The Greats

The weight of loss has been inexplicably heavy.  Along with missing my mother terribly, it dawned on me that the anniversary of Foxy’s death has come and gone.  Always gentle and unassuming when it came to her own interests, she wouldn’t have wanted me to make much of a fuss.  It’s strange how your subconscious reveals that things are more “wrong” than you imagine.

She got her nickname, because she ALWAYS had on a set of pearls and kept a mean pair of shoes at the ready.  Remembering Foxy means remembering full scale dress up: purses with faux fur and feathers; large stretchy rings with plastic “rubies” and “emeralds,” specifically bought for the delight of my sisters and I; all of the Clinique lipsticks she wouldn’t completely use up, so that we could play with the nubs when we would visit.  I can still smell her kitchen, richly scented with brown rice and a Sunday pot roast that no one has been able to duplicate.  Between my aunts, my mom and my sisters and I, she was the quiet in the family storm of rowdy females.  When she evacuated during Hurricane Katrina, the local congregation where she went to worship adopted her and all called her Grandma.  For a person so warm and loving, it was only right.

My grandfather, a very overbearing man, was the Archie to her Edith.  Except, she was brilliant.  I believe that she hid, and was slightly ashamed of her intelligence, due to my grandfather’s lack of education.  She was the valedictorian of Xavier University Preparatory; a Catholic school with a long history of educating young black women.   She had this amazing habit of quietly listening to the conversations around her, then interjecting something profound and going about her business as though she’d never said anything.  When my sister asked her about her high school achievement, she gave a sly look, asked “Who told you that?” then abruptly changed the subject.  However much she attempted to downplay her wit, her eyes always told the story of knowing just a little bit more than she was telling.

I miss her cushiony lap, and the way she knew how to calm all of us down.  They just don’t make grandmothers like that anymore.  Sometimes, I look at my family, and I wonder why God blessed me with these people that were so wonderful.  I’m grateful that He saw fit to give me the best of the best.  A week before she died, my sister visited her, and she said that she was just taking it day by day.  ”I could go at any minute,” were her exact words.  My sister and I spoke on the phone that night about how she would outlive all of us.  Thinking about it now breaks my heart.

So much of the good in my family is attributable to her.  We are all so full of thunder, but she taught us that there was a gentler way to go about this life thing.  We make it without her, but each of us are a little different.  She was the event that brought us all together.

I miss you sweetest of ladies.  I wish we had more time.

Smooches from New York

I have to get better about announcing this type of thing, but I’m taking a brief break dreamers.  You’ll hardly have time to miss me, as I’ll be back on Monday.  But this week, I took time to visit with dear friends and just enjoy life a bit.  The Bolt Bus is convenient, though I thought my back would never make it.  I attempted to add a post Thursday night, and it didn’t work at all.  I began to get a little stressed, then thought, “Aren’t you supposed to be relaxing?”  So, I did, and I am.  I miss yall, and taking this week off was actually a decision I wrestled with.  For little doses of my madness, mosey onto the right of the screen and visit my Twitter, as I still toss up a tweet here and there.

Smooches!

Beauty Jackson

Set a goal, and then when you actually attain it, you’re sort of in a daze?  You just go, “Yeah…ok…that happened,” and try to act like some life changing stuff didn’t just go down?  Yeah.  Neither have I.  Except, I totally did, because BAM!!! I’M PUBLISHED BABY! I’m still trying to process the fact that this is totally a big deal for me.  If you follow me on Twitter (beauty_jackson – I rock the entire casbah there), then you already know about my article.  If not, read it. It’s an exciting thing for me.

And it’s also fuel to the fire of my ambition.  I said I’d do a thing, and I’ve done it.  Now, I’m about “more” and “next.”  It makes me realize that my book is not an insurmountable obstacle, but a challenge I can ably master if I put my mind to it.  I just have to be persistent.  I’m still sort of grasping for emotion.  There are so many facets of my life that need to be reined in, but right now, nothing is more important than attaining my goals to make a better life for my family.

Just had to put my awesome vibes out there.

It’s the first date.  He’s amazing.  He likes you.  He’s listening to you!  You like him.  You’re listening to him.  The two of you go for a walk.  The wine has gotten to your heads.  You’ve gotten to each other’s heads.  He pulls you in for a kiss that stops time, shakes the earth’s core, and make the stars  look like glitter specks.  You don’t have those first date hang-ups.  The energy is right.  If he asks, you really, REALLY want to say yes.  Except…you’re wearing this

…and a Spanx.

Now, most dudes, particularly those in the Thick Snack Appreciate Society (hey yall), won’t trip.  You could be wearing burlap, and the average dude will still whip it out.  That isn’t the issue at all.  Lean in closely, so that I might explain the issue…

GETTING THAT MESS ON AND OFF IS AN OLYMPIC EVENT!  My sisters in Spanx know what I’m talking about.  There’s not a big girl alive, who at least once in her Spanx wearing life, hasn’t pulled that bad boy half way up, paused, took a deep breath, called on Jesus, bowed down prayed to the East, and said nam myoho renge kyo.  The same goes for when you put on the Kevlar vests we call bras, hook it, spin it ALLLLLLLLLLLLL the way around, then pause and ponder the cosmos.  After all that what do you when the sexy times are staring you in the face?

When you see things are going well at dinner, do you tiptoe to the bathroom and take off the Spanx then?  Do you explain the body explosion, or just treat it like a silent elevator fart?  The bra…if you get the Butterfly joint, that’s EIGHT hooks.  After the sixth hook, don’t ya’ll go together?  Let’s say that you do go about making the beast with two backs.  Then what?  Do you just skip off happily into the sunset, Spanx in hand?  You KNOW you can’t put that thing back on.  Once my Spanx comes off for the night, it’s not going back on for like, three days.  Do you stuff it in your purse?  Do you spin it around like a helicopter, indicative of smang victory?  I’m good at turning the silly into the utterly ridiculous, so I’d probably play slingshot games with mine.  Either that or forget it somewhere.  (I don’t spend a whole lot of time playing the “Why Am I Single?” game for obvious reasons.)

The truth is, once you’re past a certain stage of sexual development (the actual age can vary between individuals), there are lots of hang ups that you just don’t hold on to.  My fat rolls, though a pain, are here now.  So you can either decline the smang, or do some things with them.  That being said, once a dude witnesses the Spanx Olympics, that’s a level of comfort that you just don’t replicate every day.  And mercy, if he pulls it up?  He’s stuck with me on some “And I am telling you” steez.

Clearly, I don’t know all the rules on support garment etiquette, when you’re getting some of that new-new, so what say you Dreamers?