I have NOTHING, yet I have EVERYTHING!

Maybe blogging isn't what I should do when I feel so down and out. But I have to get my feelings out somehow. To whoever isn't blinded for hate and/or disgust with me, whoever who will listen, whoever will have some type of empathy, sympathy, or compassion that I am just so tired of this life.

No, I am not suicidal: I'm not so tired of life that I would ever end it all, but giving up seems like a relief, a respite, and a haven for my clearly broken spirit. To not care is not to worry. Not to worry, is being happy. At least that's what the formula equates in my mixed up mind.

Lately, I just don't know what will become of me or my life. I just don't know. It seems the harder I try to get on track, the harder I fall of the track. Hell, it feels like the track is falling on me.

I have always been an honest person. In fact, too honest. I just wish sometimes that I had no heart, no feelings. Life would be so much easier. I wish I didn't care at all, because I care too much. If I didn't care so much, perhaps I wouldn't hurt so bad.

Is it possible to be unhappy about every aspect of your life while still be thankful for the life you do have? I think so. Although I feel like my life is a boring hollow shell of no purpose or significance whatever, it could be a whole lot worse. I think I am just depressed from the resulting stressors of my life. Like, why can't I do better. I want to do better, but it seems impossible sometimes. What's worse is that I know people who are supposedly close to me, dismiss me as immature, irresponsible, too emotional, too opinionated, too outspoken, etc. As I write this, I stumbled onto this Bible verse that sums it up:

2 Corinthians 6:6-10

New International Version 1984 (NIV1984)

⁶ in purity, understanding, patience and kindness; in the Holy Spirit and in sincere love; ⁷ in truthful speech and in the power of God; with weapons of righteousness in the right hand and in the left; ⁸ through glory and dishonor, bad report and good report; genuine, yet regarded as impostors; ⁹ known, yet regarded as unknown; dying, and yet we live on; beaten, and yet not killed; ¹⁰ sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; poor, yet making many rich; having nothing, and yet possessing everything.

Astonishing! I have absolutely NOTHING: almost twelve years at the same exact job with just about NOTHING to show for it. NO man, haven't had a man to call my own in nearly a decade. I would die for a man who wasn't ashamed to love me and be with me and seen with me, who accepts me for who I am. Let alone ever having had a relationship, ever, that I could be proud of or introduce to my family. I have NO beautiful children, a legacy to call my own. Every day I daydream about holding and loving babies of my very own, no matter how much I say I don't want the challenge of children. I don't have a huge circle of friends. I have no financial savvy. Barely making it due especially to life's unexpected or rather, expensive trials, and people wonder why, as if I live in a college degree possessing two-income household. Although I think I have nothing, I am truly learning what it means to expect suffering as a Christian. In the end, somehow, I'm going to be a stronger, better person. I think this is why I still have faith in God.

That said, I am slowly coming to the realization that I have EVERYTHING. I HAVE had the same job for over a decade, I have my health, all my five senses, a roof over my head, although most other people would suffocate in a cozy apartment the size of mine. I have all of my extremities and they're all in fine working order. The Lord allows me to swing my legs over the edge of my bed and get up to start another day. Better than that, He allows me to live a new life and gives me a new opportunity to start over at the beginning of the next day after a night of sleep, or no sleep. I have a wonderful family, although they may not like me all of the time and I often feel like the out-of-place black sheep. There have been times that I've wondered if I'm going to make it at all but the Lord has pulled me through every rough time. I feel like kicking my very own backside for not having more faith sometimes. I'm not sure if it's my own human ignorance/stupidity or Satan very hard at work. Either way, I'm making a concerted effort to have the strongest faith possible, water-tight and immune from fear, worrying, and uncertainty.

In closing, I hope you pray for me as I would pray for you. Perhaps someone else who gets depressed about the inevitable stresses of life, or the undesirable path their life has taken, will take something from my words and not only relate to me, but most of all, partake of the truth, yet the sheer goodness and the comfort of the Bible verses from Second Corinthians that I included. Through my sorrow, I am also very rejoiceful. Although I have many, many tears of disappointment, I am also happy for who I am. I've been beaten, but I'm still here. We must have faith. We must trust in GOD. I do, at least really working on it, and I hope you are too.

I am not my hair.....seriously....for real though!!!!

