyhow.
9. Stop pretending. However, if you’re faking it ’til you make it and haven’t made it yet, cry yourself to sleep at night and start putting a Plan B or C in place.
Seems like every time I visit this blog to say something, I’m trying to explain why I haven’t been around. While you may wanna know, and I know you’d love to be in my business and whatnot, I’m afraid to tell you there’s nothing to tell you that you’d be all that interested in. Truth be told to the third power, I ain’t all that interested in what’s going on with me either.
I’ve been so tired and as we speak, I’m suffering a cough that’d make you kick your mama and sock your daddy in the right eye. Should you actually go off and do a fool-crazy thing as that, send me a video, folks. I do have rare occasions to watch foolishness. While it may be an unhealthy break from reality, any kinda break is alright with me. Okay?
Let me also add that I’ve been trying to get to this blog but I got real side-tracked. The fact of the matter is I don’t know what’s come over me. I don’t. I went to the pharmacy to get this issue medicated but there’s no cure for not knowing how to find your blog. Neither is there a pill, patch or shot for coming up with what to say on the blog once you get there. I was like, Lordy mercy, whatever is a discombobulated southern belle to do? The answer never did come to me, so I decided to take a nap, folks. You know, sometimes, you think better when you’re sleeping…yelling at your neighbors from your front porch…eating syrup sammitches or fish and grits for breakfast…plucking a chicken…You know, it’s a southern thing. I hope you understand.
So, Totsy wanted me to do cover story of her at the ball. Why ever did she desire that? I tried to talk her out of it because I so hate wasting my time. My doing a story on Totsy at a ball is like giving Jennifer Hudson a Hollywood star. Undeserved at this moment in time, okay?
Let me say this. Well, the title says it all. Who or whatever put the bug in Totsy’s ear to get up and dance was a total set-up. Had the gumption to take off her stilettos as if she was going to take over the dance floor. Not only does she not know a thing about line dancing but I don’t think she knew if she was coming or going. It should’ve been a humbling experience after the first time she got out there but she went two or three more times. As if she knew what she was doing! I absolutely cried and laughed on the inside for her.
Now, I’m as good of a friend as they come. You know that, right? A good friend who tells it like it T. I. Is. Okay? I gave her the business while driving her home, people, as she was drunk from spinning in the wrong direction on that dance floor. She even had the audacity to be tired and napped most of Saturday. I give it to her that she did look snazzy in that black Michelle Obama-like dress. Bloated and all, she was snazzy. However, being that I was there, we all know who was crowned Ms. Hot, okay? Don’t let the fact that I shop in Ashley Stuart fool you, people. I am definitely that diva to be reckoned with. Hello? Knock, knock. High five. It’s the deliciousness of a diva coming to you live.
Hotter than Hot,
Beatrice from Apt. 7B
I have absolutely no idea how to keep up with you folk anymore. Why, with The Real Housewives of Atlanta back on the air, me nosing around in this and that and every other whatnot I’m into these days, blogging is the furthest thing from my mind. I do want to share half of a story with you. I do, folks, have to exercise some level of discretion since acquiring this position with the FBI, trying to investigate what in the heck’s going on with Obamacare.
So, as the story goes, I had a texting stalker about a week ago. That joker was texting so fast, I could hardly get a word in. Scared the living poop outta me when one day I came home and heard some walking around up my stairs. At the time I’m hearing all this foot-walking, I’m hungry as all get out and had to stop mid-bite ’cause I’m thinking this nut’s been rambling in my paperwork. Seeing that everything was intact, what else could it possibly be, right?
So, I stay halfway focused on eating and still hearing footsteps. Call me crazy, foolish or what have you but I couldn’t fight this fool on an empty stomach. I had to get my strength up, folks. I kept my right eye on the patio door and my left one toward the den area while stuffing my mouth in case I had to make a run but I be darn if I wasn’t closer to the fridge than I was to the door. Now that I think about it, I don’t even think what I was eating was worth losing my life for but being the risk-taker I am, I kept right on eating some leftover whatnot.
Next thing I know, my daughter’s friend comes down and my eye sockets got so big, I thought my eyeballs would roll right to the floor. By this time, I’m chewing but it ain’t all that good, being that I’m scared for my life. Now, I can truly understand why them folk get killed 15 minutes into a movie. I mean, really. The choices folk make. Though, I’m real happy I lived to tell you about this. Maybe one day, I’ll fill you in on the rest of the story.
Myrna’s heels were worn down from walking in her own kitchen, feeding her husband who’d grown old and solid in weight. Day in and day out, she whipped up meals according to his taste buds but she often had a mind to poison him. While he sat and seemed helpless enough sitting on two bone-rotted hips, he talked too much. Sometimes, he’d ring a bell to be served a glass of water or holler out some command while she was watching her soap operas. Myrna simply loathed the idea of a broken down man issuing commands to her. If she could just kill him and get away with it, she would’ve taken them both out of misery.
“Shut up, you old buzzard!” Myrna had jumped off her warm seat on the couch, missing a cliffhanger to fetch Paul’s spoon off the floor he’d dropped. “I’ll burn up this house and leave you here if you don’t stop messing with me.” Her lips were tight and hearing her deepened voice, Paul’s eyes bucked.
He looked to be marinating a thought. “No, you won’t, you ole crusty woman.” He then worked up a wad of spit and blinded Myrna’s right eye.
“Uggghhh!” Myrna balled her fists and threw Paul an uppercut, sending his bottom gums bumping with the top, as his teeth were soaking in a glass in the kitchen window.
She then stared at the sagging old man Paul had turned into. Couldn’t believe she’d fallen in love with him twenty years ago. Had she envisioned the scene she was in with him now, she’d have stayed single and whorish. And just that quickly, she began missing those Friday nights at Foxy’s Club, eating smoked ribs and collards in a haze of tobacco-stained teeth men who only desired a soft round bottom against their palms at the end of the night with no strings. What was in her mind that made her give away that kind of freedom? What lines had this drooping buzzard laid on her ears all those years ago to ultimately bring her life to this?