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It is never as easy as they say…

I have heard it said that “All things are possible with love”.  Well, I am going to tell you, in my life, right now, love is making everything impossible.  Exhale.  For those of you that know me, you know that I write regularly about fashion, relationships, and all things that most women would want to read about.  I also, under a pseudonym, author a very steamy, sexy blog.   Oh, I left out successful.  Or at least it was.

You see, I was able to draw a lot of inspiration from my moments with The One, and I could translate that into sexy, steamy tales that make even the most flaccid man salute.  But as we became more and more serious, I had a hard time taking our most private moments, and putting them out there for all of the world to see.  We talked about it, and he had NO problem at all with it.  I even at one point took a story from real life, and used it, and got rave reviews.  Of course, that confirmed what I already knew, that we had a great sex life.  But then, in my ridiculous mind, I began to wonder.  How far can I go?  How much can I push, and at what point does my writing become just sex, and the reality and fantasy all crash and become one huge blur?  And, if indeed this were to be even a remote possibility, is it something that I want to chance?  No.  It is not.  So for the sake of love, true love, I put our relationship, our intimate moments at least, away for only he and I to know about.  The result?  My complete inability to write.  About sex.

Thinking that I would just reach into a corner of my mind where perhaps an old encouter resided, I dove into a place, and pulled out a sexy man I once   knew.  I was able to pen the entire story, the meeting, the kiss, the eye contact, every single thing that happened, until I got to the sex.  COMPLETE BLOCK.  I went so far as to send it to The One and ask him how he felt, and again he was fine with it.  I believe I even said for him to finish it, or write an outline, and I would get creative and fill in the pieces.  Of course he did not, because he, unlike me, has some sort of sanity.  Certain that one day I will find a way to overcome this problem, I vowed to myself that I will just love him daily, and let our relationship be the main focus.  And I start to think lately, that I can so do this.

And then, when it could not get any worse, it does.  Love, once again goes and destroys everything.  Not his love.  The other love, from family.  My family somehow discovers my sex blog.  My dirty porn blog, where I use words that would get me a one way ticket to hell.  Where  men do things to “me” that they had no idea people even thought of, much less their own daughter.  This all occurs at some ungodly hour of the night too, when I am not even at my best to think of what to say.

I get a text message from my sister, with a picture of her computer screen on my blog.  She then sends a scathing message, expressing her disgust and disappointment in the whole thing.  I reply to her that she needs to calm down, its writing, not reality.  Too late, my parents have seen it, and my cousins and family that is at the house, having all gone there after the family reunion.  It is now complete and total chaos.  My phone wont stop ringing, and I don’t know what to do.

This story could go on forever, and it will, but in the end, my sister said she read it.  She had to.  If its real, and I do the things in the blog, she said I am disgusting, but if it is truly fiction, she said she is my biggest fan, and it should be book, then a movie.  She did try to explain it to my mother, and I don’t even know how that went.

Why?  Because I don’t care.  After feeling like shit since Sunday night (it is now Tuesday), I have come to the conclusion of just not caring what anyone has to say.  I am 39 years old.  I am surely no saint, but I am not alone in my transgressions.  Maybe I am far to comfortable in my usage of the words dick, fuck, sex, etc, but that has never been a secret.  I have been spending way too much time in making every single person around me happy, and I have been miserable for MONTHS.  My sacrifices have been monumental, with my rewards being pale in comparison.  While I am sure there will be much mental stuff to overcome for me to get back to the level that I was at with my blog (the other one, I mean, how easy will it be to write about someone being inside of you, pounding away, with the lurking thought that your uncle, cousin, brother or oh my god father! can be reading it?) but I have to do it.

As for The One, and his influence on my other blog, well, it was getting better, and hopefully in the end, it will be just one more thing I reach out for, pick up, turn and put it behind me on this road.



Excuse me, but I believe this label is wrong!!

I am a labeler.  Everything and everyone has a label….even the people in my life.  I guess in a strange way, it is just one more way for me to keep order and control in my world.  As far as relationships go, the only three labels that I recognize are Married, Engaged, or Single.  Anything else, really has never counted.  So when I find that the event that I am going to be attending at the Copacabana is being dubbed as the “hottest and biggest SINGLE event” I am not quite sure how I feel.  If you read my blog, you know that I have the Live In, and The One.  But, looking down at my ring finger, there is no commitment-indicative bauble.  That my friends, makes me Single, and quite eligible to attend.  With a bit of trepidation, I don myself in “single girl” attire and make sure that I have every hair in place and off we go.