Last night, I had an intense hairgasm. No lie. I felt vibrant tingling radiating from my brain through each hair follicle. All I could do is lean my head back as I sat on the couch and let my my eyes roll in the back of my head as I closed them, a lazy smile forming on my lips. "Did some man come over and deeply and tenderly massage her scalp?" you may be asking yourself. "Did she get a hold of some groundbreaking hair conditioner that hasn't hit the market yet?" you might ponder. None of the above. I simply cut a sew-in weave out of my head, by myself, and never have I felt more proud, more liberated. You see, my sister got married to the man of her dreams a little over a week ago. Of course I had to look spectacular, being the maid of honor and all. When our descendants are looking at these hundreds of digital photos years from now, I'm going to need for them to say "Aunt Charmin/C.J./Mommy/Grandma was a FOX! She was HOT STUFF back in her day!" And of course, in the eyes of some (particularly black folks), a woman just isn't as beautiful if she doesn't have some Remy (read: long flowing hair) down her back. It took me a while to decide which way I wanted to go regarding my hair for the wedding: I was torn between completely chopping it off into a cute Halle Berry-type style and a weave. Believe it or not, I have been anti-weave for quite some time. But wanting to make a splash for the wedding: and did I mention, pictures and a chance to wear makeup and really doll up, I went the route that I usually don't take. So, I did it. After much discussion with some of my family and friends, I opted for the weave route. I almost excitedly called the hairdresser and arrived for my appointment a week later with nearly a hundred dollars worth of weave in my hands. And after a few more dollars, I was pretty much initially pleased with the end result a couple of days before the wedding:

And, another preliminary shot I sent out to my sister and a couple of other friends to see if it met their approval:

And from the stunned recipients were "Wow" and "Ooooh, I love it!" and "Nice!" So to avoid the "sore head" associated with the sewing in of weave onto your own head, I opted to get my hair done Thursday, a couple of days before the Saturday wedding. Nicely enough, the hairdresser threw a few curls in on the morning of the wedding:

