If God made pie…

I am a foodie. If it smells good (and sometimes if it
doesn’t) I will give it a taste. I believe that all food deserves a
chance to be compared to dishes of excellence in the hopes that
their culinary creator can be hoisted above the shoulders of
foodies everywhere as the Sultan of Salami or the Matron of Maple
Pancakes. I believe that one such dish has been found!! *hoists
empty pie dish in the air* how was it made? Who made a deal with
the devil for the ability to create such a pie? A pie that causes
one’s mouth to water at the mere mention of it’s name? Not just any
old apple pie but a pie with the crust gathered from the soft
feathers of angels on high, a concoction of butter and flour with
time well spent making sure that the first bite tastes the same as
the last. Whose fingers took the time to create this magnanimous
feast of warm apples sliced so thin that they melt on your tongue
singing joyfully to reawaken your taste buds that have swooned into
a pile of spent casualties of the battle for all that is tasty.
“Mom’s Apple Pie”… TO BE CONTINUED…

All for the price of a flatiron

Just when I had given up on love, I bumped into a couple of Yentas at The Oasis. Sound juicy? Yeah it is. So tip up your hairdryer and have a listen…
Hairdressers are like cheap therapy but they relate more to real life than most psychologists attempting to dig their way into your childhood with the hopes of helping you build upon the cognitive deficits of your early years… blah blah blah. Hairdressers tell it like it T-I-Is! Your hair dresser gets to know you as well as they know your hair. They know your likes and dislikes and your ups and downs. Some hairstyles you have tried and run out to buy the nearest wig, others you wore until you couldn’t wear it no more. They are hard forged relationships where if you got to see anyone else it is considered cheating. As you talk about your kids, the dogs, schools and such but when it comes to men, there is a hush that sucks the air out of the room. Then there is the talk about men…. *hair dryers grind to a halt*

This single momma has had many dates and many great possibilities of foreverhood thrown, catapulted, launched, placed at her feet and post-it’ed to her computer monitor. Why was I running away from love? Why was it still showing interest in me after I had taken the time out of my busy schedule (another reason for my singlehood) to tell it to go to H-E-double hockey sticks? It all can be summed up in one word… SCURRED. Not scared as in I know what my problem is and I am working on correcting some issues so that I can enjoy a life with a partner but SCURRED as in who in the hell are you and how did you get a key to the place where I locked my heart away foreverrrrrrrrr! You know the song girls… “how did you get here?” “nobody’s ‘sposed to be here…”

So you see, I wasn’t just afraid of making changes in my love life, I was petrified at the prospect of putting myself out there after a bad relationship that left me bitter, jaded and guarded against ever falling in love again.
Back to the flatiron… *Whitney Houston starts singing again in the background.*

The do was on it’s way to making me look homeless so off I head out to see the “Hair Whisperer”. Her name is Mai but I have renamed her as such due to the fact that she has a talent not many stylists possess… An ability to convince my hair that it is no longer in chains on a ship crossing the Atlantic during Middle Passage but flowing tresses that would make Fabio hang his head in shame.

I plop down in my seat and began my journey.

A question…

“Meet any nice guys lately Gracie?”

I answer to the affirmative, but then I always do. The issue at hand is the longevity of the time the nice guys get to stay around. My record at successful one date wonders would rival the Sacramento Kings away game wins record.
“I met this nice guy named Paul…”

I begin by launching into all that is not good in HIS world and how HE is not perfect and that I have standards that are so high that a man with hemophilia will be dead before he reaches the summit and how I can justify telling him that I didn’t want to see him because I was SCURRED. Mind you, I never admit to being SCURRED. I just take the time to put up a wall of “can’t touch this” so high that he gives up at the base because Sherpas are Roschambo’ing one another to see who is game for taking another victim up Mt. Gracie.

