Amorphous Asylum

2006-07-04T18:46:00.000-04:00

Bored with a capital B ...
By ELH

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Sometimes I miss my old life. It was comfortably unpredictable. It was full of cool people, weekly Happy Hours with my girls and even a few good classes here and there. My old life was the college life.

But graduation from Hampton University was the summit just before the combustion that left a gaping hole in my social life. The friends I was closest to for four years – could have been five if I was smart enough to stretch it out – all went our separate ways. New York, New Jersey, metro D.C., even as far away as Seattle. And of course, I’m here …in Akron.

Akron. Rubber City. Not exactly the most exciting place for a big-city Detroit native who spent four years living the good life, learning new things every day, taking spontaneous road trips, Spring Breakin’ and doing summer internships in places like D.C. and Atlanta.

Yes, I know Cleveland is only 20-, 30-, 45 minutes away. (Akronites can’t seem to agree on a time.) But I refuse to drive that far to keep my sanity or my social life.

Being so far away from the people I met freshman year at that private, historically black college in Hampton, Va., makes me extremely thankful for instant message, e-mail, Verizon-to-Verizon, and of course, the almighty Facebook.com.

I’ve been a social butterfly for as long as I can remember. I was always involved in some extracurricular activity, basketball, cheerleading, church choir. (I have what I like to call a “collaborative voice.”) As a child, I craved interpersonal communication. And my mother used that hunger against me when I let my smart mouth get the best of me.

She didn’t take away my television privileges. She didn’t send me to bed without dessert. She didn’t even give me extra chores. The most torturous punishment of all was when she sent me to my room and made me leave the door open while my parents, sister and brother, went about their normal activities around the house for the rest of the night. Even the cat and dog – may they rest in peace – knew not to come play with me. Mama dared me to cross the threshold of my room.

I bet she pretty much got a kick out of me clinching my little fingers around the frame of bedroom door and leaning around the wall to peek my head into her room whining, “Can I come out nowww? Pleeease, Mama! Pretty please with a cherry on top.”

One can only imagine the angst this Detroit native has been suffering for the past 10 months from being in a new city with maybe one friend and a boyfriend who lives three hours away. I’ve had to swallow my pride and dine out alone … even on Saturday nights. I’ve watched the entire “Sex and the City” series collection and am anxiously awaiting for the next season of “The Cosby Show” to be released.

The workers at the local Dunkin’ Donuts know my voice when I come through the drive-thru and a worker at a local McDonald’s smiles at me because she knows I’m the one who orders the grilled chicken salad with Italian dressing and a strawberry sundae with nuts.

“I have got to find something else to do besides watch TV and eat donuts and McDonald’s,” I thought. “Oooh … I’ll try to find some young people online. That’s where we are anyway.”

Nine months after the inception of my Yahoo! group “AkronYBP” seeking other young black professionals in the Akron area, it still lists only one faithful member – me.

But I didn’t allow my wings to be clipped that easily. When someone suggested that I join a book club, I contacted the library to join one. The organizer forewarned me that she feels like a baby in the group – she’s in her thirties. Bummer.

So, I took it a step further. I turned the distance between my college and high school friends and me into a positive by starting an online book club in January. TheHighbrows has close to 20 members, but one bad book caused participation to shrivel like a batch of dehydrated nine-day-old roses. I’m thinking about closing the group since I do more reading on my own. Since my Big Brothers Big Sisters mentee is off to New York for the summer, maybe I’ll get a part-time job to occupy my time!

2006-03-09T00:13:00.001-05:00

A new world with Free
ELH

A new Web site has made its way to my favorites list.

AOL is the veteran of the bunch.
Then there’s the illustrious Facebook, which just hit its one-year anniversary in my world, on March 1, my birthday for all you losers who forgot ;)
Of course there’s the very well-to-do Google.
I sometimes have to take occasional virtual trip back to my
Home By the Sea.
I’m addicted to the thesaurus, so Merriam-Webster’s is my sixth man off the bench.
And finally, the rookie of the year: Big Brothers Big Sisters.

If you frequent the Asylum, you may remember my New Year’s Resolution. I vowed to sign up for the Big Brothers Big Sisters organization, and I’m glad to say that 2006 marks the first year that I kept my resolution.

I think my readers’ comments were my biggest encouragement.

“Some little woman is going to be so fortunate once you enter her life,”
C-Nel said.

Danielle said, “You are definitely going to be a great Big Sister…”

And Marlon said he, too, had recently “started giving back to the crumb snatchers.”

It’s a known fact that the little things count the most. And those three comments were all the encouragement I needed to get myself out of bed one slushy Saturday morning and go to the 45-minute BBBS informational.

I received a three-page application to fill out – simple questions about my background, what kind of “little sister” I could handle and what I’d want to teach her. It actually was fun to fill out.

It asked for three references. I had a plethora of people from whom to choose. As my first reference, I chose my little sister Tiffany from Hampton because she knew firsthand what I could (and even could not) offer a little sister. (All five of my little sisters could have vouched for me.) My second reference was my old dorm director because she had seen me in action with my residents. And my last, but certainly not least reference, was my boyfriend, William, because I had talked to him excessively about joining the program; he could attest to how serious I was about it.

After the caseworker received my application, she called me for an interview. She had to see where I lived so we arranged for her to come to my apartment one morning. Some of her questions made me raise an eyebrow. Though I answered her with a simple yes or no each time, these were the thoughts that were running though my head:

Did your parents tell you that they loved you when you were little?
Uh … yeah. (Erin scratches head.) This lady is about to get all in my business.

Would you take an overweight little sister?
Are you asking me that because I’m thin? Why wouldn’t I?

Would you take a little sister with a demanding parent?
Sure. She ain’t my Mama.

Would you take a little sister who smokes?
Yeah, but she won’t do it here. I don’t allow grown folks to smoke in my house.

Would you take a little sister who has bad grades?
Yep, whip that tail right into shape.

Would you take a little sister who steals?
Say what? No. Let my stuff come up missing, we will have some problems.

Would you take a little sister with a mental or physical disability?
Physical? Yes. Mental? I don’t want to mess up anything, so no.

Would you take a little sister who is being abused at home?
No … because I wouldn’t want to take her back there.

An hour after being peppered with questions, I wondered what I was getting myself into, until the caseworker said, “I can’t remember the last time we’ve have a child with issues like these, so you don’t need to worry.”

(And how long have you been with the organization? Shat.)

Well, she was right. I didn’t need to worry. My little sister doesn’t have ANY of those issues.

Free, my nickname for her, is in the 8th grade, just turned 14 last month, is VERY VERY smart and has a vocabulary as extensive as Jennifer’s. She takes engineering classes at one of the universities here.

The kids at her school tease her because she speaks proper English, is a brainiac, and is a little different because her mother is from Trinidad. They don’t have much money or a car, but they’re making it.

The program requires that I spend at least 4 hours a week with Free. So when she's with me, I introduce her to some things to which she wouldn't otherwise be exposed. Sometimes we just sit around and kick it at my place, and if you know me, you know we always go out to eat.

Free’s 8-year-old little brother is on the waiting list for a big brother because there aren't many male volunteers, especially male black volunteers. My caseworker tells me that African-American boys have to wait six months before they can even get an application, and the boys that have received an application account for 90 percent of the children on the waiting list.

Though I think I’ve helped and had an impact on many people in the past, those people always seemed to be as fortunate or even more fortunate than me. But Free and her family have opened my eyes to another world. You should think about visiting one day.

2006-03-05T19:24:00.000-05:00

I'm it. Blame Kelley.
ELH

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For three months, he’s been pestering me to update the Asylum. She gave me a reason to do so. Maybe this will kick-start my writer’s block.

