Texting My Way to Heaven

It's getting harder and harder to get into heaven. The Ten Commandments and Great Commission don't ask that much of us. The police and Congress have way more rules governing behavior. I'm not implying it's not challenging to obey the laws of God and man. I'm just saying we should be able to get through an ordinary day without choking an annoying neighbor or parking illegally. Of course, I moved recently so I don't know my neighbors in the biblical sense and I don't work downtown where parking is at a premium. Nevertheless, as the daughter of a Babtist preacher and retired football coach, I have confessed my sins, excepted Jesus as my Savior, and stopped betting on the outcome of the Super Bowl. Good stuff, right? Well, apparently, not good enough.

Today, I got a text that read, "If you love Jesus and you're glad he woke you up today, forward this email to ten people and you will receive a blessing. Act in the next sixty seconds or something bad will happen to your family."

When did this happen? Was there an amendment to the Bible to bring it up to date? I thought it was timeless. I don't recall reading anything about forwarding text to prove my love for Jesus. Geez. Like I don't have enough to do and not do. Now, I gotta forward text and emails to get a blessing. If I don't act quickly, something might happen to my peeps. If I do send ten text, I'll lose ten friends and deplete my remaining text for the month. Since it's an electronic omen, will my peeps iPods malfunction or will their cell phones stop working? I'm busy. I don't have time to scroll through my contacts to find ten people who won't curse me with a plague for sending them this text. I know! I'll send it back to the person who sent it to me ten times.

Hopefully, they'll get mad and stop texting me. I'd consider that a blessing indeed. LOL.

P.S. If this blog made you laugh, forward it to ten friends in the next sixty seconds.

Copyright 2008 Monica F. Anderson
www.drmoeanderson.com

Perfect Love

Lions and Tigers and Bears, oh my, my, my! So nice to be cared about. While I've made a career from writing about my personal life, I really hesitated to post that last blog. No, I'm not afraid to admit fear or failure. I simply didn't think anyone in the mysterious black hole of the Internet would care, especially MySpace. That's where the blog appeared originally. MySpace is a social network. It's a big commercial. It's a place to pretend, not to be achingly authentic. I assume most blog readers are kind and compassionate. I also assume they are very busy. Busy with their own issues. Too busy to take on mine. Or so I thought. Still, on the chance that I might help one person pursue their dreams in spite of their anxiety, I posted that blog about my recent move to Austin. Apparently, I touched raw nerve. I received calls, cards, emailed testimonies, and comments like the ones posted below the original blog on my MySpace page. www.myspace.com/wwwdrmoecom

I appreciate every outpouring of encouragement and love. My favorite words came from the dear friend who quoted 1 John 4:18 -

There is no fear in love: true love has no room for fear, because where fear is, there is pain; and he who is not free from fear is not complete in love.

or if you're a King James fan -

There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.

Hmmm. I really like Austin. I do have imperfect concerns about where and how I'll live but, more than that, I have perfect love...I'm not afraid anymore.


copyright 2008 Dr. Monica Anderson

Hope is a Four-Letter Word

In a world where students literally die in crowded classrooms, it is not unusual or unforgivable to hear someone on a grieving campus utter a four-letter word. Some golfers mumble obscenities when they miss a short putt. Passionate hoopsters yell R-rated profanity when they are fouled. Sometimes they consist of four letters, sometimes more letters.
It seems to be human nature, rather American human nature, to react to external stressors with expletives. Though, I try to avoid the practice of using profanity for a linguistic crutch, there are times when I’m in public that the duct tape on my tongue does not censor my mind.

For example, last week I had a horrible encounter with a new patient in the state of the art facility where I practice dentistry with three other doctors. In twenty years of practicing, this incident ranks among the top three most unforgettable occasions. I won’t share the other two because they’d make you cancel your next checkup. Let’s just say my job is mentally, academically, and physically challenging everyday. Generally, I keep a tight rein on my emotions because I have to. My compassion cannot overrule the standard of care dictated by law. I am there to prevent and treat disease. It’s not a pretty job but somebody has to do it. You can make jokes and disparage dentist all you want, but I dare you to have a toothache or get your front teeth knocked out by a steering wheel a week before your wedding. Okay?

My second patient of that morning was a middle aged white man with multiple missing and infected teeth. He’d been in pain for years, ducking and dodging the dental office with Orajel and Advil. At that point, the home remedies were no longer effective and he decided he wanted full dentures. From my office, I reviewed his digital radiographs and it was clear, he needed antibiotics before any definitive treatment. My goal when I went into the operatory was to relieve his pain and devise a treatment plan.

Unlike Michael Jackson, I’ve been a black woman all my life. There are some things I know intuitively. One look at the expression of horror upon that patient’s face when I was introduced, told me he racist and sexist. There is a peculiar way the eyes narrow and the cheeks pucker when someone doesn’t approve of your gender. I know that look as does every female firefighter and police officer. And when a person believes segregation yesterday, segregation today, and segregation forever, it shows. However, the ugliest and most intimidating glare of all comes from someone who hates everything about you and your ancestors. If you don’t know the look, I pray you never see it. It is evil.

The patient wouldn’t shake my hand, look at me, or allow me to examine him. Twenty years of experience, licenses in two states, awards and honors, hundreds of hours of continuing education, thousands of patients, bestselling books, faith in God—none of my credentials meant anything to him. He insisted on seeing another doctor. For the record, patients in pain will see Mickey Mouse if he can help them.

At that point, the feeling between patient X and me was mutual. I courteously left the room. I quietly left the building. I was speechless. In 2008, someone younger than me—of any race—still displays such blatant discrimination. I sat in my car, looked at the ashy heavens, and whispered a four-letter word. I said, “Hope.” A word many have relegated into the category of f##k and s##t. Thankfully, the American Heritage Dictionary list one definition of an expletive that is more profound than profane. “A word or phrase that does not contribute any meaning but is added only to fill out a sentence.”

