You Gotta Put Me On

"You can scroll ... and you can copy and paste."
That was the best advice I've gotten in months and I got it today from an unexpected source who probably didn't even realize they were giving advice.
If you're reading this on Dec. 1, 2013. You probably know me. You're probably a friend or family member and you're showing your support by reading, because you know it's been a minute since I've done anything constructive with my writing and you want to encourage that. Thank you. The sentiment is much appreciated.
As you know, loved one, I've been going through it.
This summer, I nearly lost everything.
And yeah, I picked myself up. And while we all knew it was never going to be rock bottom for me, it was close enough, that I saw myself as far away from success as I ever want to be again.
So this is my rebuilding year.
And I've been taking it slow.
New job. Check.
New plan. Check.
New focus. Not so much.
Before all my drama went down. I had one focus. To use my gift, fueled by my drive, to cash some checks and really make something of myself.
I wrote a book.
I published a book.
Then my life went to shit and I sat on that book.
But now, I'm back on my feet and ready to climb.
Only this time, I'm not afraid to ask for help.
So ... help.
Loved one, I need your help.
First of all, if you have bought my book, thank you. If you haven't, please do so.
In fact, even if you have bought my book, there's still work to be done. I need you to help put me on.
I need someone to notice this work. Hell, I need everyone to notice this book.
I need the grapevine to work for me. So I need you to get on that grapevine!
Here's the link to buy my book.
Send it to your mother, your sister, your aunt, your daughter.
Send it to that one woman who reached out to you on your first job and showed you the ropes.
Send it to that young woman who just started in your office and needs to be shown the ropes.
Or better yet, buy it again and just give it to them.
Just help me get the word out.
And if you know someone in publishing, definitely send it to them!
Seriously, you gotta put me on.
Because that's the reason I wrote this book -- to put somebody on.
To help some girl who's been out there grinding, but for whatever reason, can't get any experience in her field; or can't get past these entry-level positions. I wanted her to know what nobody told me. Why? So she could get on. So she could feed her babies and put them in position so that when it's time for them to go job hunting, they won't even need this book.
And that's all "Girl, Get a Job!" is about -- putting each other on.
And, if y'all know me, then you know, that's all I do -- I put people on. How many times have I been a reference for your job application, girl? How many times have you called me with cover letter questions, girl? How many times have I reorganized and hooked up your resume, girl? Right!
See? You gotta put me on.
I've been putting people on and helping everyone but myself for too long. It's time for June C. Straight to get hers.
So help me out.
And if you love me like you say you do, loved one, then the folks reading this after Dec. 1, 2013, don't really know me at all. They got the link to my blog and  the link to buy my book from a friend, or a family member, or a sorority sister. And they trust what they get from this loved one and decided to check me out. And now after checking me out, and clicking on each shameless plug for my book,  "Girl, Get a Job!", they've decided that in the spirit of everything feminine and determined, they want to join this campaign to put me on!
So even if I don't know you, if you've read this far, you've got to know I love you and I appreciate your efforts to help me feed this beast that is the desire to succeed out here.
I'm trying to rebuild my life and secure a life for my children. I'm trying to achieve the American dream. And if my future is just a scroll, a cut and a paste away, then I'm definitely going for it.
So like I was told today  ... "You can scroll ... and you can copy and paste."
Just don't forget to click "buy" afterwards.

Decisions, Decisions

Pride and self preservation:  the only two modes my mind seems capable of functioning in. The only other settings are depression and self pity, obviously not conducive to behaving like a human.

But from the time I wake up until the moment I find myself returning home to a dark empty house, pride and preservation are all I've got.

And yeah, I know, I'm supposed to be praying. And I am, but at the moment, prayer is working as the transition from pity to pride, so, yeah, I'm working on it.

There are a lot of problems with this situation, but the one that worries me the most is that I'm in a position where I have to make a lot of decisions. Important decisions. Decisions that affect me. Decisions that affect my babies. And, in my limited experience, none of my states of mind are good for decision making.

Obviously the biggie is my marriage. To the outside world, it's a simple fix. Divorce him!
Believe me, it's the simplest fix for me too.

And it's not because he's in jail, facing years of incarceration. It's not because he did something too big for me to forgive. It's simply that he has an addiction and that addiction is number one in his life. And if my kids are going to be number two to anybody, it's gonna be to God, not the bottle.

And yes, that's the self-preservation talking.

She's also, in concert with Pride, telling me how stupid it is to stay. "How many chances are you going to give him?" they chide. "Turn up the Sunshine Anderson!" Pride yells to Preservation.

Message received.

"Besides," Self Pity whispers, "You don't have a lot of options."
"Divorce him, or stand beside him. Either way you've failed." Depression just loves pouring salt in my wounds. She's a surprisingly snarky little bitch.

"Hey, what happened to that Eve 'Love is Blind' track?" Pride is really big on musical demonstration.