Four jobs I've had:
1. Copy Editor
2. Family photographer
3. Radio producer
4. Student

Four movies I can watch over and over:
1. Two Can Play That Game
2. Brown Sugar
3. The Best Man
4. Friday

Four places I have lived:
1. Ohio
2. Michigan
3. Virginia
4. Georgia

Four shows I love:
1. Sex and the City
2. The Cosby Show
3. Fresh Prince
4. Girlfriends

Four highly-touted TV shows ... I don't get the hype:
1. Everybody Hates Chris
2. Laguna Beach
3. The Real World
4. 106th & Park

Four books I'd recommend to anyone, anytime:
1. Holy Bible
2. Flyy Girl
3. Video Vixen (way better than you might think … even guys could relate)
4. The Dictionary :)

Four places I have vacationed:
1. Bahamas
2. Chicago
3. Miami
4. East Lansing

Four of my favorite dishes:
1. Greens
2. Chicken Noodle Soup
3. Ice cream
4. Chicken spaghetti

Four sites I visit daily:
1. www.AOL.com
2. www.thefacebook.com
3. www.google.com
4. www.m-w.com

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. In William’s arms
2. At home
3. In Hampton
4. In the bed

And I'm tagging:
1. Mashaun
2. Jennifer
3. Jamar
4. Krystal

2005-12-13T06:39:00.000-05:00

I could write just to write,
or I can wait for a just idea.
The latter is always a better read. – ELH

Even in Ohio, I was awake when Tookie died
ELH

At 3:26 a.m. EST, the Fox News Alert was: Stanley “Tookie” Williams to be executed soon.

That’s a rather tamed headline for the news group that strives to sensationalize shit. I swear the reporter strategically chose the perfect spot to broadcast – right in front of Bonquisha with electric blue, neon green, red and purple braids in her hair. A companion was right behind her smiling and using up his nighttime minutes, occasionally tugging on his “Tookie” T-shirt. They paid no mind to the speaker at the rally to spare Tookie’s life going on around them.

Stanley “Tookie” Williams, co-founder of the Crips street gang, was to be put to death by lethal injection at 3:01 a.m. for killing four people in 1979. California’s Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger had denied Tookie's clemency earlier in the day. Appeals were also denied and the Supreme Court had better things to do.

The Fox reporter said no gang members appeared to be at the rally. He said the crowd was racially diverse and included people from all walks of life. Teenagers, adults, kids and even parents with their babies were there – though it’s unclear if they had ever been read one of Tookie’s children’s books that denounced gang violence. Those books were apparently evidence of what 26 years in lockdown can do, but that didn’t make a bit of difference during Tookie’s last days.

The Fox reporter, trained to insert his own damn opinion, said some of the “most vicious crimes” he had ever heard of were committed by Crips – Tookie’s domain – and Bloods street gangs. I guess he’s never heard of klan hatchets, genocides or Saddam Hussein.

His colleague back at the news desk questioned why Tookie’s books weren’t “more effective.” How does he know the effectiveness of those books? They were written for children, and I don’t recall any statistics from interviews with children who read Tookie’s books. Though he helped build the Crips, there was no way Tookie could single-handedly dismantle that empire of brotherhood and violence.

It was 3:35 a.m. The Fox Alert read: Williams’ execution process underway. (According to Associated Press style, a space should be between under and way, but I digress.)

At 3:37 a.m., Fox had an unconfirmed report that Tookie was dead.

Three panels of reporters who witnessed the execution gave their accounts shortly after it was completed.

An L.A. Times reporter said Tookie showed no resistance. A Contra Costa Times reporter said Tookie became frustrated when the nurse couldn’t find a proper vein in his left arm. Other reporters echoed the same. A reporter with the Associated Press said Tookie even looked up at the nurse with disgust and said “You doin’ that right?” Another said Tookie also said, “Still can’t find it?”

There were reports of a lot of movement from Tookie – who often lifted his head from the dentist-office like recliner to look toward his supporters, the media and the victims’ families – as well as a lot of talking with the other people in the sterile, sea-green colored room. Another reporter said Tookie’s stares at the media were an aim to be intimidating. That reporter was from Fox, of course, and he said Tookie’s demeanor was defiant. An MSNBC reporter said Tookie showed no remorse and no fear and that he ended his life just as he lived it – belligerent and steadfast.

I have yet to decide if I am for or against capital punishment. Though I believe it’s possible Tookie had been rehabilitated during his 26-year incarceration, his efforts to start the Crips street gang lead to a generation of violence and lost lives. At the same time, there’s no doubt that this man would have been more useful to society alive – incarcerated for life with no chance of parole if the system so chose – to author more children’s books disparaging gang violence. The man can’t do anything from six feet under but leave victims’ families feeling even more intimidated and living in fear that they will one day feel the wrath and torment of Tookie’s empire.

So tell me: How is it that we are capable of deciding that someone should die, when someone should die and how someone should die, and we can’t even get the needle in?

2005-12-04T20:30:00.000-05:00

The name of this post is almost as long as the actual post
ELH

The upside of being in a long-distance relationship is that you can show you’re willing to go the extra mile. --Me

2005-12-03T23:58:00.000-05:00

"You're not in the system"
ELH

Have you ever wanted to reach out and just … “touch” a smart-ass cashier?

Well, the chick who manages the Hollywood Video by my apartment almost brought out the sister-girl in me the Thursday night.

Since I’ve moved to Akron, DVD collections have become my latest obsession. I’ve rented every volume of Sex in the City. And now I’m working on Desperate Housewives and 24. Being that I’m on my third television series collection, most of the local Hollywood Video employees know my face and even smile when they see me coming. Could it be that they harbor feelings of pity because they think I don’t have any friends? Maybe … but I think they just like seeing a familiar face.

Anyway, I walked in and instead of my usual buddies, I saw three new employees behind the counter. I noticed because I’ve seen the same faces on a weekly basis for almost three months, and the newbies just weren’t as welcoming as the regulars.

I picked up two volumes of Desperate Housewives and two volumes of 24 and went to the counter. Jimmy was my cashier.

“How ya doin’ tonight?” a salt-and-pepper-bearded Jimmy said through a smoker’s cough.

“Pretty good and you,” I said with a hint of sarcasm as I set the four DVD cases on the counter. “I don’t have my card with me, but I have my license.”

Jimmy said that wouldn’t be a problem, although I already knew that because I never have my card. I handed Jimmy my license and he started punching at the register’s keys.

He input my license number once. Then again. Then again.

“I’m sorry, I don’t see you in the system,” Jimmy said.

“Really? Well, that can’t be. I rent movies from here every week,” I said.

Jimmy tried it again, but it still didn’t work.

Entered “Michelle.”

Jimmy followed the rules and wore a nametag, but Michelle … Michelle was a rebel and quite apparently Jimmy’s superior – certainly not in age, but at work.

“Is there a problem?” Michelle asked, staring at me as if I she already knew I was the problem.

Jimmy chimed in: “I tried her number three times, but it didn’t work.”

Borderline irritated, I said, “I live two minutes away, I can just go and get my card. It’s not a problem.”

“Well, let me try another way first,” Michelle said. “What’s your phone number?”

I gave her my phone number. She punched it in.

“I don’t see that number. Could it be under a different name? You’re not in the system,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I’m the only one on the account, and I’m the one who opened it … in this store.”

“Well,” Michelle said, “you’re not in the system. Are you sure you opened it in this store?”

Michelle was getting’ on my nerves. For a second, I did wonder if I was in the twilight zone. I mean, I didn’t recognize any of the faces in the store.

“Yes, I moved here three months ago. I live right down the street. I come in here every week. The workers know my face,” I said.

“Is that right?” Michelle said, raising her eyebrows and smirking. “That’s funny because I’m the store manager, and I’ve never seen you before.”

Whoa … did she just … oh, I know she didn’t … did she really just try to play me?