In my country, the USA, it feels like hope truly does not contribute any meaning to millions of cynics, skeptics, and narrow minded people who have forgotten how to dream. I pray my colleagues in healthcare never fall into that category, nor my neighbors, or my children. We need researchers who won’t give up when a new drug doesn’t work. We need citizens who believe a 70-year old veteran, a former first lady, or a black man with an unusual name can lead this country. And we need children who never inhale the lingering smoke of that peculiar institution known as slavery.

As for me, after a moment of meditation, I got out of my car and went back to work believing my day would improve and my tomorrows will be even better. Naïve? I don’t think so.

In the words of someone who inspires me, “Hope is never false.”

Copyright 2008. Monica Frazier Anderson

www.drmoeanderson.com

A thought or two or three..

I was at the mall the day after Thanksgiving and I had a thought or two or three....y'all.

I’m standing in a long line at one of my favorite department stores at 6:20 AM on the day after Thanksgiving just thinking. Yesterday, I saw a stand up comedian on television joking about how women think all the time; she said our brains never stop working and I thought, "That’s not true!" I’m sure all women have long periods of silence in their minds when they’re not thinking about anything at all, they’re just -well…maybe she has a point because I usually am pondering one puzzle or another unless I’m listening to someone speak in which case I’m thinking about what I’m going to say when it’s my turn to talk. I know that I can listen and think because - I cannot believe that woman just tried to cut in this long line by pretending that her friend was holding her place. Does she not know what time it is and how little patience all of us bed head, no lipstick wearing women have for rude people who don’t want to pay their dues? We don’t even want to pay regular prices or we wouldn’t be up at the crack of dawn shivering outside locked doors waiting for someone to let us in so we can get a free snow globe that’s probably worth about a dollar along with the coveted extra ten percent savings off the sale prices. Geez, the nerve of some people. I’m glad that woman told her where the line ends or I would’ve had to say something because I have ninety-seven more stores to go to before the early bird sales end at 10:00 AM and I cannot stay in here all day. I only wanted the free globe but they had these cute sweaters for half price next to the globe giving people and... I wonder how much those employees are paid to pass out globes at 6:00 in the morning? That’s all they’re doing, standing there giving little green boxes to folks who are so excited you’d think that’s all they’re getting for Christmas. One man got two globes and I thought they had a limit of one per person but I only need one for my collection, which is a tribute to my insanity of doing this every year. No one ever comes over during the Christmas season and says, “Oh look at these lovely little globes with the year written in gold ink on the side. Did you risk being trampled to get this?” Oh well, some people have trophies and plaques, but I have glass balls filled with water and Disney characters. I worked hard for them and I’m proud of them.
Thank goodness, I’m checked out and on my way to store number two and I feel hungry I think, but I ate so much yesterday that I shouldn’t be hungry for a week or at least several hours. Hmmm, let me think, yes I’m definitely hungry but if I don’t go to store two they’ll run out of my size on those velour warm ups and I’ll have to keep wearing the rayon ones that make so much noise when I walk which reminds me I must work out today. Right. But I have those great leftovers. Okay. I’ll start working out next week or after Christmas. I shouldn’t waste food - oh no, look at all these people in here. I cannot believe the crowd. This place has a sale every week like they’re going out of business so I don’t know why we're clogging the aisles today except that George Foreman Grill is now at the lowest price of the season. Are they all here for that grill? No, that woman has a vacuum cleaner that I just saw for ten dollars less at the other store. I should tell her. No, she’ll think I’m strange and maybe she’s going to apply for a credit card and get an additional price break. In any case, it’s none of my business I just came here for the grill. How am going to get all this stuff to my car? I really need to get that right speaker in my car checked because I hate that hissing sound it makes whenever I play my Aretha Franklin CD but since that’s the only time I hear it, maybe it’s Aretha, she is getting older, so is the CD but Re Re ain‘t no spring chicken. Gladys Knight has a strong voice. Strong like good coffee and boy, could I use a cup right now. That’s what they should give away to early bird shoppers since they don’t have enough globes ’cause I’d love a cup of Joe and maybe a croissant with eggs and ham. That’s customer service, we don’t get good - did this girl start working here today or what? She is so slow and that’s the fifth time she’s had to ask the other cashier for help. I should have gotten in the other line. This is just like the grocery store; no matter which line I choose, I end up in the slow lane. My knees are cold…

You know, that comedian may be right. I’ll have to think about it.

Dreading the Holidaze!