Ok, so it was really not that easy for me.  My day had been long, and I really did not feel like I wanted to be out, and about, and especially be ON and social.  I had not seen The One since Friday, the Live In has me pulling my hair out of my head, and I am walking into a singles event, potentially exposing myself to MORE men that I wont have any patience for.  Even if it is the beginning mixers of Fashion Week, I do NOT want to be here.

Once we get to the club, we are whisked right in, and I make a bee line to the DJ booth.  I want to find everyone I know, map out the place and be comfortable.  I notice a few people that matter, at least to the rest of the world and decide I need a drink.  Before I forget, I am wearing all black.   A black short dress, with a low hipster belt, total 70’s throwback.  Black suede over-the-knee boots.  Little bit of silver, but the goal here is to NOT stand out, or draw any attention to myself. So I am standing at the bar with my friend (who is one of the twins that I am with) and we order our drinks, and then it starts.  “Hello Ladies”.  Seriously?  “Hi” my friend says back, and I am really not in the mood for this.  They are starting to talk, and after a whole three minutes, and two sips of my drink, I say that I am going back up to the DJ area.  The guy goes “You know the DJ?” like he was impressed.  And really, I am not feeling it, so I go “I fucking know everyone!” and I walk away.  I heard my friend saying “Sorry, sorry!” as she was walking away, and I am totally not caring AT ALL.

She catches up with me, and tells me that I need to calm the f*** down seriously.  At this point we are all together, and one of my friends informs me that I need to look around, the world is full of eligible men, and we have a serious upper hand here.  I give a look just enough to get to her eyes and I tell her that I don’t care about everyone here, I am NOT interested, I just do not want to be there.  And I tell her that, actually, I am not even single.  That creeps out of my mouth like I almost had to convince myself of it, although I did believe it. Ugh.  This is going south quickly.  She takes my hand, and goes “Nope, SINGLE!!”  I am really frigging pissed off now.   Because no matter how you slice it, I am going to have to bend.  Either my label is wrong, or I am indeed single.  So like a typical bitch, my dear friend says “Ask him, ask The One if HE thinks your single.  I will bet you $100.00 that he says you are.  And when he does, you will stop being so F****** uptight, and relax and enjoy yourself”.  Regardless of anything I think, or feel at this moment, and with no reasoning behind it, I am sure and certain that if I ask The One if I am single, he is going to say NO.  Without really thinking I say “Fine” and I text him the question.

His response is “No”. WOO HOO!!  But, of course, my friend says “Ok, thats not fair, because he could mean since you live with The Live In” and I said “Nope, you are wrong.  He means HIM” and she tells me “Men run from being in relationships, ask him why you are not single”.  I am already in this way too far, so I shoot out a text, and when the reply comes back, I am just over the top thrilled.  “Because you’re mine”.  There was a OHHHH yelled from our group and I was promptly handed $1oo.oo, and my phone went off again.

In my new label-less state, I am getting texts from The One.  I have hurt him in asking this question.  For being right, I gave up being happy. We now are exchanging texts, toneless texts, and if I wanted to go home before, I am out the friggin door now.  Even if he makes a joke, I am going to take it wrong and there is no way I am going to come back smiling.  So when he asks me “Why, do you see something you like”? it sends an actual pain down my back.  Not only is my finger bare, but I feel like a heartless cold bitch, so I am thinking I need a label for worse than single.  I realize after time that I am standing there alone. Im engaged in a textgument, with my boyfriend, who could care less about Married, Engaged, Single or if I have two heads. All he knows or cares about is that he loves me, and I love him.  Thats it.  Everyone left me, and they went back to having a good time.  I’m the idiot standing there trying to do God-knows-what for no reason at all.  I need to find my friends, and drink.

Looking at the people I passed as I made my way back, I somehow managed to find flaw after flaw in every person.  His eyes were too far apart, his hair was too shaggy.  He did not have on the right size shirt, and this one should be home. Sadly, the only man that I am thinking about, that would do it for me is hard at work, and not anywhere near this place.  I thought for a moment that I really was having a bad period, and I should just go and say goodbye to everyone and go home.  And then a remix of “Just Can’t Get Enough” by the Black Eyed Peas came on.  I realized something.