“Well then, it’s painfully obvious that you don’t work 24/7 now isn’t it?” I said, with every derisive bone in my body. “If you’ll just give me back my license, I can go get my card.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Michelle said. “You can just open up an account with us. It’ll take two minutes.”

“Look, I don’t want to open an account. I already have an account here. My license … please,” I said.

Finally, this broad gave me license. Very irritated at this point, I said: “I’ll be right back.”

I arrived at my apartment all of 90 seconds later. Went inside, opened my trusty black file box, retrieved my Hollywood Video card and drove back to the store.

Jimmy was helping someone else, but Chris, another unfamiliar face who was wearing his nametag, was ready to ring me up.

“Jimmy was holding those movies right there for me,” I said, handing Chris my Hollywood Video card.

Chris scanned the card.

“There appears to be a late fee on the account,” he said. “Would you like to take care of that now?”

(This late fee, Chris said, was for a movie that was returned two days after Thanksgiving, which was impossible because I dropped the movie off on my way to Detroit on Thursday afternoon. How is it that they get the movie on Saturday when I turned it in on Thursday … when they were open?)

Jimmy chimed in: “Ummm … she’s OK … she’s OK … don’t worry about the late fee.”

A confused Chris obliged. He finished ringing me up and handed me my bag of DVDs.

“Hey,” I said, “Where’s your manager?”

Chris said, “She’s gone for the evening. Is there something wrong?”

“Well, when she comes in tomorrow, tell her Erin said, ‘I’m in the system.’”

Chris looked confused, but Jimmy … Jimmy laughed.

2005-12-02T00:00:00.000-05:00

Thanks Ma!
ELH

People’s hardships can put things into perspective for not only themselves, but for anyone close to them. If I hear about someone’s fender bender, I drive more carefully – at least to and from my next destination. If I hear about someone losing their wallet with every piece of their identity inside, I might remove a few unnecessary things from mine. And certainly, if I hear about someone losing a loved one, I cherish mine a lot more.

A good friend of mine lost her mom last week and the news caused me to reflect a bit. I was reading the December 2005 issue of Essence magazine when Page 24 caught my nose. It was an advertisement for Trésor, a fragrance by Lancome Paris, the earliest recollection I have of my Mama’s scent. I smelled it again, and instantly, I started thinking about how much I cherish my Mama.

My Mama taught me every practical thing I know – especially how to stay organized. My friends from college often tease me about this black file box of important papers that I keep. My junior year at Hampton, I called my mother about a nosebleed I had been having for more than an hour. She told me to call one of my friends to take me to the Emergency Room. My girl Esna came to the rescue. When she pulled up, I came down the stairs from my apartment with a bloody towel pressed firmly against my face with one hand and my trusty medical folder in the other. Esna clowned me all the way to the Emergency Room.

My Mama also taught me the art of sugarcoating. Now, I always knew I had the gift of tact, but my sister, Tamika, reminded me of that last week when she brought one of her bourgeois desserts for Thanksgiving dinner. I don’t remember the name of it, but it amounted to a medley of sweet potatoes, apples, raisins and cinnamon (probably “pot ahpul prunes of cinny sweetness” in her book).

Anyway, the dish was aiight, and I don’t even like sweet potatoes. And before you say, “Naw, you gotta try my Mama’s sweet potatoes,” I’ll say that I’m sure your mother is a beautiful woman, but I wouldn’t like her’s either. Trust me, the cinnamon-apple flavor overpowered the sweet potatoes.

But anyway, when I was done with the dessert and said, “That was pretty good, Meek,” she and my mother looked at me all funny like, “It was?” Tamika then told me that I must have really liked the dessert because I’m known to keep my mouth shut if I don’t have something nice to say about food, outfits, and of course, babies.

My mother and I are notorious for commenting on a child’s outfit if we don’t think they’re on their way to a cutest baby contest.

“Check out lil’ man with his cute lil’ outfit on!” we might say.

“Just look at these little shoes! Aren’t you matching from head-to-toe!” is another maneuver we frequent.

Oh yeah, and I can’t forget, “Aren’t you just as precious as you wanna be. Muah!”

But shhhh … don’t tell nobody our secret. We are in the business of sparing feelings and preserving friendships.

So, you see, being organized and a spoonful of tact will last you a lifetime, and I’ve got my Mama to thank for showing me how to survive.

2005-12-01T00:00:00.000-05:00

A realistic resolution for the new year
ELH

Today’s the day I’ve designated to avow perhaps the most frequently broken promise of the year. I’m declaring my New Year’s Resolution.

I know this kind of thing is done on New Year’s Eve, but I’m going public with mine early for one simple reason: mental preparation.

Spur of the moment resolutions are rarely carried out. So out of speculation that history will repeat itself, and I will disregard said resolutions by my birthday (March 1, by the way), I set some basic guidelines for making one realistically attainable pledge for 2006.

Rule #1: I will not promise to pay off my debt this year. (Yes, I said, “will not.”) This has got to be the most frequently broken resolution next to “I’m going to workout on a regular basis.” It’s bullshat. If you’re anything like me – a recent college graduate with 5-figure Student Loans and a couple credit cards – it ain’t happening. I say that not to discourage you, but to encourage you to realize that if you have enough debt to have to “declare” that you’re going to pay it all off this year, it’s too much. It won’t be done so I’m eliminating the stress factor before it culminates.

Rule #2: I will not promise to “get closer to God.” (Yes, I said, “will not.”) Before you go thinking I’m a heathen, hear me out. For any believer, getting closer to God should be an everyday objective. And no resolution should have to be effected for you to remember that. I can think of two things at this very moment that I can work on that would bring me closer to God: 1) my foul language, and 2) my watching a Sunday sermon on TV or online instead of getting out of bed to going to church. I’m trying to wean myself off those habits.

Rule #3: I will not promise to workout on a regular basis. (Yes, I said, “will not,” and you knew it was coming.) I’m lazy! Enough said. But if you’re a college student reading this and you want a good laugh, take a stroll past your school workout room the first day of class after the New Year. It’ll be packed and the regulars will have major attitude because they can’t get a set of weights.

So, what the hell (oops … I mean) what’s left to promise, right?

I’m giving the promise of my time. This year, my resolution isn’t even about me. It’s about my most prized possession though – my relationships with people.

See, I’m known to take others under my wings. I did it in high school and in college with several little sisters and little brothers, but most of those “littles” aren’t so little anymore. Many of them are graduating in May and going to graduate school or starting their professional careers, just like I did almost three months ago.

While I am just a phone call, e-mail or plane ride away from all of them, my life here in Akron, Ohio, is missing something. It’s missing doing for others. It’s missing teaching someone the life lessons I’ve learned so far. It’s missing someone to mentor.

But no more … because my New Year’s Resolution is to join Big Brothers Big Sisters. Get ready little Mama, wherever you are, whoever you. I’m ready to kick some knowledge, and we’re going to have a blast.

2005-11-01T10:00:00.000-05:00

Drunkards are merely closet comedians
ELH

Alleged criminals can be quite honest. That's why my day brightens when I edit the Crime Blotter at work. For those who don't frequent the paper, Crime Blotter is a list of recent arrests in the area, and the information can be, dare I say, quite amusing. Most daily newspapers have something comparable to it. And now, why I love reading it:

REASON ONE: Drunkards are bold.
Jeremy H. Porter, 21, of Akron, Ohio, was charged Oct. 20 with robbery. Porter allegedly stole a liter bottle of Hennessy cognac valued at $39.20 from TLC Liquor, 1205 W. Main Street. He tried to flee the scene and used force against employees, reports showed.

REASON TWO: Drunkards are honest.
Thomas M. Joyce Jr., 23, of Cleveland, was charged Oct. 21 with operating a vehicle while under the influence. Police responded to Taco Bell, 805 E. Main St., regarding a possible drunken driver in the drive thru. When police asked Joyce, who was swaying back and forth, how much alcohol he'd consumed, he stated: "A lot!"