I agree that I am a difficult mountain to summit! I make it that way. Sometimes you just have to listen to the MaiTay advice of the stylistas at The Oasis. Tay is two booths down. She is our rock star, cheerleader stylist. I don’t think she gets it all from Starbucks either. She also teaches classes at the local gym so she has that bouncy “OH EM GEE R U SERIOUS?” kind of vibe. She definitely keeps me from tipping my head trying to find the sleep I lost the night before worrying about those damned Sherpas on Mt. Gracie! The atmosphere in the hair shop is something to be experienced by everyone. With music playing and conversation going and the sounds, sights and smells of hair getting beautified, it makes you feel the safety of your mommas kitchen on Sunday evenings when it was press and wash night (of course without the risk off your hair catching fire or the ever looming threat of that that little drop of hot bergamot waiting to run onto your forehead and scar you for life.).

Anything I have to say about men is always interesting because I am twisted in such a way of speech. I can add flowers to a pot of vinegar and still make them grow with my speech. I start taking about the most recent catastrophe that I have launched myself into with Paul. He was kind gentle, spirited, actually cares about me and my son and ahem… hold on to your weaves girls…

He opens car doors for me…..

You heard me. There ain’t nothing in your ears. He is a GENTLEMAN!
My question is: what in the hell do you do with a gentleman? They are so few and far between that sometimes they slip through the cracks. Agreed that some women find them and hide them away in the basement of marital despair but some of them hang out just long enough to catch the eye of a woman who has been waiting their whole lives for them.
I waited… and while I waited I complained ad nauseum to Mai the Hair Whisperer. I know she wants the best for me so I could not help but to continue. Every hair appointment was the same. It wasn’t me it was them, they should know better, they should read minds, they should have instructions placed in their back pockets at age 14.

It’s not me….. It’s you…

Oh the flatiron…

I was talking about this guy named Paul who I could not understand for the life of me. He was so kind to me I thought he had to have an ulterior motive. I would talk to the Yentas and spill my heart about how nice he was.
Mind you, every time I mentioned that he was “NICE” I think the hair whisperer was thinking more and more about popping me with a comb. I talked about how we had started our relationship and how I let my fear push him away. I had told him that I could not see him anymore because he was not the guy for me. All I could come up with was “I just don’t think you are the guy for me”.

You smell shit? I sure do…

Through my many sessions of MaiTay good advice I came to realize that I had reached a brick wall that was holding back the torrential flood of love prospects. I built the wall and I built it good mind you. The only thing that failed in the wall was the problem with destruction. I had built the Berlin wall of Love and I unfortunately was on the West End cut off from all possibility of happiness without a sledgehammer to boot.


She’s still around

A part of me still cares for the girl? The foster daughter who has moved on to another home has a few numbers permanently stored in her memory banks. She never stays out of sight for too long.
I got a call from her tonight telling me that she had a bit of a “situation”. All I could think was “I really don’t have any money to bail her out of jail or pay for an appointment at THE CLINIC!”
She had run into some issues at the new home she was at and was perhaps calling me to see if I could help her out of the predicament she was in.
I heard her story out and then proceeded to call her therapist to have her discuss some of her options.
I remember when there was a time when I would have dropped every single last thing to help a person in need. Where did I go wrong?
Did I actually go wrong?
If I am shouldn’t I feel guilt?
If I don’t feel guilt maybe remorse is a better word.
I know I experienced it at a young age…

Couple that with a little shame and you find yourself with a person not afraid to make mistakes and the dignity to admit when she is wrong.
My dear little former foster child has no ability to discern between a righteous act and an act of selfishness. I wonder how long it might take her to recognize that when it is time to, as my dear old dad used to say, “get somewhere and light”, which means be still and do not bring any undue attention upon yourself.

Sometimes it is nice to hang back in the shadows but in my case, there is a lot of battling to do. I started thinking about the parties involved with this scenario brought up tonight and I just shake my damn head.
When will she learn?
She can learn one of two things.
Learn to lie right and keep her story straight
Start telling the truth more often.
So much is missing from most of her stories … The other side.