Ok.  Now everyone stop for one second, because I am going to do something I may have never done before.  Dare I say this, but I think that maybe, possibly, there is a slight chance that I am wrong.  My labeling system leaves no room for the unexpected.  See, the problem here is, I am walking into this thing, thinking that I am single.  Ready to fight off all of the potential men that will come my way.  I am NOT single.  I am very much attached.  Just because there are people everywhere that are on the prowl, engaging in the hunt, that does not mean that I have to be.  And for those that choose to make me their prey, well, can you blame them?  Im beaming with love.  I radiate that there is someone out there that loves me more than anything on earth.  I am not a desperate woman, hoping that a guy will buy me a drink, or talk to me or dance with me.  Being a part of something so awesome and incredible makes me that much more attractive.  Why ruin it by being miserable?

I had to get air.  Stepping outside, realizing that while I dont have that dazzling ring on my finger saying that I belong to someone, to label me as a part of a pair, I did not need it.  But since it is very hard to teach an old dog a new trick, I take my cell phone.  I open my skymap app, and I find the star that I know is over The Ones store, where he is.  Alya, that is the stars name.  And I am facing in that direction, knowing that brighter than any diamond I could ever own, I have that star, our star, and yes, my finger is bare, but my heart and my soul are not.  No matter where I am, or he is, we are.  I take a few deep breaths, shake it all off, and now, FINALLY, I am ready to go inside and own the shit out of this night.

Tomorrow, however, I know I will need to find a new label.

My Version of Feminism

This is a tough one.  Last night I was reading a book by a feminist.  She has a website and very well know, she is the Gloria Steinem for my generation.  I find myself usually agreeing with much of what she has to say because as a mother of daughters, I never want to see my girls being put into a stay-at-home-mom position while there husbands are paving the road to corporate bliss, or have them labeled as “sluts” but the boys they are around are being called, well, not sluts.

But for me, my own personal perspective on a lot of what she has to say, is very backwards.  Maybe because I spent many years of my life with my grandmother, who could give Jackie O a lesson or two on class (yes, she was that poised, and gracious), maybe because of my Italian heritage and being conditioned that as women, we take care of the men, and the children, or maybe just because I am comfortable enough being who I am that I don’t mind resigning some, if not all of the responsibilities over to a very capable man.

There is one thing in her book that set me off.  So much so that I actually bent down the page to reference it today. And, yes, I actually do still read real books with pages, even though I have an e-reader, there is something about a book.  Anyway, she is talking about how we set our childrens genders early on, by the toys we buy for them, and the expectations we put on them.  She mentions how these days you can not find anything for a baby girl that does not have the words “Princess” “Diva”, or “Drama Queen” on it. And she then goes on to say how its all pink, and it really is funny because an innocent baby girl can’t be a spoiled pain in the ass, so it is actually fun to call her one.  Continuing on her rant she says that the evolution really becomes more apparent at 12, when the girl realizes that its about getting what you want, be it shoes, clothes, an iPod or a chihuahua.  (If you dont believe me that these are her exact words, email me, I will give you the book and the damn page!!!!)

Ok, the gloves are now off.  First of all,  I have a chihuahua, two of my own Apple devices (I have an iPod touch and an iPhone, and my kids all have their own) and hello, have you met me?  I have shoes, and clothes coming out of my ass.  So, with the little bit of Law that I did study, the logic of it would be that this woman is stating that I am a spoiled pain in the ass.  (if, therefore)  I do have a thing for tutu’s, and with every one of my daughters, when I could lavish them in big obnoxious headbands and ruffles and bows, I did.  And I did not do it because they were forced into that horrific position by men many years ago.  I did it because I liked it, and frankly, because I could.

What this unnamed author needs to realize is not all that has been taken away from women in the course of history, but all of the power that we have AS women.  We are the nurturers, the life-givers.  Every single time my son hurts himself, and I take him in my arms and hold him I realize that he is feeling his mothers love, and that love is going to transition him into a young man that will respect, love, and cherish the woman he is with, whether she is a stay-at-home-mom or the CEO of Time Warner.  As a woman, it is the lessons that I pass on to my children that are the most valuable. In that, I am creating the future.