REASON THREE: Drunkards speak the truth.
Robert J. Speer, of Tallmadge, Ohio, was charged with driving under the influence Oct. 23. Police responding to a call about an intoxicated driver stopped Speer as he pulled into Stop 'N' Go Drive Thru, 1320 Tallmadge Avenue. Speer remarked about police having to make quotas and told them they were impeding business at the drive thru. After he was brought to the station, he noticed a grill in the garage and stated that police must have a hard job, asking if they also took naps.

Happy Birthday, you're a freakin' Laker!: Talk about one hell of a gift. Devin Green, a recent graduate of Hampton University, is one of the newest Los Angeles Lakers. According to the DailyPress.com, he is the second Hampton University alumnus to make the NBA regular-season roster in 25 years. Rick Mahorn, who is best known for his role on Detroit's 1989 championship team, was the first.

Even though Devin, who wears two ones across his chest, is at the bottom of the NBA salary chain, me and the rest of my graduating class are still eating his dust. He told the Daily Press he's making almost $400,000 a year. Take that. Take that. Take that. Take that. His NBA profile is first on the list if you Google him. Click that link, and you'll find his birthday was Oct. 25.

Pirates, do you think he'll respond when the Rev. Jerome Barber says, "BOOSTERS, ARE YOU READY?!"

Oh yeah, even more worth noting: That stupid hot chocolate machine took my dime the other day, and I had to settle for the measly regular size cup of hot chocolate for 30 cents. It's about twice the size of the Dixie cups you use to gargle.

And I'm out!

2005-10-29T06:14:00.000-04:00

What did I do to deserve this?!
ELH

I was in a good mood at work tonight. After deadline, all the way to the cafeteria, I hummed that song they used to sing on Barney. You know the one I’m talking about: “Clean up, clean up, everybody every where. Clean up, clean up, everybody do your share.” Don’t ask me why that song was in my head. Maybe it's because I always see the janitors on my daily trek to the hot chocolate vending machine.

I had 50 cents in my pocket – four dimes and two nickels. My daily hot chocolate only cost me 40 cents a cup. Yes! I had enough.

One dime. Two dimes. Three dimes. Four. I hit the “Whipped Hot Chocolate” button. Large cup, please. It dropped. Chocolate liquid drained.

Still clinching my nickels, I continued humming: “Clean up, clean up, everybody every where. Clean up, clean up, everybody do your share.”

One more time! “Clean up, clean up, everybody every where. Clean up, clean up, everybody do your share.”

The machine stopped. I lifted the little door. And guess what? Just guess ...

The hot chocolate missed the damn cup.

SHAT! THIS IS SOME FREAKIN' BULL!!!

2005-10-28T23:09:00.000-04:00

So, I'm little late on my third entry for the series, but yall know the only deadlines I make are the ones I get paid for! Today is the last day of a three-part series of the biggest things that have happened since I’ve been in hibernation.

PART THREE: Homecoming was ... well ... OK
ELH

My undergraduate days were over. I was told to step up my game. I had to look like I had career. Like I had business cards. Like I could “rock the blue and white” when the Blue Thunder cheerleaders said, “Let the alumni do it!”

I came with it pretty tough, but I can’t say the same for my Home by the Sea. My first homecoming as an alumna at Hampton University was … well … OK.

The thing I knew I would miss most after graduation was the people. And I did. I saw my girls from pre-college. I saw friends I met online before my freshman year. I saw my Student Leaders. I saw my little sisters, and of course, I was chillin’ hard with the clique.

The bazaar on Friday is usually a full-out reunion of screaming hugs in the middle of the Student Center when you see your people. I was with my clique so there was none of that. I saw a couple folks who yielded one of two things: “the half-smile” (no teeth) or the “Hampton hug” (sideways with one arm … and don’t forget the double pat).

The Hampton drizzle was in full effect that afternoon. The fresh press went poof. So, I went to Happy Hour.

The Soiree hosted by 112 was that night. MAD folks turned out for that – even though the liquor license got straight snatched just hours before the gig. I spent a lot of time babysitting one of my girls. Some folks just don’t know their liquor limit. I guess she was smart enough to get done before we left the crib though. I was the designated driver in a rented Trailblazer (thank God for corporate discounts!) so that was no haps for me. I barely shook my laffy taffy, but I hope I got some good pictures out of the deal.

Saturday morning I dragged myself out of bed to see my little sister Antoinette (also known as Miss Hampton University) on her float in the Homecoming Parade. Then Sara, Sharell and I did some last-minute shopping at the mall. I used my charm to get the grad student discount to get into the football game. (Saved myself $12!) Half-time is normally game time, but I think the bands missed the memo. I left shortly after Antoinette took her last walk around the track.

Perhaps the highlight of my weekend was the Student Leader reunion. They’re such coons! And my best friend Barron is an even bigger coon for crashing!

Stepshows have never been my thing. I even turned down free admission. I’ve never gone to a Homecoming Concert. Plus, the line-up was mad WACK this year! Ruben Studdard and Lil’ Scrappy? You can’t be serious. I think my little sister Krystal said it best with the following fictional impromptu conversation between the headliners:

Big Ruben: Little Scrappy, what church do you attend?
Lil’ Scrappy: I'on go to chuch, hoe.

NEVER!

My boy Kyle helped throw a cabaret that night. After a location change here and there, it ended up being at a freakin’ bingo hall in Newport News (also known as Bad News), Va. Never will VIP be two leather couches, a pillar and some streamers. The drinks were free though so I hung out for a little while. I left when some broad threw up near my feet. I mean like ... ugh. You almost ruined my Aldo sling backs, chick.

Two of my boys got robbed at gunpoint. I heard a girl got a shotgun put to her head. And I heard a football player got jumped. That’ll teach HU to party in Bad News. Gotta keep it local or go to the Beach, people.

I only saw one of my two best friends. Didn’t even spot a little brother. And didn’t get to rock the red corduroy jacket I splurged on at the Gap.

Oh yeah, and most disappointingly, I never got to rock the blue and white.

Let’s try it again next year, Hampton.

2005-10-26T00:00:00.000-04:00

Ask me who this guy is, and I'll tell you he's my boyfriend now :)

Today is the second day of a three-part series of the biggest things that have happened since I’ve been in hibernation.

Part TWO: Add the third Saturday in October to my list of favorites

If you’re not from the Midwest (more specifically, Indiana, Illinois, Ohio, Michigan, or Wisconsin) or have ties to the Great Lakes region, you may have no idea the importance of the third Saturday in every October. It’s Sweetest Day … and mine was the best ever.

Let this native Michigander shed some light on the holiday for you. Sweetest Day has been around since 1922. It was started about 30 minutes up the road from me in Cleveland by a man named Herbert Birch Kingston who wanted to “bring happiness to the lives of those who often were forgotten” according to Hallmark. Sweetest Day is most celebrated in the Great Lakes region but has gained popularity as people from this area move to different parts of the nation. It has grown into a romantic holiday.

Under the advice of my mentor KLC, I will take the gangsta, the thug, the 7 Mile (for my Detroiters) out of my tone for this sweet story …

The only time I left my apartment on Oct. 15 was to go to work, but it was still a great day. My Special Someone had come to visit me for a few days from Michigan. I hadn’t seen him in a month, and I was super excited about him making that nearly 4-hour drive.

He got here early on that Thursday evening. We talked over dinner at a nearby Damon’s Grill. Then, I dragged him to the closest Wal-Mart Supercenter about 30 minutes away, and he helped me do my start-up grocery shopping. (I know I’ve been here for more than a month, but I’ve been busy, and I promise you, if he wasn’t the what’s-for-breakfast type, I would have put it off even longer.) After we got home, I realized how wonderful it felt not to sleep alone.