Between her and Self Pity, the go-to playlist on my cell phone is a mishmash of Lauryn Hill, Adele, Joan Jett and Paramour. -- lot's of 'he done me wrong" songs.

I'm one step away from the very blue Billie Holiday phase I went through in the ninth grade.

But I digress.

My marriage is over and I can't help but think I'm going to have to deal with the spiritual ramifications of  making such a huge decision out of pride and self preservation.

But, again, what other choices do I have.

To be fair. No decisions were made lightly. I looked long and hard at the past five years -- being married to an addict. I talked to counselors, I talked to rehab centers, I did the research and they all said the same thing: Leave or get used to it, because nothing is going to change.

When you're married to an addict who is not ready or willing to attempt at recovery, you have to leave. Tell them you're leaving and then follow through, otherwise, you're stuck.

And I did that. So, yeah, in the back of my mind I'm hoping that someday, he'll be that person who beats his addiction and gets his shit together. But the part closer to the surface ain't holdin' her breath.

I. HAVE. TO. MOVE. ON.
I.MUST. MOVE.FORWARD.
I. CANNOT. GIVE. UP.

That's all that there is to keep me going.

So, yeah, clearly, I'm not the model of a Christian wife and certainly not a 'ride or die' chick.

But at this point, that girl is not going to help me provide for my kids or be an example to them.

So Pride and Preservation it is.

And now it's time to wallow

It was suggested to me that I journal about some pretty heavy things that are going on in my life. And while I don't usually like to air my dirty laundry, I think that for now, in the interest of accountability, it would be wise to journal publicly. 

 So here goes: 

Addiction is a funny thing. 
It destroys lives. It destroys careers, but mostly, I think, it destroys families. 
I'm 29 and I've never had a sip of alcohol (outside of the Holy Communion) and yet here I am left picking up the pieces after the rock-bottom conclusion to a life of alcoholism and addiction.
So I guess addiction isn't really all that funny.
Nope, right now, it's down right depressing.

all right already I'm blogging

So, Lizz Straight, just  in case anyone has wondered why I haven't been blogging, I'm here to blog that I'm too effing tired to blog! Well, tired probably isn't the right word: Lazy, unmotivated and distracted are probably more in-line with the exact translation of my feelings. But I'm going to assume you're not ethnocentric enough to believe that you could ever adequately translate my state of mind into words. Because that would seriously offend my people.
Back to my blogless life.
Fatigue was my go-to excuse and it's no lie. I am tired. I'm a full-time mom, with a full-time job on top of that AND I'm trying to orchestrate a move to a city I never have time to drive to before I start a new full-time job at the end of this month. So yes, after waking up way to early, getting my kid ready for school, checking the gossip sites, leisurely laying around the house while reading or watching TV, cooking and working an 8-hour day, I'm too friggin tired to blog.
And I won't even go in to all my personal problems (that's a lie, see below).
Last week I treated myself to an Al anon meeting, only to find out that it's not a support group where you get to bitch and moan about your addict loved-one, but a 12-step program where you are encouraged to do more friggin work than you already do.
WTF! I mean, why should I make ammends! I'm not the addict! Why are there any steps in my program other than crying and complaining?!?
UGGGHHH.
So as you can see, I have been WAY to busy to blog with any sincerity, as clearly, I am emotionally spent from my busy schedule and my 12 steps.
Maybe next month I'll be more diligent.
Maybe not.

5 ways my kid's school is ruining my life

5. On blast: It's bad enough my kid slips and blabs to my family exaggerated versions of what goes on in our home. Now I have to worry about her crazy stories reaching the ears of teachers.
Of course I threaten to beat my kid's ass! I'm from Mississippi. That's just the southern way of asking if a kid wants a time out. The closest thing my daughter get's to a whipping is a pop on the arms or legs and that's usually when she's doing something super dangerous or out of control.  But the threat of "beating that butt" is much more effective than "taking a time out." But let Collette tell it I'll bust her head until the white meat show!  Add to that the dozen or so bruises she keeps on her legs from running around like a figgin quadruped and you get a cause for teacher concern and a report to DCS. I haven't been reported yet, but knowing Collette ...
4. Gimme, Gimme: That damned school is always asking for something. Donate supplies, donate money, donate time! Shit! My kid is in public school! If I could afford to give shit away she'd be in Catholic school! Yes, I do want to help the victims of the latest global catastrophe, but I'd also like to pay my light bill. So unless her school wants to throw us a rent party, I wish they'd stop asking me to give them shit.
3.The devil on my shoulder: So it turns out all the morals and ideals I had concerning "the kind of kid" I was going to raise went out the window when I realized my kid was the smartest, prettiest and best dressed in her class. Not that I want her to be a "Mean Girl" or a bully BUT, I find it hard not to be inwardly giddy at how awesome she is by comparison. I know that sounds horrible — it is. But I love that she will one day rule the school. It somehow feels like my accomplishment and proves that I really was cool in school ... just way ahead of my time. SHUT UP CLASSMATES!
2. Pressure: Collette's school is full of great kids. Unfortunately most of those kids have annoying parents. They suck up to the teachers  more than the kids. And they know EVERYTHING about school. I don't understand how someone my age knows the ins and outs of classroom and school business on the first day of Kindergarten. How many times have you gone through this? So now, I have to look like I give a crap what the PTA is doing before gracefully slipping out into the parking lot. And it doesn't end with volunteering. I also have to compete with the lunches their bourgeoisie little brats are eating in front of my little princess. "Anna Beth made her own pizza for lunch Mommy." If you can afford luncheables, you can afford a hot lunch — stop showing off and making it harder on the rest of us!
1. Schlafen! (that's German for sleep — see, I can show off too. BTW my kid is cooler than yours) That's right. I haven't slept in days. I get home between midnight and 1a.m., pack Collette's lunch, make sure her backpack and stuff is ready, then by 1:30, I'm crawling in the bed, only to be roused at 7:15 so I can dress Collette and do her hair, then I have to get her to school by 8:50 and by the time I get home — 9:15 or so — I have trouble getting back to sleep. Then there's all the normal shit I have to do like cook and launder before I'm off to pick up Collette at 3:15 to sit in a carpool lane until 3:45, pick up and drop off the kid and then high tale it to work.