Why am I dreading the holidaze?
Like millions of Americans, I am a light sleeper. I mean a really, really light sleeper. I live 20 miles from the airport and I am often awakened by the sound of airplanes flying miles above my bed. I don’t sleep with lights on, or music, or the television. In fact, I hold my breath all night to avoid the sound of air rushing in and out of my nose. Okay, not really, but I need darkness and quiet in order to get a good night’s rest.
My sister is not a light sleeper. My sister could sleep through a war movie with surround sound at the highest volume on the world’s loudest speakers. She must go beyond REM sleep. She’s almost on COMA sleep.
Anyway, during the holidays we always go to my folks’ home to spend some quality time together, all six of us. Just like the old days except now I have two teenagers so Mom insists on cooking two pans of biscuits every morning.
I must be honest. I am dreading the holidays. Why? I’m glad you asked.
Here’s the problem. My folks have three bedrooms. That means I share a bed with my sister or sleep on a pallet—on the floor. The last time my sister and I shared a bed, she was four and I woke up with three toes in my mouth. Well, many moons have passed so last Christmas I thought, “This will be fun like a little slumber party. We’ll talk all night and really bond.”
What was I thinking? I suspected all along that the noise I heard the last time I spent the night at sissy’s home was not the icemaker or the air conditioner like she surmised. No, that noise was her. The woman snores like she’s being paid to do it. I’ve been to concerts that weren’t as loud. True, she had a cold and she was very tired but good grief. All of our bonding dissolved after about thirty minutes of her nocturnal bugle blowing.
I started out by shaking her gently. That didn’t work. Then I sort of tried to push her on her side. She rolled over and kept right on snoring. Next, I put two pillows over her head. They barely muffled the sound. In desperation, I punched her in her back as hard as I could. She didn’t freakin’ move. She didn’t even pause from snoring for a moment.
Exasperated, I sought refuge in the bedroom with my sons’. They were in a king- sized bed but I couldn’t find an inch of space between them. They were sprawled in every direction like they heard me coming. I just wanted a little room at the foot of the bed. Have you smelled the feet of any teenage boys’ lately?
I continued my pilgrimage to the den where a nice, big sofa awaited me. It was right next to the nice, big fish aquarium with the world’s loudest pump. I convinced myself that the fish could survive one night without carbonated water. I was about to pull the plug when I noticed one of the fish staring at me. He looked so mean. He opened and closed his little mouth. I swear he said, “I’ve got friends that walk. If anything happens to me, you’re history.”
So I took my little pillow and blanket to the living room where my mother showcases the world’s smallest couch. It’s very cute but it’s obviously designed for people with very small rear ends. The cushions are about ten inches wide. If I lay on my left side, my knees floated in the air; the extremely frigid “we turn the thermostat down at night” air. If I flipped to the right, my not so small rear end hung over the edge and it was hard to keep my balance, but at least the flashing Christmas lights outside the window didn’t seem so bright.
So I harnessed myself to a hook on the wall behind the sofa using the belt on my housecoat and spent the night dreaming I was falling off a cliff.
The next morning, I packed the car before anyone else arose. I packed everyone’s stuff. I told my kids to wear the clothes they tossed on the floor before going to bed . My sister refused to drive because she was sore. She didn’t know why and I didn’t tell her.
You know what? This year, I’m staying at a hotel all by my lonesome no matter what Mama says.

© Monica Frazier Anderson 2003-2007. All Rights Reserved
www.drmoeanderson.com

Cookie Monsters

I'm very angry and I don't get angry often. Well, not very often. I get upset, disgruntled, peeved, and agitated. Those are silent, seething, I-don't-want-to-get-punched-by-someone-angrier-and-larger-than-I emotions.
I'm angry because I was at Sam's this evening purchasing large quantities of paper products and eating my dinner. I had a sample of crackers for my grain group. I had a single cherry for my fruit group. One really nice employee gave me not one but two souffle cups of tilapia. Oooh. I think they'd sell more of that stuff if you actually got enough of the sample to taste the food. Like "Taste of Sam's." Anyway, it was time for dessert. I deserve a dessert. I work hard. All I wanted from that huge warehouse of canned goods was toilet tissue and a frickin' cookie.
I look forward to that cookie for the entire week! They have free cookies in the bakery and I feel no qualms about grabbing one at the end of my shopping/eating spree. I pay an annual fee for the privilege. I drive miles and flash my Sam's card with the hideous picture on it. (My hair was awful that day.) I walk on cold, concrete floors in harsh lighting for the right to eat those free cookies.
So, I was in line behind three people. There were four cookies left in the container. Four BIG cookies. The two little kids with the dirtiest hands I've ever seen, shuffled the cookies and selected one each. Normally, I'm a germ freak but I'm not aware of any outbreaks of E. Coli being traced back to cookies. Dessert does not kill. Not directly anyway. The guy in front of me was so excited his hand shook as he slowly reached into the cookie thing and took--yes the last two cookies! What the heck? I was practically standing on the heel of his shoes, breathing down his neck. I know he saw me. I was furious. I swear if he wasn't like 90-years-old, I would have lost it.
I opened my mouth to protest when the bakery lady came running over with more cookies. The greedy dude acted as if he were going to take more. How many cookies does a 100-lb man need? I love the elderly. I'm about to be one of them, but dang. It occurred to me that he might be on a fixed income and he needed the cookies. Then, I looked in his cart. He had steaks--several steaks. I had one five-buck rotisserie chicken for the week. Hmph. I reached over him and grabbed four cookies.
Now, I'm angry because my stomach hurts. What possessed me to eat four cookies on an empty stomach?

Begging For Ketchup

Okay. The bad weather during the growing season effected produce. Fruit and vegetables are more expensive and, in my opinion, not as flavorful. I don't like spinach, but it looks less tasty. Cause and effect. Supply and demand. Ben and Jerry. Got it. Why is it called produce anyway? Lettuce doesn't "produce" anything. Mine sits in the refrigerator missing spinach and waiting for me to make a salad. I hate cooking. It's boring. Of course, I may be doing it wrong. That's happened before. I'd be happy to observe you cooking anytime. That's the best way to learn.

Anyway, I can live with bland apples; America, we have a more pressing issue! Can anyone tell me the origin of the current condiment crisis? What in heck happened to the salt and pepper supply? Do we need to drill for ketchup? It's pandemic. (I never get to use that word. I don't even know what it means.)

Real Conversation:A garbled voice greets me through a weathered speaker.
"Hello, welcome to Burgerama. May I take your order?"
"Yes,I'd like a double cheeseburger, large fry, and a diet Pepsi. Oh, and a slice of chocolate pie. Hmmm, make that diet Pepsi a water instead."
"Okay, you want a chicken sandwich, onion rings, and lemonade."
"No, I said a double cheeseburger, large fry, chocolate pie, and cup of water."
There's a pause, static, then, "Okay. Your total is $19.95. Please drive to the second window."
I pull forward while digging 80 quarters from my ashtray. I sit at the window for 20 minutes while the employees giggle and do a very raunchy version of the Electric Slide by the shake machine. I pay the drive-through lady. She frowns at the coins, but seems comforted by the knowledge that I'm probably not an exotic dancer. While she slowly counts five pennies over and over, I examine my order. To my surprise, it's correct. The fries are cold but I console myself with the fact I wasn't given onion rings like last time.
"Ma'am, may I have some ketchup and salt and pepper?" I ask as she throws my change on the ground, missing my hand by two feet.
She frowns again and asks, "Are you going home?"
"Yes."
"Don't you have salt and pepper?"
"I do but it doesn't cost $40.00 per pound like this hamburger. I paid for minerals and liquid tomatoes. I want my salt, pepper, and ketchup."
"Fine. Here's one package of salt and one package of pepper. How many packets of ketchup do you want?"
"I have seven fries. I want seven packets of ketchup."
Burger lady trembles and whispers, "That's too many. I'll get fired if I give you more than two."
"Okay. Give me two ketchup, a napkin, and a straw."
"Straws are a dime each. I need a manager's approval for napkins. Will you pull forward? I'll send him to your car and you can ask him."
America. Stock up now. Soon, we'll be rationing relish.