So to this author I say, go on about your double standards.  Yes, you might have been called a slut in fifth grade.  You did not know what it meant.  When you are in a bad mood, you are told you are “on the rag” while men can just get angry.  YOU are the one letting people put you in the little boxes that make your feminist attitude necessary.  Come out of  your box and play with us, just as you.  Be yourself and you just might find that you like it.

A Progress Report

As you know, I am currently involved in a spendtervention.  For at least 21 days I am seriously trying not to buy anything unnecessary.  I am realizing that the hard part is not the restraint is spending, it is deciphering between the necessary and that which truly is not needed.  And that is the situation I find myself in this wonderful afternoon.

Tonight I am going to a networking fashion show in NYC.  Clearly what I wear will be of the utmost importance.  At the very least this is science.  The designer, who I will not mention so as not to make her feel sad, is up-and-coming.  That rules out any big houses, since we all know anything I wear from said houses will outshine her creations.  Its comparable to wearing white to a wedding.  It’s also a “networking” fashion show, so there will be some business types there as well.  They may be uncomfortable if I show up in my nightclub attire, so I need to incorporate a bit of happy hour chic into this.  Of course then there are the shoes, which is where I usually like to build FROM, since I own so many pairs.

So, what is a girl to do?  I did speak to The One, who is not budging on the whole “not spending” thing.  He so lovingly reminded me that I did say I had items that still had the tags on them.  Oh, men.  You have to love them.  The reason the tags are still on them is because after buying them, I realized I did not LIKE them!!!  I realize that with him, it is an argument that I will not win, so I reached out to my best girlfriend.  I explained my conundrum to her, and hinted to her that I could sneak out to buy something new, and no one would be the wiser, but such dishonesty!  It would leave me feeling awful for the whole night, and leave whatever purchase I made completely tainted.

Quickly I am approaching the I am not going state of my evening.  I mean, is this woman really going to be worth seeing?  Sure, Bacardi is sponsoring the event, and the $5.00 drink specials will make it worth it, but its Tuesday.  How much networking do I need to do?  I already know everyone that I need to know and it is not like with my writing someone is going to say, hey nice to meet you write me a story.  Really, I am approaching not going.

And as if it were a sign from above, we get hit with an earthquake.  Anyone with a clue knows you can not wear stiletto’s with the potential for aftershocks, and there is no woman worth her salt that will attend a fashion show in a heel lower than two inches.  Why am I suddenly filled with joy and bliss?  Because it is Divine Intervention in my spendtervention.  He knows that I could not do this on my own, that there was no way I would be able to resist the temptation, no, the requirement of buying something to wear to this event.

What I am going to do, in celebration, and appreciation is call my girlfriends, and go have some dinner down on the water.  I am also going to dig deep into my closet, and wear an already-worn something.  Something that I am grateful to own, and something that makes me look and feel completely fabulous.  God knows I need it!!!!

Little Girls, Little Girls…

If you want a good idea of the woman that you are today, and you’re having a slight struggle, look back to your days of a little girl.  It will all become crystal clear.  Not that I don’t really know the woman that I am today, but I did ask The One for an idea, and inspiration.  And he suggested that I talk about my little girl flights of fancy.  My dollhouses, who I pretended to be, etc.

I am sure when he thought of this, in his head  he envisioned this little girl, in a pink dress, big brown eyes and long brown hair playing for hours with her baby dolls.  Loving them, nurturing them, making sure that all of their needs were met.  While he was not entirely off, let me paint a far more accurate picture.

The first doll that I remember having was Mrs. Beasley.  She was not at all a traditional babydoll.  She was actually an old lady, with yellow glasses and a blue cloth body, with white polka dots.  I loved her.  I never put her to bed, or coddled her.  She was my partner in everything, and more often than not you could find me wearing her defiant yellow glasses making major life decisions.  You know the ones, what is the best hiding spot? Which of grandma’s shoes go best with this particular dress? And of course, which shade of grandma’s lipstick works best on my eyes, lips and cheeks???  She may have even been my very first fashion icon.  As a child my grandmother used to sew me church dresses to match hers.  And they were tiny short minidresses with matching bloomers (all of the old ladies used to lift my dress and get a kick out of them!).  I would beg for the boldest, loudest patterns, especially anything with polka dots.  Imagine when I discovered Pucci?? As far as sharing her goes, no one every played with her with me, because no one understood Mrs. Beasley as I did.  She did not need an aunt, brother, father, or even a mother.  She was a strong, independent woman and even at the tender age of four, I got it.