The next day, I made him breakfast, then we did some shopping at the mall. He also helped me pick out a drill so he could mount the TV stand I got from my girl Kyra. We had dinner at Pizza Hut, and when we came home, we started on the TV stand project. The drilling and hammering ended up being too loud, and we didn’t want to disturb my neighbors so we put it off until the next day.

That Saturday morning, I made him breakfast while he got sweaty drilling and hammering in my bedroom while halfway watching his Spartans get whooped on by the Buckeyes. When he finished, he sat on the edge of my bed in front of my dresser mirror. I went to sit on his lap, teased him for Michigan State’s loss, hugged and kissed him hard work and thanked him for coming to see me.

As we stared at ourselves in the mirror, he took a deep breath and said a “pressing issue” had been on his mind. I asked him what the issue was. He said he was sure I knew. And I did. After all, we had been dating for quite a while, and “making it official” had been the topic of conversation on several occasions, the most recent being “What would change if our title changed?”

I had an inkling about what he was thinking. Plus, he asked me the day before: “Sweetest Day is tomorrow, right?” Something told me he was trying to wait until that day to make it special. And when he asked me to be officially be his girlfriend, that day became the most memorable Sweetest Day I’ve ever had. It was the day my Special Someone added another notch to Herbert Birch Kingston’s holiday and brought an unforgettable happiness to my life.

2005-10-25T05:55:00.000-04:00

Moments after my little sister Antoinette L. Knox was crowned Miss Hampton University 2005-06 on Oct. 8, a crowd of supporters rushed the stage to congratulate her. I stood to the side until she spotted me in the crowd and then went on stage for us to pose for a Verizon Picture Message moment.

The next three days will be a series of the biggest things that have happened since I’ve been in hibernation.

PART ONE: My Kindred Spirit wears a crown
ELH

After a $200 plane ticket, a $100 full-page ad in a program booklet I never even got and a $40 parking bill at the Cleveland Hopkins airport, I don’t regret spending a dime. If I had missed my little sister being crowned Miss Hampton University 2005-06, I would have been heated. But I’m cool. Because I was there. And I went nuts when they called her name.

Antoinette L. Knox, a senior sociology major from Raleigh, N.C., is my last little sister, my Kindred Spirit, and without a doubt, one of my favorite people and closest friends. She is absolutely unbelievable. No one is perfect, but I promise you, she’s an angel in disguise.

When I graduated from Hampton, in a card to me, she wrote: “There are no words to explain just how much of a blessing you are in my life.”

But I, too, believe she’s my blessing. She is my personal adviser, a joy to know and a pleasure to love. Her personality is incredible. Her smile is contagious. Her heart is colossal. Her voice is nothing short of amazing, and I’m probably one of her biggest fans – although she never sings for me. I am one of few she’s let get close to her, and if I didn’t know her, I’m sure a part of me would be incomplete.

It took me days to come up with the message for the ad I placed in the pageant’s program booklet, but this is what I came up with: “Defined by your confidence, personality and spirit, your presence exemplifies being a star on and off the stage. Tonight is no different. Avow your accolades and bask in your bravoes because you are the cosmopolitan choice to represent Hampton University. You epitomize the Hampton woman and are nothing less than a phenomenal legacy in-the-making. Congratulations on your pageant!”

On Oct. 8, she introduced herself to the audience that packed Ogden Hall on Hampton University’s campus and was the most consistent contestant throughout the competition. She obviously wowed the judges in the swimsuit portion, with her soprano voice during the talent portion, with a laid-back-but-stylish outfit in the casual portion, with an elegant black and pink gown for the evening wear portion and with her intellectual response to a question about her platform in the Q&A portion. An interview with the judges prior to the pageant carried the most weight in her overall score.

In a just-because card to me, Antoinette once wrote: “… As I told you before, I know you are one of my lifetimes. Your season in my life is never ending. I hope you know that I love you, and I thank you for allowing me to be your Little Sister. … Everyone wants to be Erin’s Little Sister/Little Brother. But we all know that I’m the last one. No More!!”

She’s right. She and the rest of the Fab Five (my little sisters at Hampton) and the Three Kings (my little brothers at Hampton) demand enough of me. But hey, the same goes for the new queen of Hampton University. You only have one big sister and one Kindred Spirit, chump. Remember that!

Next stop: Miss Virginia. Until then, her picture should be on the Hampton University homepage.

(Note: If the queen pictured on Hampton's Web site is wearing a white dress, that is J. Anita Blanton, Miss Hampton University 2004-05. Antoinette's dress will be black and pink.)

2005-10-25T02:14:00.000-04:00

Guess who's bizack?
ELH

It’s been a while, but maybe I’m back for a while. If you read me often, you know I get on a blog kick then go into hibernation. I saw this list on Melanie Johnson’s blog and decided to be a copycat. I’m sure J. McLaughlin will follow suit, too :) Enjoy getting to know me a little better … while I get back into the swing of things.

I am not: the best writer I know.
I hurt: when people are mad at me.
I love: e-mailing my friends, more than talking on the phone.
I hate: making mistakes at work.
I hope: to pay off my Student Loans before I’m married.
I hear: my neighbors every time they close their door.
I regret: being a bitch toward an old friend this weekend.
I cry: when I get overwhelmed with work.
I care: about my little sisters more than they’ll ever know.
I always: think about my William at work.
I long to: not sleep alone.
I feel alone: when I have a bad day.
I listen: to my mother more than she knows.
I hide: my true feelings about living away from home.
I drive: a green 2000 Nissan Sentra named “Tara.”
I sing: my old gospel solos from my choir days in the shower.
I dance: all around my apartment … but I’m not always dressed.
I write: a to-do list but usually get everything done without it.
I breathe: loudly when I’m frustrated.
I play: with Lexi (Esna’s dog) every time I visit Hampton.
I miss: my little cousins.
I search: for my keys at least once a week.
I say: I can definitely do something when it’s really a stretch.
I feel: like people think I don’t have friends when I’m in a public place alone.
I succeed: at coming through for people.
I fail: at getting every headline through at work.
I dream: about God, sex and money.
I sleep: in sweats with the heat as high as I can afford.
I wonder: what I’ll name my children.
I want: to hit the lotto and break my family off something lovely.
I worry: about being robbed even though I live in a great area.
I have: to go to a luncheon about diversity in the media tomorrow afternoon.
I give: my little sisters and my little cousin DeAndre whatever they want.
I fight: the urge of online shopping.
I wait: for my girls to get ready all the time.
I am: a loner, except when I’m in Hampton.
I think: about past relationships at least once a day.
I can't: say no to my little sisters.
I stay: in my apartment with the blinds closed unless I don’t have to go to work.

2005-09-28T01:29:00.000-04:00

Might we have Janet Junior on the mike?
ELH

I need to have more faith in homegrown talent because this girl right here is all right.

Teairra Mari, the newly-crowned "Princess of the Roc," and very worthily I add, a native of Detroit, did her thing at the BET Comedy Awards last night.

Not only do I admire the depth of her voice and great legs (no homo, stop trippin'), but she has a natural commanding stage presence that says: "Pay attention because this is my show."

The newcomer sings and dances ... and get this, at the same time. Hot damn! Slap a pair of bangs on the dame, and she could be the next best thing since Janet.

I'm not saying Teairra Mari is totally comparable to industry heavy-hitters like Beyonce, and well, Beyonce, but this 17-year-old diva-in-the-molding can certainly hold, at the very least, a flicker to Shawn Carter's personal princess. (By the way, if you haven't heard, Carter no longer wants to be called "Jay-Z" because he's pursuing international business deals.)

T. Mari's got way more oil on her joints than Ashanti, who in the "Happy" video convinced us that her elbows were stuck to her hip bones. But my hometown girl has a little bit work to do in the abs department because she isn't as stiff as B.