Copyright 2007 Monica Frazier Anderson
www.drmoeanderson.com
www.myspace.com/wwwdrmoecom

How To Properly Pat His Behind

See, I have always envied athletes their freedom of expression. Where else but on a field of sport can you intentionally swat a well-toned rear end as a form of congratulations? Imagine the president of a university doing that as the valedictorian receives her diploma. Harassment right? In fact, I don't know anyone anywhere who can pull this off in public except athletes. I've studied their technique. It's fairly simple. The fingers must be fully extended, not curled. That's groping. Contact must be brief and to the right or left of the mid line. Also, the ideal spot is around the height of the convexity. Above or below and you risk being labeled a pervert. Finally, you have to say something profound like, "A'ight, baby." (Yeah, the men pat a friend's butt and call him "baby." Go figure. We really need more of this at home for good dish washing.) Oh, don't say something lame like, "Excellent work. I'm so proud of you." That's about it except don't linger afterwards. Trot away and don't look back.

I don't think it's fair that everyone can't share in this delightful pastime. So I decided to try it with this extremely cute guy at the grocery store. He successfully selected two vine ripened tomatoes and placed them in his shopping cart. From the expression on his face, I could see he was quite pleased with this accomplishment. There was no one to share his joy. I'm compassionate. I walked by, slapped his rear end, and said, "Good job."

Thankfully, security let me pay for my yogurt and Oreos before they escorted me to my car. The guy didn't complain--his wife did. She should make him wear a ring. He wasn't marked. He made eye contact. How was I to know?

I switched tactics. Instead of patting, I tried jumping into the air, chest first, to greet my neighbor. I've seen WNBA players do this. Warning: this only works if the other person jumps also. Thankfully, the police let me off with a psychiatric evaluation and a restraining order. Hmmm. Guess I need to take up a sport besides golf. I'm not even going to tell you what happened on the ninth hole yesterday.

Bootleg Books

I've gotten better about worrying. I don't mean that I worry more. I mean I worry less...Until today, that is.

I received a text from a friend in Atlanta marked urgent, "Call me, now!"

I excused myself from a meeting and found a quiet place to make the call. During that two minutes, several scenarios went through my head.

Potential horrid thing #1. Maybe something happened to my friend. (No, her husband would have called. He doesn't text. Well, maybe he does but he wouldn't text me.)

Potential horrid thing #2. Maybe something happened to my kids. (How would my friend in Atlanta know that?) Maybe they fell off the cover of my new book, I Stand Accused, and hurt themselves. Shameless plug and bragging. Sorry.

Potential horrid thing #3. I missed something good on Oprah. (No, it was only 2 pm. Thank goodness.)

I ran out of stuff after that. See, I bet you can think of a million more things to worry about. Anyway, I called her during off-peak hours which attest to our level of friendship and she said, "Guess what happened. You're never gonna believe this."

"Okay."

"Moe, aren't you going to guess?"

"Hmmm, no."

She huffed. "Remind me again why I'm friends with you."

"I dunno. I think you owe me money. You're using up my minutes. What's up?"

"I just bought your book for five dollars from a street vendor."

My legs buckled. "You what?! Tell me Barnes and Noble CNN Center has street vendors. Five dollars? Are you kidding me? I'm self-published. I can't take a hit like that."

(This really happened. I'm not making it up.)

"No," she said, laughing at my gasping sounds. "I got it from some guy wearing a Rocca Wear shirt. Your manuscript is printed on typing paper and bound up with one of those curly, black things. The guy has a lot of good books and all of Tyler Perry's DVD's. You're famous now, girlfriend. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

"No, I'm fine thank you."

"What?"

"I'm talking to the security guard. He wanted to know why I was on the floor. Imitation my as--sets. Angel, tell me someone who is not related to me by blood is not selling bootleg copies of my debut novel on a street corner in Georgia."

"Yep. Five dollars. Two for eight."

Well, that explains why I have more enthusiastic emails from readers than royalties. The bootleggers must have been kind enough to include my website in the stolen property.

Now, I have a new worry.

Starvation.

www.drmoeanderson.com

www.myspace.com/wwwdrmoecom

The Letter Y

A-E-I-O-U and sometimes Y.

When? It has come to my attention that the letter Y is randomly being excluded from the prestigious vowel club. Can't we all just get along? Isn't life difficult enough without another rule no one can remember? Quickly, when exactly is Y a vowel? No, don't get your style manual or handbook. Just tell me. You don't know do you? No one does except English teachers and the other vowels. We need the letter Y. It's a critical letter. I can get along without Q and Z, but imagine a world without Y. If Y wants to be a vowel ALL the time, let it.

This ridiculous rule makes me reflect on a little discussed bit of American History. In 1787, the Three-Fifths Clause proposed by Oliver Ellsworth established that slaves would be counted as 3/5 of a person for purposes of taxation and representation. What? Now, for purposes of picking cotton and plowing fields, slaves were considered 5/5 of a person. Admittedly, around April 15th of every year, I wouldn't mind being 1/4 of a taxpayer, but other than that I'm not in favor of fractional humanity.