The next doll I remember was Chrissy something, and she had this long red piece of hair that came out of the top of her head and it could change from short to long.  She had arms and legs that afforded you the opportunity to make her sit or stand (or lie down).  Sadly, still I did not really have an urge to coddle, or nurture.  I actually do feel even now, writing this a sense of apathy for this doll.  Imagine, being created with such a lack of purpose?  I mean do you have long hair? Short hair?  And her pale mint green dress left nothing at all to be desired as far as fashion goes.  I was very mean to her, and there was on day at my aunt Margarets house when I went with my grandfather down to their lumber mill.  I found a scissors that could cut wood (ok, maybe not wood but it was the biggest pair of scissors that I had ever seen!) and I was so taken that I just stuck her androgynous hair  piece in the blades of the scissors and off it went.  Much like Samson, without her hair, Chrissy was not much of anything and she was never played with again.

After a few brief run ins with various Chatty Kathys, and Pissy Crissy’s (yes, she peed….) it was time for me to move up to the big league.  Yes, Barbie.  My very first Barbie was the real deal.  Blonde hair, huge boobs, standing on her toes, bendable knees.  I was in complete heaven, and there was nothing that I enjoyed more than changing her clothes 800 times a day.  And I would get LOST in it,  pretending that I was running off to the beach and needed that bikini, and sunhat, and bag.  And then in five minutes, I was off to a huge party, in a full evening gown.  The more ornate the better, and I always made sure she had on shoes.  The first year that I had my Barbie, I had received from Santa Claus a blonde Barbie wig, and I was her every single day.  But then, one day, while shopping for some new gear for my Barbie, I found Ken.  And suddenly, the bond that I had with my fashionista best friend was broken.  Her heart was somewhere else, and it was not in couture, that was for sure.  It was in a panama jack and bermuda shorts.  I wanted to go home, and I did not want any part of this anymore.  Feeling as awful as I could, my grandmother suggested that maybe we buy the Condo, or the Dream House.  No.  Certainly not the Dream House, because then you would need the dream man, and he just spoiled it all.  And then, like the light shining on the star on stage I saw her.  Teresa.  I just got the chills.  It was better than Barbie.  It was Barbie, with brown hair, like ME.  And, with no boyfriend ruining it.  I had to have it, and I also had to have the Townhouse or Condo.  Whatever it was with the elevator.

That night when I went home, my Barbie wig went in my toybox, far away from my Barbie collection, and the blonde sell out bimbo was no longer the driver, it was Teresa’s world.  She ruled it, she rocked it and never ever needed a man to complete her.  In my childhood fantasies, I owned the condo development, I owned the car factory that made my “Teresa” cars, I was a fashion designer and I was always in charge, and super fabulous.  And embarrassingly, now and then Teresa would kick some Barbie ass if she had to, just to keep order in playland.

The One did have a small clue.  There were a few times in kindergarten where during playtime we would pick up dolls and play “family”.  But I was always the mother.  Or whoever was the most important person.  The father would be the smallest kid in class, who I am still friends with to this day, and will be seeing with his new wife at a dinner party in a few weeks.   He sent me an email begging me not to share and secrets on how I kept him so in line back then.  I promised that our secrets were safe.

As fate would have it, I did grow up to have a few real dolls of my own.  And while I did worry about my lack of that nurturing instinct, or my obsessive need to dictate and rule the world, once I was handed my beautiful babies, it all kicked in.  I loved, coddled, cried and became that little doe-eyed child that I think The One maybe thought I was.  While my little girl dolls made me see the strong little girl I was, its now, right now, that I realize that my “big girl dolls”, my real ones, will always have the ability to make me just a weepy almost forty year old.

For Ashley.