We'll see how long T. Mari can hold on to that Roc-A-Fella chain because Hov's track record (he never said we couldn't call him Hov) still stands ... he did drop Amil.

(From Ruler's Back: "When in these times well at least to me there's a lot of rappers out there tryin to sound like Jay-Z I help you out here's what you do you're gonna need a wide lens cause that's very big chew and you gotta couple of beans and you don't got a clue the situation is bleak I'm a keep it real cause f*ckin with me you gotta drop a mil cause if you gotta cop somethin you gotta cop for real...")

I'm 90 percent behind a girl whose interviews show she's proud to be from the home of cars, minks and of course, those stank pank gators. I'm picking her album up today. But like the Ghetto Sea Captain, she lost 10 percent of my bravoes with the club song about growing up without a daddy.

2005-09-25T22:06:00.000-04:00

What is the sequence of love's events?
ELH

The good thing about working in a city where 1) you don’t have many friends, 2) you’re more than three hours away from your mother, and 3) that special someone is even farther away, is that you can bank mad overtime at work.

JAM and Jamar have been in grim pursuit for me to end my two-week hiatus from the Asylum. I hope my writing isn’t in vain and that you missed me just as much as they did. I think I’m back now – maybe not with daily doses, but I’m here.

While my fingers have been on retreat, my intellect has not. For weeks, I’ve been in a constant which-came-first-the-chicken-or-the-egg tussle within:

In an intimate relationship (meaning romantic, passionate and past the friend stage), in what order does the following happen: to have love for, to love, to fall in love?

I’ve asked several people, and few had the same answer as me or anyone else.

I say the aforementioned is the sequence of events: to have love for, to love, to fall in love.

I’ve been in love twice, and both times, my feelings progressed in the same order. It started with having love for the chaps.

“To have love for” meant that I wished the best for him. I did the things that everyday friends do for each other. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“To love” was a magnified definition of doing the things that everyday friends do for each other. My love crept into pleasant thoughts throughout the day. He tiptoed through my wildest dreams in the night. He soon occupied a segment of my heart, and that love was the climax before the zenith of falling in love with him.

“To fall in love” is opaque to many. Often they say they don’t know when or how it happens. They just wake up one day and know happiness is tangible. They can see, touch, smell, hear and taste that special someone. He or she is the sunrise and sunset of the day.

To have love for, to love, to fall in love: In what order does it happen?

2005-09-12T00:25:00.000-04:00

It's MY blog, I'll write what I want to
ELH

A fork. A knife. A cup from Taco Bell. A smell-proof squeeze bottle from my boy CG3. That's what's in MY sink right now.

It's the night before my first day at my new job. I'm in MY soon-to-be souped-up guestroom gigging to Ciara. In just a few minutes, I will hop in the shower off MY master bedroom before I spend my last night on MY living room floor in MY new luxury apartment. Damn my life is good ...

2005-09-03T01:43:00.000-04:00

"Erin, I think we're on the 50 yard line."
ELH

Let an amateur order your Super Bowl tickets.

It's Hampton University vs. Jackson State University today at 1 p.m. for the Detroit Football Classic. I got my tickets two minutes after they went on sale on Ticketmaster several months ago.

Tonight, my big sister from Hampton asked about our seats for the game and decided to look up the seating chart on the Ford Field Web site.

Aaquila (that's Uh-key-luh, by the way) : Erin, I think we're on the 50 yard line.

Me: Fa real? I mean, I wasn't trying to get those seats, but that's what's up. I had forgotten about that whole 50 yard line thing. When I was buying the tickets offline, I said, 'the middle looks good,' and I just went to the middle of the screen and clicked that section.

No wonder my Mama always lets me pick the line at the grocery store.

Four tickets to the Detroit Football Classic: $200. Four hot dogs and cokes: Probably highway robbery. Spending my first HBCU classic game with Aaquila, her DeAndre and my William: Priceless.

Let me know if yall see me on TV!

2005-08-31T22:09:00.000-04:00

An American tsunami with one helluva poker face
ELH

No one else will admit it, so I will: I thought Katrina was bluffing. I didn't take her seriously. Thought she was fakin' like turkey bacon. About as real as a three-dollar bill. And apparently, most residents of New Orleans (and some others) felt the same way.

I heard the news reports, but I wasn't listening. For several days, it’s been Hurricane Katrina this, Hurricane Katrina that. I thought black folks were buzzing because the international committee of the World Meteorological Organization – also known as the folks who name hurricanes – gave a natural disaster one of "our" names. (Reality check: Katrina is a "variant short form of 'Katherine,'" a Greek name that means "pure." Dudn’t just ring European?)

I’ve heard news reports of so many storms in the recent months that I didn't take it seriously. I thought Katrina would be comparable to the wrath of Hurricane Isabel that hit Virginia in September 2003.

Isabel forced more than half the campus of Hampton University to get the hell out of dodge. The other half was held quarantine in a hot, stuffy gymnasium on campus. And one guy I know brought real meaning to “I’m goin’ back to Cali.”

My good friend Chris lived right up the street from my new apartment, and luckily, he was riding out the storm, too. Chris stayed because he was already "home." I stayed because I was starting new job at the local newspaper that week. "My Mama wants me to come home because of the hurricane," just wouldn't fly.

So there we were – Chris and I – without water and electricity for eight days straight. We grilled anything we could get our hands on – hotdogs, hamburgers, corn on the cob – and talked until we couldn’t talk anymore. We saw the gas station next door to me get blown away, five chimneys fall off the buildings in my complex and trees with exposed roots that were more than six feet tall. But in retrospect, "it wasn't that bad."

Fast forwarding two years, when I walked by my television a few days ago and saw pictures of children being rescued off the roof of a house, I looked at the screen and literally said, "What the hell?" The shit was just unreal. Just heart wrenching. Some of those people lost everything except their lives. Some weren’t even that lucky.

Imagine it: Climbing to the top of a dorm at Xavier University to escape the water. Fleeing to the neighboring state not knowing if your home will have been swept away to Alabama or Mississippi by the time you get back. Watching your home fill with water and split apart. Losing grip of your wife’s hand as she drowns. Begging the police to help your injured husband from going under. Hearing them say they’ll come back for you later. Then seeing your husband drown and having those same officers tell you to push him out of the sun so that his body doesn’t start to smell.

Those are just some of thousands of stories. Coverage of this disaster has been like watching a reenactment of the tsunami in Indonesia late last year. It's amazing how we don't really feel pain until it hits close to home. I know I said “imagine it,” but thousands don’t have to.

A young lady I met at the National Association of Black Journalists convention last month touched base with members of the Young Black Journalists listserv via e-mail yesterday. Her message said: "… I'm a senior mass communication major at Dillard University and most of us are suffering beyond imagination. I lost all of my earthy possessions including clothes and everything that was in my apartment. Everybody I talk to has basically lost everything, and above everything else, I might not get to graduate on time. I know the whole graduation thing may seem irrelevant, but realize that I have shaped my entire life around that for the last three years. Every decision I have made has revolved around getting a degree. I'm just asking for your prayers."

That alone should make you want to give your checkbook a workout. I’m broke as hell right now, but I know I will.

2005-08-30T19:31:00.001-04:00

Dr. Kenneth L. Riddle, far right, poses with members of the Student Leadership Program after his speech at the group's induction ceremony at Hampton University in 2004. Kenny served as the co-facilitator of Group 7 when he was a member of the program. He died Monday from injuries he suffered in a car accident in Maryland.

2005-08-30T19:31:00.000-04:00

The good doctor is home
ELH

When I see how many lives I've touched, it'll surely be an aerial view. I know that's how the late Dr. Kenneth L. Riddle is looking at the world from above right now.

Kenny, who earned a pharmaceuticals degree from Hampton University in 2004, died Monday from injuries he suffered in a car accident in Maryland. The news was devastating even for people like me who weren't lucky enough to know him nearly as well as others.