But back to the letter Y. This consonant and/or vowel has become the ethnic "Other" of the alphabet. It is simply not fair to subject this letter to an identity crisis and the subsequent emotional trauma. Therefore, because I can, I am making an Official Constitutional Amendment for the letter of Y. I have no idea how many amendments have previously been made to the Constitution, and I don't have time to look it up. So this one goes at the end. Anyway, as of this moment, Y is always a vowel.

A-E-I-O-U-Y. So let it be written. So let it be done.

Peace!
www.drmoeanderson.com
www.myspace.com/wwwdrmoecom

Put Dad On The Phone, Please!

My sons think it should be dark outside before you retire for the night. I have tried to convince them that this is an urban myth like the idea microwave bacon is only for breakfast. Why? What’s wrong with bacon, lime jello, and corn on the cob for dinner? It’s better than nothing. I’ve had nothing. Believe me, it’s better.
Anyway, I like to go to bed early and, if I had my way, I wouldn’t get up until noon. As I’ve said a million times before, there is nothing you can do at 6 AM that I can’t do at 1 PM, including eating bacon. My beloved parents; however, love to get up with the roosters. That’s fine. They actually put clothes on to eat breakfast. Whatever. That’s fine. They call other morning people and talk loudly about the obituary pages. That’s not the way I like to start the day but it’s fine with me.
So here’s the problem. Several times a week they call me before the last star has stop twinkling to catch up on the latest activities of their grandchildren. Actually, that’s not a problem. The problem is - Hmmm, I don’t even know what to call it. Here’s a typical conversation.
“Good morning, darling. It’s Mom.”
I glance at the clock glowing in the darkness on my nightstand. There are only three numbers on it. I groan and mumble. “Gudma.”
“And how are you on this beautiful day that the Lord has made?”
“Coffee. Need coffee. Pray for me.” She continues to talk while I brush my teeth, make my bed, and cook breakfast. I nod occasionally. After an hour, I’m coherent.
“Your father wants to know who won the game last night.”
“Amon’s team won. He scored ten points.”
“Amon won. He scored ten points,” she repeats to my father. I hear him say, “That’s great. How many rebounds did he get?”
“He wants to know how many rebounds he got?”
“Ten.”
“Ten,” she quotes proudly. I hear the rumble of my father’s voice again. “Your father wants to know if you’ve winterized your yard yet.”
“Yes, two weeks ago. Why don’t you put him on the phone?”
I wait impatiently for her to tell him, “Two weeks ago. Jimmy, she wants you to pick up the phone.” After a pause, I’m told, “He said he’ll call you later. He needs to feed the cows.”
“Okay. Hey Mama, the boys got good report cards. Junior brought that English grade back up.”
“He did! That’s wonderful! I’m going to send them both a surprise.” I hear Dad inquiring about the wonderful news. My mother recycles my words while I bang my head against the nearest wall. “Your father says to tell them that he’s proud of them and keep up the good work. He wants to know if you’ve had your oil changed.”
“Mama, why do you have to translate if we’re all speaking English? Tell Daddy to pick up the other phone or this conversation will last until dinner.”
“Oh, silly. Your father is busy. He’ll call you later… What? Honey, your father says to bring that ham he likes for Christmas brunch. He’ll pay for it.”
Sigh. “Yes, ma’am.”
As if that isn’t bad enough. When I call them and my father answers, he never even tells my mother that I called. Then I have to hear her complain, “We haven’t heard from you in six hours. You know I worry.”
“Mama, I talked to Daddy for thirty-seven seconds yesterday.”
“You did? Where was I?”
“I don’t know. It was around seven last night. I thought you were out.”
“He was talking to you? I was sitting next to him on the sofa. Well, you know he doesn’t like to talk on the phone…What? Hold on….Your father says send him a schedule of Amon’s games.”
“It’s in the mail. Mama I’m going to bed.”
“Are you ill? It’s only seven o’clock in the morning.”
“Yeah. I had jello, corn, and bacon for breakfast. Made my stomach hurt.”
“Jimmy! She said -“
Here we go again. See why I’m tired?

Five Things You Should Avoid Asking An Author

Friends, I have been going nonstop since last November promoting and marketing my book with bookstore signings, book club meetings, online/telephone chats, seminars, booths at conferences....I'm gone almost every weekend. I turned my oven on yesterday just to make sure it still works. I've been to twelve states and I've taken pictures with everybody and their mama. This is my third book so I know to expect certain things. For example, during a two-hour signing at Barnes & Noble, I will repeat the synopsis of my book 20-30 times. I don't mind. I will answer questions on every subject from my make-up to my age. I don't mind. My feet will hurt no matter what shoes I wear. That's life. I just wish people would not ask me the five following questions over and over and over again...
1. Is that you? (Pointing to my photo in the book.) You look different in person.
Answer: Thank you. With a lot of make-up and good lighting, you too can appear almost attractive. Sorry, to disappoint you with my age spots and wrinkles.

2. Is this a true story?
Answer: It is a novel. Novel means fiction. Fiction means I will not admit it has elements of truth, therefore, I will not subject myself to a potential lawsuit. And, I might actually have an imagination though it's hard to believe me after seeing that re-touched photo.

3. What do you do with your royalties/profits?
Answer: Why? I pay bills. What do you do with your paycheck?

4. Will you read my 800 page novel for free and tell me what you think I should change? Answer: First, that's called editing and people make a living doing that full-time. Honestly, I'd love to right after I write my next book, work at my day job, take care of my family, update my website, pay bills, go to church, tour at my own expense, do interviews, volunteer in the community and write press releases. Yes, I do want to help in any way I can, but I cannot give away my time. Most writers have another job for a reason. I recommend reading books on writing, going to workshops, taking classes, or hiring a writing coach. Invest in yourself. That's what I did. I'm not mean. I'm tired.

5. You should go on Oprah!
Answer: Oprah doesn't interview fiction writers with one self-published novel, but if you got a hook-up. Holla!