What I really need

With the birth and fast forwarding of technology, I have to say that I am one of the people that truly miss mail.  The real kind, delivered by the guy in the nice uniform, in his own world, at the same exact time every day.  Even with the influx of bills he brings me, I still like to sift through it now and again to see if there is a letter, or something special just for me.  Fortunately,  I have a cousin that has no idea how to email, and I always can count on her for REAL mail.

Unfortunately, like the rest of the free world, I have been noticing in my mail delivery, a slight increase in the amount of bills that come.  And in my very own analytical way (I hit check balance as my choice on the automated menu) I have come to realize that I have been spending way too much money lately.  Sitting down, reviewing the receipts for my most recent purchases, I have also come to the stark realization that I have a major problem.  I have way too much shit that I really do not need.  In the past week, I have become the proud owner of three new pairs of black boots.  Two pairs are the exact same boot, except for a small flap on the top that makes it knee high, as opposed to at the knee.  I also have thigh high black boots, peep toe black boots, patent black boots, suede black boots, flat black boots, and red boots, blue boots, brown boots, grey boots and white boots, to boot!!!  And of course, to go with my black boots, I needed a new black belt, and I will spare you the saga, but lets just say, I now have a nice little black belt family.  With silver and beige belt grandchildren.  Its a whole freaking dojo now.

I also found a wonderful dress to wear to my nephews upcoming baptism, in September, and I am sure that I will find several more, adding to the Sunday morning day-of-the-baptism hysteria on just what I will be wearing.  Additionally, with my birthday being this month, I did have to shop for the perfect dress for my birthday imbibing, and since my decision was not one that could be made in-store, I had to grab a selection, and decide with the help of some girlfriends at home.  See how easy it is to spend???

Add to it the fact that my children have been genetically blessed with my love of all of the finer things, and you can see the forming of a perfect storm.  With the beginning of a school year coming, college bound is a word that sends chills down my spine, and even the words “mom, i need my own deodorant” being said as my six year old son hands me a trial sized Degree can send me into a seizure.  It has clearly just begun.  He has crossed over to the dark side.

Before I do say anything else, I am not starving, and I do pay my bills on time.  However, recently (April?) my full time career came to a screeching halt, and I went from full time executive to freelance writer.  With that, my financial outlook SHOULD have changed, since my financial INCOME has.  So, does this mean that I will be eating macaroni and cheese for the next few months?  Hardly.  I still have children to clothe, feed, educate.  I still have very bad habits, (shoes, socializing, shoes, shoes, shoes) and an uncompromising personality.   I did take the first step after all, and ADMIT that I clearly have a spending problem.  I think that my next step is to go 21 days without buying anything.  It has been about 20 hours since my last purchase.  A mailbox.  I did not like my old one.  I believe that I might be ok here, and I have enlisted the assistance of The One, who aside from being the best manfriend, I am sure could make a great financial adviser.

So, be sure to stay tuned.  I promise to keep you posted as to how my spendtervention goes, and if anyone is looking for a new pair of black boots, I have a few pairs for sale!!!!  🙂

A brick in my road….a memory.

So I was trying to think about a day in my life that was one I remember most.  And, that was actually interesting enough.  I don’t know quite why, but I came up with the very first day that I walked into Biloxi High School, as a transfer student, from New York.  And not upstate New York, the suburbs.  Pretty metropolitan.

The first thing that amazed me, is that my new high school was almost on the beach.  Who does that?  This was going to be way to easy, but I was really going to give it my all.  I gave a kiss to my grandparents, and off to school I was.  I walked through the main doors, and there before me was a counter, ok, more like an alcove.  The sign above it said “Pupil Accounting”.  WOAH.  Now, I am no dummy, and shit, here I am this New Yorker, coming down here to little ole Biloxi and they actually have accounting for their students?  How complicated is high school going to be down here?  And do I really need accounting, because I only had a few dollars on me.  Suddenly I begin to feel a little overwhelmed.

When I got my schedule, I was told that I had to head over to the “new wing”.  Ok, if this is a sign of the brightness that was shining before me, I was in some serious trouble, because the whole damn school is NEW to me!!  Where exactly IS the new wing?  Bells are ringing, and I am as lost as can be, and the halls empty  and clear and there I am, roaming around the halls of a school where I know not a soul.  All of the kids are NOT at all like me.  My hair is big, I am wearing a blue jersey knit one piece mini dress (think Madonna) and the only thing that I know is that I need a science class, or a teacher named Mr. Johnson.