Now, don't let the Dr. title fool you. This brother was only 25. Just had a birthday in June, as a matter of fact. But Doctor (emphasis on the Doc ... so say it again) Doctor Kenny Riddle was, dare I say, all that. He was a handsome, brown-skinned, dred-headed, God-fearing man with a perfectly flawed set of pearly whites. He was known to bring his energy with him when he walked into a room. That was Doctor Kenny Riddle. And the last time I felt his energy was about a year ago.

Kenny was the keynote speaker at the induction ceremony for the Student Leadership Program at Hampton University in 2004. Dressed most impeccably in a bowtie and two parts of a three-piece suit, he did his entire address off the top his head. (His speech was kind of long so his jacket probably rested somewhere on a Chapel pew.)

Now, a year later, I'm not going to say I remember everything about his words that day. However, I know it featured a seed waiting to be watered so it could grow. Nonetheless, that speech about a little ol' seed had us on our feet for a standing ovation before the good doctor took his seat. That's the energy he brought. That's the energy he gave off. That's the energy I personally absorbed.

I can count the number of conversations I had with Kenny on one hand. But just seeing him around campus rocking the scrubs of a pharmacy student, watching him take what I thought were long, rushed struts to class and looking at him talk to his peers when he had a few minutes was enough to make me jealous of everyone who knew him better than I did.

Today, I asked my girl O’kneeka (that’s oh-nee-kah), who knew Kenny well, if she was making it OK. And you know what she said?

“I’m great! My homeboy is home!”

I’m striving to have O’kneeka’s attitude from this point, and I advise you to do the same.

May the good doctor rest in peace.

2005-08-12T00:00:00.000-04:00

Pieces ... pieces ... pieces of me
By ELH

1. I sleep with a stuffed dolphin between my knees every night.
2. It’s uncomfortable for my knees to touch at night.
3. I check my e-mail religiously.
4. I know I don’t need a dog, but I’m getting one anyway.
5. I was always the teacher’s pet.
6. A substitute music teacher bought me a sheet cake for my 7th birthday.
7. She bought gifts, too: press-on nails and neon-colored nail polish.
8. I only had one black mentor at Hampton.
9. I hate the rain.
10. I always think someone is hiding in the trees.
11. I love cuddling.
12. I can’t stand forwards.
13. I hate when people don’t return my phone calls.
14. Someone’s doing that to me right now.
15. It’s really starting to piss me off.
16. I stole this idea from a college associate.
17. Correction: I told him I was borrowing the idea.
18. I posted this entry before he OK’d my using it.
19. If he said no, I would have done it anyway. (Hey Ahleks!)
20. I missed working for the college newspaper after I quit.
21. That feeling didn’t last long.
22. I love to be missed.
23. It drives me crazy when my Kindred Spirit doesn’t call.
24. I go over my text message plan every month.
25. I’m petrified of the dentist.
26. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to the doctor.
27. I think about marriage at least once a day.
28. I think I already know the person I’m going to marry.
29. Sometimes I hate my job.
30. I’ll probably quit in a few years and become a teacher.
31. I was homophobic in high school.
32. I know lots of gay people now.
33. FYI: They’re not much different than straight people.
34. I didn’t like living in Atlanta this summer.
35. I don’t know why.
36. I haven’t had a print cartridge since my junior year at Hampton.
37. I don’t drive in the fast lane.
38. I wanted to pledge in college.
39. I think light-skinned kids get too much attention.
40. I have hammerhead toes.
41. I have two chicken pox marks on my stomach.
42. I love my lips.
43. I’ve never had a professional massage.
44. I spend way too much money on other people.
45. I usually want the gifts I buy them for myself.
46. I treat most people better than they treat me.
47. I scared of dying by fire, by water or in a car crash.
48. I had red hair in high school.
49. My dad gives me anything I ask him for.
50. I hardly ever ask him for anything though.

2005-08-11T15:37:00.000-04:00

First name ‘No’ … Last name ‘Shame’
By ELH

I haven’t been a fan of morning radio since John Mason — the team announcer for the Pistons who popularized the megalopolitan chant “Deeetrooiit Baaasketball” — left WJLB in 2001.

But on my way to work Wednesday morning, I was tuned into the “Frank and Wanda in the Morning” show on Atlanta’s V-103.

It was “Wednesday Scruples,” and Frank Ski kept saying the topic was a hot one, advising all single mothers with teenage daughters to turn their radio dials to the right.

And Frank was right. The letter he was about to read was super sultry.

One shameless recent Spelman alumna wrote in seeking help with one very detestable dilemma she has. And it goes a lil something like this …

He hit it. And has been for the past four years. Who’s the he? Hold on to your lunch now: Her Mama’s current man. That’s right, people. Since ol’ girl was a freshman at Spelman, she has been feasting on her mother’s leftovers.

I’ll say it for you: Ugh!

But Miss No-Shame’s situation gets even more ignoble. Now that she has graduated from college, she feels it’s time to tell her mother that she wants to marry the two-timing jerk co-starring in this soap opera. And, according to the letter, the yak reciprocates Miss No-Shame’s feelings.

Let Whitney say it for you: Oh hell to the naw!

This girl has the nerve to write that she loves her mother and that she wants to come clean — using those words cautiously because she oversteps the trifling parameter — about the dirty 4-year-old secret.

Love schmuv. That girl does not LOVE her mother. That ardor went down the toilet almost four years ago. She’s a scuffle hoe who — when she releases this classified information — will dig a wound so deep into her mother that I wouldn’t blame the woman for disowning the scamp.

Mistakes happen, but not for four consecutive years.

Is there a time limit for what constitutes classification of a “mistake”? I don’t know. But I do know this girl’s actions certainly eclipse that seven-letter noun.

If Mr. And Miss No-Shame don’t jump the broom, some much needed mother-daughter family counseling is in order. If the posterior openings decide to get hitched, Mama should say to hell with the both of them.

Atlanta’s radio stations are the only reason I want to stay in this city.

2005-07-31T04:23:00.000-04:00

Just pay the damn ticket
By ELH

I’m too cute to go to jail. Too bad Chattanooga, Tenn., doesn’t give a flying fig about good looks.

I got a speeding ticket on my way to Atlanta from Detroit at the beginning of the summer. I was flying down I-75, running off at the mouth on the phone (with an ear piece, of course) to my friend Ashley. I spotted the Trooper parked on the right shoulder. I knew I was fried.

“Sh!t, girl, let me call you right back,” I said. “I know I’m about to get pulled over.”

The Tennessee State Trooper said he clocked me going 80 in a 45.

Of course with every speeding ticket, there’s an explanation …

The speed limit was 70 mph right before I got pulled over. So, yeah, I was already wrong for going 10 over. But 10 over sounds a hell of a lot better than 35 over. The Trooper claims the area would soon be a construction zone – not a worker or an annoying orange-and-white-striped cone in sight.

“I’m going to save you some money and not double your fine for being in a construction zone,” Trooper Holt, said. “I wrote you up for going 80 in a 45. Sign here.”

Huh?

“But we’re not in a construction zone,” I said.

“Oh, but we are,” he said. “See that temporary white speed limit sign over there? It says 45 mph. Work on this road starts Monday. Sign here.”

I signed the ticket, put my ear piece back in and drove off. The court date was July 5.

Well, July 5 came and went. And so did my chance to pay the ticket.

I called Tennessee the other day and asked how much the late fee would be so I could send in my payment.

“Well, honey, it’s a tiny tad bit more complicated than that,” Clerk #1 said with a twang. “Let me transfer you to our criminal division.”

Criminal division? What the hell?

“Miss Hill, so nice to finally hear from you,” Clerk #2 said with a watered down twang. “The judge issued a warrant for your arrest on July 8 because you didn’t send in a payment or show up for court on July 5.”