Guests at the wedding who hadn't seen me in the while would say "oh, you look so nice" and actually "you're beautiful!" Which was to be expected. After all, I'm not a half bad looking chick in the first place and I had a nice rare faceful of carefully applied makeup. But what really got my goat is what happened after the wedding. Glad that all the preparation was finally over, I went on about my merry way and enjoyed a couple days off, ran errands, all that boring type of stuff. While out and about, I got something that I usually don't get unless I make an effort. Some "holla." Holla, you ask me? (Black) men were making it a point to wave at me and took time to say hello. Something else that usually never happens, happened. A nice-looking brotha driving a bright red car with Kentucky plates pulled up right alongside me. Given that it's hot as hell, windows on both our cars were up. He gazes at me for a moment, smiles broadly, and puts his hand up to his ear in a gesture "can I call you?" he mouths. Then I do something that folks aren't going to believe I did. Even a part of me still can't believe I did it. I smile back at the guy, point at an imaginary ring on my left hand, tell him sorry. He shrugged in a friendly manner, smiled again, and waved goodbye. "Wow Charmin, you're an idiot. No wonder you're single," some of you may think. And trust me, for a moment, I did feel like some type of irrational idiot for letting a potential hottie drive on down MLK out of my sight. But you've got to understand. What the guy was looking at, what all the other guys are looking at, is my hair. I can't help but to think, would he have even paid me one bit of attention had I not had the Remy weave cascading and loose around the tops of my shoulders? Forgive me, I'm going through some kind of something in my life right now where I don't want a significant other or children because I'm selfish right now: but when I do want a guy to pursue me, I want it because he is enthralled with my natural self: and not by a fifty-dollar pack of hair that I bought from one of the Asians, as mentioned in Chris Rock's movie "Good Hair." I want for a man to accept me completely for who I am, what I am, in my most natural, purest form. And someone may think, why would that even make a difference? And nobody more than me knows why it, hair, would make a difference. For as long as I can remember, I have had a hate-hate relationship with my hair. The same could probably be said for many, many black American women. I think if you asked me as a child "would you like for your family to be rich forever" or "would you like to have long hair for awhile," you better believe I would've picked the latter. I remember being a child and tying a small short or other item of clothing on my head and pretending it was my hair. I remember playing with Barbie, wishing so deeply that my hair could look like hers. Not necessarily blond, but just long and swingy. Not short and kinky as mine was and always has been. One thing I learned early, dudes dig chicks with long hair, no matter how plain or ugly or otherwise lacking they may be. Through school, through the years, the wish remained the same. Worst of all was the junior high years. Imagine the pain that was mine in seventh grade. Not only was I flat-chested, skinny as a beampole, and horribly shy, my hair was the result of overprocessing, jerry curling, pressing and hot combing.....and last but not least, pure genetics. Apparently, I have two parents with kinky hair, so to expect my hair to come out bone-straight and flowing was kind of ridiculous, and I knew that even as the bright and above-average kid that I was. So, teasing was inevitable. I am one of those unfortunate folks who didn't forget the bullying and remarks made to me decades. As I sit here thinking about it, I know it would take me too much time to list each remark made to me about my hair through the years that hurt my feelings. Not amazingly, most of all these stinging comments were made by black peers, some adults, and even family at times. I was one of those kids who just wanted to be friends with everyone, just wanted to get along. That didn't stop the mean-spirited girls at Princeton from using me as a target for their insecurities. Of course, I didn't know that then. One girl came up with a rhyme about Apple Jacks and Charmin not having no hair in the back and another girl in high school snuck up behind me and sprayed something in my hair. To that day, I don't know if it was moisturizer, detangler, who knows. All I remember is some of the class laughing because they apparently were in the joke and since I was so non-confrontational at the time, I don't think I even turned around to confront my bully and break her neck like I would have these days. I simply reached for a tissue or napkin to wipe whatever-it-was out of my hair. Mind you, I never personally did anything or say anything to provoke this type of treatment from these mean girls. Just my existence seemed to give them a reason to attack me. I was clearly NOT one of the preferred light-skinned, long hair prototypes who were the popular, the prized, as I quickly learned. But even back then, what I coudn't understand is why these black kids hated me? Simply for not having long hair? Jumping back and forth as I usually do, did I mention that I saw the "hair sprayer" at my sister's wedding?!?!? I admit that I felt some kind of way about this tormentor from long ago, who obviously knows someone that my sister or her new husband knows, getting an up-close glimpse of a special intimate time in my family's life. She requested me once upon a time on FB, I accepted so she could see how fly I am these days, but then she got rid of me, thanks to my tongue that easily offends people. I hope she was, and I hope she was even more offended of how good I looked at the wedding and how close and wonderful my family is. And that I recovered from her hairspray attack quite beautifully. I know that seemed unnecessary: but maybe give the reader a glimpse into how such insecurity about hair is created, where it starts, and who it starts with. Because of the unaccustomed admiration and attention that my weave brought me, I started to have hard feelings toward it. How could I ever be proud of something that's not actually growing out of my own head? Not only that, good Lord, was my hair braided as tightly as it had ever been. Not good for someone who's a tenderhead in the first place. The hair sewed to my hair in tracks became one of the most unnatural, uncomfortable experiences I've ever had. The hairdresser certainly did her job, nice and kind as she was, she was also just as efficient. This weave was sewn in tightly and it wasn't going anywhere. As she kindly, but tightly dealt with my head, she reminded me that it could last up to three months and that I can wash it was I would my own hair. Initially, I'm all like "great," because she was so nice and professional. However, a week later, after a week of pushing strands of probably what's some poor Asian woman's hair out of my eyes, out of my face, feeling like I have a helmet on my head, feeling humidity between the sew-in and my scale, and worst of all, the sew-in pulling the edges of my hair so tightly it caused so much pain, itching, and even a smidge of bleeding from my scratching for relief, I had a choice to make. It was either go back to the hairdresser and pay her to take it out, have a friend take it out or.........(cue scary violin music) take it out myself!!!! And this is where I learned a small, but important lesson, that I can do anything if I simply put my mind to it.....or get fed up about it first.

I am smiling because that is the first moment that the dreadful weave was out of my hair, my scalp was taking its first hits of oxygen it had within a week, and I was feeling that blissful tingly feeling all over. It was if my hair, all crinkled from the loosened braids, was collectively saying thank you, oh thank you.......and in turn, I apologized to my hair for traumatizing it in that way. Sounds silly, but I did. After work, I just couldn't take it anymore. I was tired of my edges being pulled on, tired of the irritation that is still there at this moment. I took a small sharp kitchen knife and some scissors and went to town,carefully cutting tracks and the thread that held the hair to my head for the last week. I was so excited and elated by the process that I accidentally sliced my own finger a little chopping and hacking away at the hair. I promised myself at that moment that never again would I have a weave glued, sewn in, braided, or added to my head in any manner. I spend the remaining two hours last night running my fingers through my hair, savoring the texture and the shortness of it, just feeling so good that I had gotten rid of that weave. I thought to myself, a good washing and conditioning would complete this process, but I just sat there and enjoyed and appreciated my hair as it was, something I can't say I've ever really done in my life. Thanks to society, thanks to teasing, bullying, and insecurity. It felt so good: the way my scalp breathed with relief and the way I felt about myself in general, that I've reached a place in my life that I'm so comfortable with myself, how I look, and who I am.