Vow of Silence

I took a vow of silence last week. Actually, it was more like a vow of low volume. It wasn't something I was planning to do. I was planning to carry on, as usual. I felt perfectly fine about my speech patterns until I heard this anger management specialist on one of the morning talk shows. He was discussing the harmful effects of yelling. According to him, it harms the yeller and the yellee.
He wasn't just "talking" about the subject mind you. He was using that pompous, pedigreed tone of voice experts employ to make themselves seem more intelligent. At one point, I imagined a perfect stranger taking his favorite pen out of his hand, whereupon he'd announce, "Now, that wasn't very nice was it?"
After they played a videotape of this maniac woman yelling at her kids for some petty offense, I realized I was that woman. Not all the time, but more often than necessary. Depending on my mood, I arbitrarily raise my voice in objection to rule violations my sons commit. Not only is this causing me medical problems like laryngitis; it is also undoubtedly making my children deaf. That has to be the reason they play their music so loudly, right?
So for their sake and mine, I made a vow to not yell about anything for an entire week.
On Sunday, my youngest son came home from church and allegedly changed clothes at my sincere and soft-spoken request. He put on a pair of droopy shorts with his dress shirt. He did not remove his black, silk Christmas socks. Then, he went outside and played basketball in his good shirt and holiday socks. I wanted to yell, but I didn't.
On Monday, my oldest son told me he had plenty of gas. On Tuesday, he asked for gas money. I wanted to scream, but instead, I gave him two dollars and advised him to take shortcuts.
On Wednesday when I told them to wash their hands for dinner, they did so over the cooked pasta draining in the sink. I had a baked potato and canned tuna. They said the spaghetti was great. I did not raise my voice even an octave.
On Thursday, someone forgot to remove their muddy shoes before entering the house and the kitchen floor looked like the course for a dirt bike race. I pointed to the mop and went to my room where I muffled a sound very similar to a scream with my pillow.
On Friday, I dropped a frozen chicken on my foot and hollered like I was on a thrill ride at Six Flags for a full minute. I don't care what that guy said, I felt so much better after that scream. Now, I certainly don't advocate yelling at your children -- though it seemed to work well for my mother – but I do believe you should engage in some type of activity each week that allows you to use all of your lung capacity.
By the way, I do not recommend dropping a frozen chicken on your foot. That really hurts.

Flags Are Not Flaws

I had an interesting evening last night. I met with a co-ed book club in Frisco which is FAR north of Dallas. I was looking forward to the meeting because I've only met with one other book club that was co-ed and the discussion was pretty tame. The title of my novel, When A Sistah's FED UP, makes most men have a knee jerk reaction that it's another "male bashing" book. One, it's not. I selected the title to appeal to the primary audience for romance novels which is females. Women purchase about 80f novels. However, all my characters have flaws because that's reflective of life as I know it. Can the couple grow with or around those flaws is the question?

Anyway, one brother launched an eloquent diatribe about how the divorce rate is not really related to communication problems as reported in most research. He believes people should make sure they're marrying the right person initially. There's some truth there: however, I married in my early twenties. My ex and I both changed a lot. I think a statement that concrete doesn't leave room for growth and change which, hopefully, occurs in the same direction, but not always. That's where communicating about expectations and disappointments comes into play. But, that's just my opinion.

I do believe you need to invest considerable time getting to know your prospective mate: make sure you share interests, core values, and goals at a minimum. However, I know personalities, goals, and feelings often change as family dynamics shift and saying "never" about anything is inviting temptation. So the gentleman goes on to talk about how we need to pay more attention to the red flags that pop up early in the relationship. I'll amen that. People will tell and show you who they are if you listen long enough. That new love and all consuming passion tends to make us blind to the flags, but they are often there. Another person suggested we go into relationships thinking we can change our partners' flaws. Yes, there are some cosmetic things we can work on, but you are what you are. Country boy. Princess. Perfectionist.

In my novel, the main characters are college sweethearts who get married young because the wife becomes pregnant. She gives up her career aspirations to raise the children, but later returns to college, then, law school, and eventually becomes Mayor of a mid-sized Texas City. So, the group agreed the fact Mayor Henry was in college pursuing a degree should have been a big red flag to her husband who really wanted a homemaker like his more traditional mother. Does he really have a right to resent her ambitious nature?

For most of the very polite meeting- (most book clubs spend a lot of time screaming their opinions)-, I was whispering with the nice lady next to me as we commented on the others' observations. Meanwhile, this red flag debate was getting heated. There were the usual comments about women having unrealistic expectations for a potential mate. These remarks came from males and females to my surprise. True, some women AND men have a laundry list that's a bit too long when it comes to finding a partner. Most mature adults are willing to tolerate the imperfections (flaws) in their loved ones because they know they, too, have areas of weakness.
After three hours of point-counterpoint, the woman next to me said the most profound thing I've heard during my entire book tour this summer. She said, "Flags are not flaws." That's deep. I tend to agree.
Until,
Moe

Depression City

This column, well allegory really, was published in 1998 when I was a columnist for a major daily in my area. The response I got from readers across the country was overwhelming. Hundreds of emails and letters. In retrospect, this was the beginning of my idea to write a novel with the theme of spiritual anorexia. To my amazement, I still get request for copies of this editorial so I thought I'd share it again - just in case someone out there might be helped by it.