“A warrant for my arrest?” I asked. “What? So what do I have to do now?”

“Well,” she said with a condescending country laugh, “you have to turn yourself into the county jail, they’ll book you in, they'll set your bond, you can pay it and they'll give you a new court date.”

WHAT?!

“And you might not want to drive yourself because your license is suspended as well,” she added.

WHAT?!

So, I did the only logical thing: Googled “free legal advice.”

I found a lawyer in Chattanooga who said he would help me out, but he wanted me to try to handle it myself because it would be cheaper than his services.

“First of all, stay away from the county jail,” Bill said. “You can’t talk them out of anything once you’re already there. I don’t want you to spend the weekend in jail.

“Go to the court clerk’s office first and hope you get a nice clerk. Tell them you have a speeding citation, but you know the judge has already issued a warrant for your arrest. Let them know you have cash and ask them to recall the warrant because you’re ready to pay the ticket.

"If they tell you to go to the county jail, then you have to do what you have to do, but that’s when you call me, and I’ll come down there and get you out.”

So, that’s what I did. At 6 a.m. Friday morning, I picked up my girl from high school who lives in Atlanta now, and she drove me up to Chattanooga – in my car, of course. It was about a two-hour drive.

We were waiting inside the courthouse before the clerks even got there. When they opened the office, I walked up to the desk, and said, “Good morning, I’m here to pay a speeding ticket that was due earlier this month, but the judge has already issued a warrant for my arrest. I was wondering if you could recall the warrant because I’m here to pay the ticket."

Clerk #3 asked me my name, told me to have a seat outside and said she would see what she could do.

She called me in about 15 minutes later and said, “Sign here. Sign here. Pay the cashier, and you can go.”

Word?!

“Thank you,” I said, signing a waiver about the warrant. “I really appreciate it. But what about my license? They told me over the phone that it was suspended.”

“Oh, no,” Clerk #4 chimed in. “The judge does one of two things: He either issues a warrant, or he suspends your license. Not both.”

Screw Clerk #2 with her lying tail, I thought. All Chattanooga wanted was its money.

“Oh shoot … you all don’t take debit?” I asked.

“There’s an ATM across the street,” Clerk #3 said.

I’ve never been happier to give up $200.75 in my life.

2005-07-30T15:41:00.000-04:00

Would you let Mama get a heater?
By ELH

Hell for my family started at 5:53 a.m. Tuesday.

My cell phone rang with a 972 area code on the screen. Texas? This early in the morning?

It was a representative from an alarm company "in reference to a fire emergency" at my mother's house in Detroit.

"Wait ... huh? You're who calling from where?" I asked.

"This is Lana from [some electronic company] calling in reference to a fire emergency at [your mother's] house," she said.

Panic sets in.

"Well, did you try calling her?" I asked.

"We have called her cell phone, but were unsuccessful in making contact," she said. "We were only able to leave several messages on her cell phone. I want to assure you that we've already dispatched units to the address."

With watery eyes and a shaky voice, I thanked the woman for calling, hung up, panicked and prayed.

"Lord, please don't let the house be on fire with my mother's stuck inside," I said in a desperate prayer.

I sat up, turned on my bedroom light and started pacing. I heard my heart beating.

I called my mom's cell. Got her voicemail. Left a frantic message: "Ma, um, your alarm company just called me, and ... they said there was a, uh, a fire emergency ... at the house. Call me back, OK?"

I called my sister's cell. Got her voicemail. Left another frantic message: "Tamika ... Mama's alarm company just called me and said there's a ... umm … that the fire alarm is going off or that the button ... you know the fire button on the alarm thingy ... whatever ... %$#@ just call me back."

I called my sister's house. She answered.

"Tamika, Mama's alarm company called ... and they said the fire ... "

[Call waiting beeped. Caller ID showed Mama calling from home. I put Tamika on hold and clicked over.]

"Ma, what’s going on?" I asked.

Uncontrollable sobbing blares through my earpiece ...

So, what happened? This:

My mother was going along with her daily routine of watering her lawn before daybreak because the summer heat burns her grass if she waters it during the day. She had just finished and was on her way back into the house.

A man donning a black jersey, black denim shorts, black do-rag AND a gun walks INTO the house behind her and pushed her down. Since she still had her keys in her hand, she hit the van alarm and pressed the fire button and police button on the alarm keypad near the door. He pointed the gun at her (sideways ... like the young ones do in the movie), and she started screaming at the tiptop of her lungs. My mother's boyfriend (no jokes, please ... I’m still getting used to this) was upstairs, heard her scream and came running. The man, who my mother said was black, at least 6 feet tall and anywhere between the ages of 19 and 24, just ran away...

A good friend of mine — more like a sister — wants my mom to join her family for a CCW (carrying a concealed weapon) class next month.

Two questions:

Should I support my mother being strapped?

What do you think about me getting a dog since I might be living alone?

2005-07-19T23:39:00.000-04:00

Security guards: To canvass, protect, give advice on love
By ELH

I had an interesting conversation – with a security guard at my job – about falling in love.

Chief – a tall, chubby-but-not-overweight, handsome light-skinned brother not older than his early 40s – is chock-full of conversation on the nights he drives me to the parking structure two minutes away from the office.

On this Saturday afternoon, I didn’t need a ride because it was still daylight. So as I was walking out of the office, Chief – who I suspect was bored from the lack of people traffic – asked me how my weekend was. I told him I had gone out of town. And, of course, here come the questions:

Chief: Who did you go see?

Me: My friend.

Chief: Yo friend?

Me: My friend.

Chief: Guy or girl?

Me (grinning): Guy.

Chief: Girl, please. That's your boyfriend. Don't lie. I see it in your eyes ... and that smile. Look at you. You're in love.

Me: Hold up ... I didn't say a thing about love.

Chief: You didn't have to. I can tell by that smirk on ya face.

Me (still grinning): Whatever.

Chief: Want me to tell you how I know you're in love? And I'ma tell you this because I know you need to know it. You're in love because you take that fella around right here.

[Chief claws his stomach.]

Chief: My brother told me that once when I thought I was in love. I told him, I said, man ... I think I love her. I think I'm in love. And he told me, he said, you're in love if you take her around with you everywhere you go. Right here.

[Chief claws his stomach again.]

----------

So now security is an expert on love? Maybe. Maybe not. Do I need someone to break out the depilatory to uproot my self-proclaimed pacifism to falling in deep like?

When I told a co-worker about my conversation with Chief, she said, “… confirmation of loving someone does indeed come from the most unlikeliest of places.”

Or people.

QUESTIONS FOR YOU: If you’ve ever been in love, where did your confirmation come from? What did you do about the surreal becoming a good-feeling reality?

2005-07-16T15:07:00.000-04:00

Vernacular's hardest word only two letters long
By ELH

I'd go broke if I lived in Washington, D.C.

My proclamation has nothing to do with the district's high-priced rent, stiff taxes or overpriced parking. This college-educated woman would go broke in Washington, D.C., because I have yet to master what toddlers have had down pact from the beginning of vernacular — saying "no."

I took a reporting internship in the district in summer 2003. I was new to the city, new to taking public transportation, and — contrary to popular belief — this native Detroiter was new to being feet away from panhandlers every day of the week.

I got on the Metro at the Woodley Park/National Zoo stop on Connecticut Avenue for work each morning. And like clockwork, the less fortunate extended their forearms for spare change or "extra" sandwiches from McDonald's.

For the first few days, I did what my fellow interns did — hurried along while successfully avoiding eye contact. But when my colleagues and I branched out and the frequency of our Metro pooling dwindled, I got weak. At least three days a week that summer — somewhere between the upfront $1,200 check I had and "Mama, I'm out of money" — I found chump change to drop into the hands of those in need.

The word "no": Puny to some. Cosmic to me.

Name the things and people in your life who suck you in.