Needless to say, I had the best night of sleep that I've had in about a couple of weeks, and woke up running fingers through my still crinkled, napped-up-from sleep hair. While showering and shampooing my hair, quite a few strands came out and it worried me a bit, the casualties of war of the slow and deadly assault of human, yet FAKE hair. Who would ever know that a sew-in could be so damaging? Lesson learned: if it has to be added as an enhancement, it probably ain't right. Nor healthy. All I can think of is how much discomfort I'd be in and how much damaged I would've caused if I would've left that overpriced rat's nest in my head until October, let alone another week or two. Which brings me to the whole natural thang. To go natural or not to go natural? Wa-lll, there's no perms in my head for a while, thanks to the scabs and irritation still healing around my edges. Even so, this is the first time in life I'm not breaking my neck in attempt to apply my montly dosage of creamy crack. Progress takes time, I suppose. I think in time, I might be still hesitant on going natural, but a short cut is definitely in my future. I shall keep you posted, thanks for listening. Maybe you too, can save your scalp from weave today. I am not my hair. It is so much more than a song. It is a way of life. I am just glad that I'm at a level of self-acceptance that sets me apart from those who need weave to feel like a beautiful person. Seriously. For real though!

At a standstill in the crossroads......

I am really at a standstill in the crossroads of life.....

After having been thirty-four years of age for two weeks, not much has happened.

In fact, not much has been happening at all for the last year or so :)

It seems to be happening to everyone else: degrees, new homes, engagements, marriages, pregnancies.........and I'm very proud to say that I have finally gotten over it, that all of these high-powered, high-importance events haven't happened to me yet. Although that doesn't mean that I still don't wonder.

But I know I'm simply not ready. Not sure even at my age, that I truly have the maturity and patience needed for all of that.

However, I'm trying to figure out what I'm ready for, if I need to be ready for anything at all.

School....ehhhh......don't know if I really want to go back. Mainly, because I don't know what to go back for. I'm totally at a loss. Not particularly upset about it though.

A relationship? Only with someone special. I'm glad that I'm finally embracing my single status as well. A man doesn't and has never made me.

Sometimes I just sit in my little queendom, stare off into space, and truly wonder what's going to happen next.

Best of all, I trust in God. I trust that He will take me to where I need to be, when I need to get there.

A single, kinda bitter woman's anti-valentine's day ramblings

I just about can't do Facebook today. Just this never ending newsfeed sea of pink and red, flowers and bears, vomit and bullshit. A wise friend said earlier, it's alllll a catty contest of competition amongst us ladies.

It's like some stupid contest "Loookit what I got! Ain't him so great" Would you still love this man just as much if you were empty-handed today? What if he were broke. Do you take him for granted every other day of the year? Hmmm, I wonder. And I wonder how many gentlemen were bullied into buying gifts today.

It's a day where all who are in relationships act like it's all good, all the time, like nothing ever goes wrong, and look down their noses at the single. 



I think I can honestly say is that even if I were in a relationship, I'd still hate Valentine's day. It's just too sickening, sappy, saccharine, and FAKE.

How many of these folks posting their declarations of love and gifts they've received, will be crying in their beer this time next month?

I know, I know, I sound so bitter. Maybe even hateful to some. But it's overkill. The more I try to not acknowledge this day, the more it seems to engulf my space and appear out of random places.

You judgmental know-at-alls

Someone recently told me on Facebook: "you certainly do talk about men a lot."

Yes, I do. Your problem with that is??????

What the hell am I supposed to be talking about? Global warming? What happened in the stock market today? Sorry, I am not a scientist, environmentalist, nor business woman. I'm not even close to earning a college degree. So stop expecting the whole entire world out of me. Yes, I am extremely intelligent and hard-working, but damn, I cannot please all of you judgmental know-it-alls. There's only one true judge, and that's God. Not you.

I am a single black woman over thirty without children. I want children and marriage someday. Men are ALL I talk about it. I'm heterosexual as a woman can get. They intrigue me, they fascinate me, anger me, confuse me, and turn me on. I love them and I hate them. Get used to it, adjust the settings in your brain. Better yet, get over it. I guess they just expect me to be happy with being alone and going without sex. Don't question why things they way they are, just be happy, just be complacent, don't talk about it.

You know, where do people get off thinking they have any control over what anyone else says or does? It irks my nerves more than I know it should.

I will continue to give my thoughts and theories about men. Don't like it? Don't read it.

Sincerely, the Queen of Charminland.