Depression City
In a perfect world, everyone would live in a suburb of Contentment, in the city of Happiness, but this is not a perfect world. On the outskirts of Happiness, in the valley of the shadow of death, is another city--dark city where the sun genuflects and defers to the cool, pale rays of the moon. It is a colorless city filled with colorless people wearing blinders while struggling to pull huge carriages filled with troubles, heartache, and pain. No one is actually from there and no one should be there for long.
Most of the residents of this city don’t even know where they are or precisely how they came to be there. Lost inside their own skin, they vainly search to find themselves, to find a way out. Far too many residents of this eerie place drown in a bottomless lake of tears. That is remarkable when one considers that in this city, Depression it is called, everyone cries alone.
I have been to this city.
I have been there with friends and family for a few days as we mourned the death of a loved one. I have been there alone for days that became weeks when geographical isolation and my own personal insulation deceived me into thinking that joy was meant to be shared, while sadness was meant to be hidden behind a smile that never reached my eyes. Believe me when I tell you, this place is very bad. If you have not been there, don’t be so harsh in your judgment of those who reside there. They would gladly leave if they only knew how. It’s easy to find but it’s so hard to leave. I wish I knew why. There is certainly nothing appealing about Depression.
The food is tough and tasteless. The air is always cold and heavy. Sounds are muted and a loving touch often feels like a jab from a boxer’s glove. It’s a strange, awful place. Yet people often remain there for years. Some even build mansions where they store their payload of disappointment and guard it zealously with insecurity.
So you might be thinking, “What do all these people have to be so sad about? They’ve got jobs, families, and food on the table. They just need to deal with it and move on.” Well, like the saying goes, your blues ain’t like mine. We all react differently to the various stresses of life. Some people need a little help to “deal with it.” Help might be in the form of a physician, a counselor, or a good friend with a big shoulder.
Asking for help is not a sign of weakness. When you’ve lost your way, you need guidance, like a map. Once you’re back in familiar territory, store the map or discard it completely. But you’ve got to get out of there as quickly as possible. The longer you stay, the harder it is to leave.
My plea is to the millions of people who suffer from depression, but if only one of them heeds my advice, my plea is not in vain. Get help. You can feel better. Believe me. I know.
I have been to this city.
www.drmoeanderson.com

Where's Daddy?

As a little girl, I remember leaping from my Princess bed early in the morning,before the alarm sounded. Actually, the alarm was my mother yelling, “Get up, Pumpkin! It’s time for school.” So, before Mama hollered, I raced to the bathroom, brushed my twenty teeth, then rushed to my parents’ room looking for my daddy. Daddy was coaching then. Between scouting, teaching, and coaching several sports, he frequently came home after my 9 o’clock bed time. Just as often, he was already gone when I awakened in the morning. But if I hurried, every now and then, I would catch him before he left for work. In my parents’ bedroom, I looked for his whistle and watch on the dresser. If they were gone, I skipped down the stairs to the kitchen. Usually, I’d see the sports pages folded neatly on the table next to his empty cup of coffee. I knew it was his cup. No lipstick. Idon’t know why Mama put lipstick on to drink coffee.
Standing in the kitchen, feeling the coolness from the linoleum seep between my toes, I listened for the sounds of my daddy - his voice or his laughter. But, all I heard was my mother humming in the bathroom, applying more lipstick, I suppose. Finally, I would walk to the front door looking for Daddy’s muddy shoes. No shoes. No signs of daddy.
“Mama, is Daddy gone?”
“Yes, Sweetie. He said to have a good day and he left your lunch money by the coffee pot.”
In our neighborhood, daddies worked and they worked hard. Many of them had two jobs or more. If we spotted a dad during the week day, we knew he was either laid off or very, very ill. Weekends were different. Then, we saw fathers everywhere -mowing, playing dominoes, and cooking on the grill. Come Monday, they were all but extinct, leaving only inanimate traces of their existence. Things are different now. We have stay-at-home dads. Men who turn down promotions and positions that require excessive time and travel away from home. I know fathers who have taken maternity leave along with their wives. I think that's awesome Yet, I realize these options are not available for everyone no matter how badly some men might want to be home with their families.
There are mortgages, tuition, and taxes to pay. There are cars and insurance premiums or huge medical bills for families without health insurance. Gifts and uniforms. Fieldtrips and braces.
Oh yes, mothers make these sacrifices too. So do grandparents who should have retired years ago. As an adult, I now realize the world is not as black and white as I once believed. These are complex problems with no immediate solutions for many Americans. Some people want to live luxuriously, but others just want their lights on one more night. They work sun up to sun down simply to make ends meet. When they do, month after month, and year after year, that’s a sure sign of their love and devotion.
Hmmm. That’s all. No moral to this story. Just thinking about my pop and all the hard working daddies out there doing the best they can with their available resources. Hang in there. You are missed, but greatly appreciated. Love ya, Daddy!

Book Tours

Book tours are highly overrated. Yeah, you get to meet folks like Dana Owens, aka Queen Latifah---after standing in long lines to get their autographs when you're at the same event. But when it's your turn to be on the other side of the table, the lines are a lot shorter. Okay, there are no lines. And the stress level is a lot higher. I don't know how on earth some authors have time to do these blogs daily or weekly. I barely get to eat daily. This month alone I've been to D.C. twice, Maryland, Newark, New York, Dallas and I think I went home one night, but that could have been a dream. In Owings Mills, MD I sold so many books I had to go get some more from the trunk of the rental car. Then, there was the book store in Baltimore where I talked to fifty people and sold six books in two of the longest hours of my life. The manager said it was only five, but I counted. It was six.
My ankles swell from standing for hours, passing out book marks that people throw on the ground as soon as they're out of my view. And my hearing is permanently damaged from the fluctuating cabin pressure in "da plane, da plane!" I'm on my third set of luggage. Suitcases don't like books it seems.
But when the coveted Essence Bestseller list came out at the beginning of May, I was on it. Self-published, unknown, exhausted me right there on the same page with Alice Walker, Walter Mosley, and Bebe Moore Campbell. At #6, I didn't quite make the printed version of the magazine which stops at five, but I was on the online list of the top ten.
Maybe it's a fluke, I tell myself. If all these people are buying my book, why am I standing in the hall at the mall in front of a bookstore begging someone, anyone to listen to a brief synopsis of my book? I'll tell you why. I write because I breathe and I breathe because I eat. If I don't eat, I can't write, and if I don't sell all those books in my garage, I can't buy food. It's a vicious cycle. But I'm chasing an elusive dream and I can't run fast...if I don't eat. I love being a writer, fat ankles and all.