Someone helps me, and when I get to class, I see this teacher, in a plaid shirt, with about a whole container of Vitalis oiling down his hair to one side.  He announces to me YER LAYTE.  All I can think of is WOW.  But all I can say is FUCK!  The class is sort of whispering but it gets really quiet and he walks over to me and with this accent like I dont even know what, he says “Young lady, you need to git yerself down to the main awfice.  Yew cain nawt tawk like that in heyar and yer layte”  (I promise not to type an accent any more, I just had to make my point!)

I look at him, and Im like are you effing kidding me dude?  I just got here, and now you want me to LEAVE???  And talk like what?   “Im sorry, but I am new, obviously, and I have no idea where you want me to go NOW, since I couldnt even get HERE to begin with, and Im sorry for saying ‘fuck’, bad habit, i know”  He flinches, cringes and quickly has someone walk me down to the office.  With a note.  I guess he had to translate my evilness into Biloxian so that I can be dealt with accordingly.

When I get down to the office, after waiting on the “bad girl bench” (thats what I am calling it) I get called in by Mr. Seymour, who is my administrator or whatever it is.  Her in NY we call them Vice Principals.  He was extremely nice.  He asked me where I was from, I told him New York, Long Island actually.  He asked me how I liked Biloxi, I told him it was very nice.  This went on for a few moments.  He then told me that my lateness was understandable, and he would find someone to help me navigate the school for the next few days.  He also advised me that the language, that was a total and utter NO NO.  I was in trouble.  Trying to convince him that up in New York, we did say “curse words” pretty regularly did not work.  I even told him that I have heard such words from my own parents, but he did not buy that one either.  So, I gave up and figured Mr. Podunk was going to have me write out my vocabulary words 1,000 times, or  maybe run around the track for two hours.

WRONGO.  I had two choices. Saturday detention, or three licks.  Yeah, you heard correctly.  Sit in the damn cafeteria ALL morning on saturday…..doing NOTHING.  Imagine Breakfast Club, but worse.  OR…take three smacks with this freaking wooden paddle with HOLES in it.  Let me say this.  In New York, if you hit someones child, you can pretty much bet your ass that you are either going to get fired or there will be a parent coming to find you.  So this was pretty traumatic for me to even think about.  And the paddle itself, well, I dont even want to know who designed it, because it was way too BDSM for the likes of high school.

Anyway, there I am.  Trying to decide if I want to take licks or detention.  I can not even imagine giving up the morning on a Saturday, and really, I dont feel like I did anything wrong.  I was not fully aware of the rules, so I took the lesser of the two evils.  I got my ass whooped, as they say.

WELL…..for those of you that do NOT know my grandmother…..big mistake.  When I got home, she was waiting for me.  I had assumed that this would go unnoticed, and there would be no problems.  WRONG.  She asked me what happened in school today, and I told her everything.  Immediately we got in the car and went down to the school.  She pretty much pulled me in by my arm, and marched into the office and demanded to see Les.  I was like OH SHIT SHE KNOWS HIS FIRST NAME!!!!!!

When Mr. S came out of the office, he smiled and he said “Hay! Miss Marie! How are you!”  Well, she was not a happy camper.  She said to him, and it has been a while, but she said in some form “Do you know this is my grandbaby?  I have tore up your ass with Georgie and dont think you are too big that I wont tare it up again!!!  If you ever give her licks again, I will take that paddle to your ass!  From now on, you call me if you have a problem!  You dont hit her!  She is a young lady, not a boy!  And I want you to write that down!!  You can give her detention if you have to, but under no circumstance is she to be hit!!!  DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME??”  I have never liked authority, but at that moment, I really felt bad for him.  He was a short little man.  And I think he may have even peed a little bit.  He yes ma’amed her about a hundred times, he apologized over and over again.

When we got home, we had a long, long talk about the differences about New York and Biloxi, and the huge differences between the two.  When I went to school the next day, walking into that class, I had several people that offered me a seat next to them.  I took  up one offer, and in that class I met one of my dearest friends ever.  And I realized, I may never be Biloxi.  But I sure did have one hell of a time trying.

Just ask the Saturday detention supervisor!!