I hate school!

Loves of her Life (2 of many)

This is part of a series I'm working on reflecting on growing up in Mississippi and being fast  falling in love.


So loves a strong word for … lets call him Beau, because really and truly he was my first beau. But if we’re talking about the loves of my life, the conversation can’t begin without Beau, because our relationship set the tone for all the great “loves” that followed.
At age 14 I had lived all of my adolescent years up to that point as the chubby sidekick of one Moniqa Henderson — think Fresh Prince of Bel-air era Tyra Banks — probably the most beautiful person I’d ever met.
Where she was tall, I was average, so by comparison short. Her long legs made her look like she just stepped off the catwalk. My long, athletic legs — topped by a muffin-like pear-shaped torso — made me look like I’d just stepped away from a Tweedle-Dee look-a-like contest
Where her hair was long and reddish brown, mine was shoulder-length, plainly black and never looked good in any style. Hers looked great in rollers.
Where her skin looked like a sun-kissed cinna-bun, mine couldn’t choose between a  pale, high-yellow and a boring, flushed bronze.
And while I thought my eyes were my best feature, my slightly slanted browns were mere buttons beside her flashy green peepers.
And just the thought of a guy  comparing her bubble-gum pink lips to mine, which thanks to a stupid birthmark always looked like I sneezed while applying lipstick, made me want to crawl into a hole and die.
A little dramatic, yes, but I was 14 with one friend and a cable subscription to Encore, which only played teen angst-filled flicks from the ’80s.
And as if her gorgeous looks wasn’t reason enough to hate her, my bestie was smart, funny, outgoing and fun to be around. Perfect. Ugh.
I tried really hard to hate her. But she told goofy jokes, watched Keenan and Kel and was determined to make her cool and exclusive friends accept me into their social circle.
Privately, she listened, she made me laugh and she never made fun of my excellent diction and superb grasp of the English language.
She also taught me how to dress, comb my hair and dance — well she tried her best to teach me how to dance. Regardless of how disgustingly perfect she was — did I mention the big boobs — Moniqa Henderson was good people. I loved her and I was glad to be a part of her world, even if I was just her chubby sidekick.

Loves of her Life (1 of many)

This is part of a series I'm working on reflecting on growing up in Mississippi and being fast  falling in love.

I should have known at age 7 that my love life was destined to be less the stuff that teen movies were made of and more a series of jubilant John Hughes-style bursts of romance, sandwiched in between  dull, passive lulls of reality.
Perhaps I should have picked a better role-model for my romantic interests. I  mean, I wanted to be like Lisa Turtle from “Saved By The Bell” The black, sassy, fashionable friend who never has a boyfriend, even though she’s hotter than some of her co-stars. Her only love interests were the geek, who seemed to grow dumber every year, and for one episode, her hottie best friend since grade school.
But that’s who I wanted to be, Crimped hair, neon tights, hot pink lipstick and all.
So naturally at age 7, when my I found out my best friend, Latericka Daniel Lockett,  and I liked the same guy — the only other black kid in school — we settled on letting the best girl win and singing the chorus to Candyman’s Knockin’ Boots in my bedroom mirror while jumping on my bed.
Of course, Latericka, who’s mom taught her beauty secrets and bought her socks with ruffles, had a strategy that involved more than batting her eyelashes and sighing longingly from across the room — After Lisa Turtle, Minnie Mouse was pretty much the coolest girl in the world. I mean, the eyelash move won Mickey over.
I just wish someone had told me then that my combined Lisa Turtle, Minnie Mouse Game, would get me stuck with losers and rats.