Never Give Up

Guys, I can't tell you how disappointed I was when I logged on for an online chat this week and there was only one other person in the chat room. I logged on a little early so I wasn't too concerned at first. But fifteen minutes later, there were still only two of us. That's like having one guest show up at your birthday party after you invited your entire fifth grade class. I was humiliated. I sent out at least sixty emails inviting friends and readers to join the chat. My friends sent out emails. The website hosting the chat had been promoting it for a month. I mean, I know I'm not famous or anything, but dang, I thought my mother, sister, and boyfriend would log on and pretend to be loyal, avid readers of my books.
Yep, it was just me and someone named Zawadi. Me and gender-neutral Zawadi in very small font on my monitor. Two blue names in a square white sea. Me and anonymous Zawadi and I didn't really count because I had to be there.
Zawadi is an unusual name, I thought. I must have a guest from overseas. I decided that's equal to five Americans. I had to console myself between the screams in my head and that equation seemed to work.
So Z. and I chatted about the book. Turns out Zawadi is a she who hadn't read my novel, but she liked the title. Great. I can't say much about the plot anyway because it's romantic suspense, but it's really tough when all you can do is give a synopsis and try not to ask personal questions. It's not like you're IM'ing with a friend, after all. After what seemed like nine hours, but was actually twenty minutes, the founder of the website who also moderates the discussion joined us. She said the server was down and no one could log on. Zawadi and I got on just before the server crashed. Ever feel like it's raining on you and you alone? Turns out this catastrophe had NEVER happened in like 9 million forums. Ain't I the lucky one? So I forgave my friends and family in my heart while the moderator sent out an email to her members giving them an alternate way to log on. Eventually, we had eight or nine folks. Nice, but not the millions I was hoping for. (So I'm an optimist.) We did have a good discussion and guess what? It so happens Zawadi is a very famous multi-published author and a publisher. http://www.zawadibooks.com
I'm self-published so you know I was thrilled with that last title.
Just goes to show why you should always give 110% 'cause goodness knows my first inclination was to log off and pretend I forgot the thing was scheduled. I typed away for an hour and I did my best to keep it interesting and lively even though I wanted to cry because the turn out was so small. I'm so glad Mama taught me to finish what I start. Next day, I had fifty emails from friends and readers telling me they tried and tried to get into the chat. Oh well. Y'all hang in there. One out of a million is okay - if it's the right one.

A Rainy Night in Texas

Well, actually, that's a sunny day in Shreveport, Texas. I was there last weekend for the Romance Slam Jam Conference. My mother and I went. It was her birthday. I won't say how old she is, but she looks great. I suppose it wasn't much of a present to take her to a writing conference, but that's all I had. She enjoyed it. (She said.) We went to this park by the river and it was lovely. I wish the weather was warm and dry tonight. It has rained nine inches and it hasn't stopped. A block from my home, the rain in the river that used to be a creek is French kissing the bank. I expect it to be in the street by morning if we don't get a pardon from the sky very soon. My sense of panic rises with each raindrop. Flash flood warnings are being broadcast nonstop. They've warned us not to drive unless we have to. If the rain reaches the end of my cul-de-sac, driving is not an option. My oldest son is home from college so we have another vehicle to load with as many belongings as possible in the event we must evacuate. I don't think I have flood insurance because it hasn't flooded here in a hundred years. I read my policy but it's a bunch of gibberish. I see water damage but nothing about floods. I was rushed to ER from the office on Wednesday because of stabbing chest pains. Now this. We've moved some electronic stuff upstairs and put chairs on the tables. I'm sure it's unnecessary but I keep thinking of Katrina and how some of those folks might have thought the water wouldn't come through the levees. Then again, some people did know; they knew a lot more than they (fore)told. Perhaps someone hasn't told me everything about the river that once was a creek - the brown water rapids less than a football field away from my precious photo albums. I've packed medicine, my laptop, a few clothes, my Bible, and a check my son got for his birthday. Fifty dollars seemed like an enormous amount of money when he received that check. My deductible is gonna laugh at fifty dollars. That's the deductible for the insurance I might not have. Hmmm. I need to check the news. I dunno why I'm doing this now. It's been a month since I blogged. I guess I'm nervous. I usually clean when I'm nervous.
Surely the water won't come this far...Will it?

"Passengers must avoid carrying things without their knowledge."
For some reason, I begin to laugh hysterically. I'm at the airport, of course, when I hear this announcement. I'm on my way to another booksigning in Denver, or is it Missouri, or Austin? I dunno. It's the weekend so I'm going wherever every other tired person at Gate 2 is going. Anyway, they make this announcement several times. They keep reminding us not to leave our luggage unattended. I wonder how you can avoid doing something without your knowledge. Where's Freud when you need him? Not that I want to talk to a dead guy, but I bet he'd know.
I think about looking in my carryon to see if I have something I didn't have knowledge of having. I'm sure there's a stray nickel or an old luggage tag in there. Does that count? In fact, there are several cards and scraps of paper in my wallet I haven't looked at in years. Expired memberships. Frequent diner cards. Old receipts. I don't know what they are anymore. Do they count if I have no knowledge of what they say, but I know they exist in a relative, cosmic sense?
"Avoid carrying things without their knowledge." Whose knowledge? I know about my medicine but do the pills know about me? Can they see anything through that brown bottle? Should I introduce myself? Hello migraine pills. I'm Moe. I swallowed your friends but don't hate me. I'm truly sorry. Let's be friends.
And what if someone put something in my carryon I had no knowledge of but I open it and discover some previously unknown entity. Now I'm knowledgable. Will they arrest me if I tell someone in security? Ignorance is bliss I think.
I leave my bag zipped and continue laughing. The man next to me stands and walks away shaking his head. There's a stain on his pants. I bet he has no knowledge of it. Hmmm.