Archive for March, 2011

Thematic Thursdays: Don’t Put Bottles Inside of Your Myshell Tabu!

The UK has this slogan generator online, and I thought it was cool. You just put in your name and it generates a random slogan. Then it started to get weird. Take a look:

That was cool, so I tired it again.


You’re darn tootin’!

Everybody should have one!

That’s probably not a compliment.

False advertising. Ain’t no softer side. This is it. Take it or leave it.

I’m a little light, but okay. I’ll take it.

I’ll allow it.

That’s some pimp sh@t. I’ll allow it.

Dear Slogan Generator, your cannibalism creeps me out.

Business all in the streets!!!

But I’m a vegan … sometimes.

That’s mean!

Okay that’s just creepy. *shudder*

Dude, WTH?

Who are you calling a hoe?

 

Stop it!

Ewww.

*Myshell bursts into tears*

P.S. This one was my favorite one:

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Tuesdays With Mooch & Fuss: Roda and Twists


Miniature feet danced an offbeat jinga on the hardwood floor at Ifa Temple of Los Angeles this past Sunday. The smell of black beans and rice wafted through the air as Mooch and several of Professor Jahsun’s younger students had their first mini roda as part of the temple’s grand opening celebration. Mooch has been studying capoeira for nearly a year now, and she thoroughly enjoys it.

She’s very particular about her extracurricular activities, and she’s at the age where I let her choose. When asked, she states that acting and reading are the most important things to her. Then she’ll rattle off all of the other hand picked hobbies she loves — tap, double dutch, ballet, and her Caribbean class. Most Saturdays I can’t get her to stay for African, because she claims it’s too long. I don’t push it. She probably only takes it once per quarter, and she prefers when I take it with her. It’s just not on her list.

Capoeira is one of the many things at which she’s improved since her eye surgery. There were times along the way when she wanted to quit, and we’re so happy that she persevered. It was originally part of rites of passage, so she didn’t hand pick it. She didn’t even know what it was! The other night she was explaining the belt colors to me, and I said, “You sound like you’re not done with this.”

She replied, “Oh no. I’m going to keep doing capoeira long after rites of passage. I will always do it. It’s just in me.” I just chuckled and tucked her in.

Next step — fire arms. *wink*


 

Fuss

I tried Fuss’ hair in twists this weekend. I can’t say I’m a fan of her O-Dog style. I missed her curls. She seemed to enjoy whipping her hair back and forth. What say you?

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Marital Mondays: Fuss All Day

Fuss is a full time job. Hannibal experienced this first hand this past Saturday. He had the girls from 10:45am to 7pm when I returned. He rolled his eyes at me when I got home. When I asked if anything was wrong, he said. “I’m just tired. I’m not upset. This is not a thing. I’m just tired.” I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I have them all day every day, but that wasn’t the correct thing to say right then.

I just said, “Okay. I’m sorry you’re tired.” Then I went to check on Mooch in the shower while he scrambled to figure out dinner. This gave me a chance to check myself and make sure I wasn’t going to be on defense when I got back in the kitchen. Once I learned that she was getting out of the shower and had it together, I went back to help him prepare the meal.

He explained that he’d had trouble getting Fuss to sleep, his shoulders hurt from having her strapped to his chest all day, and he had used his left leg to corral her in the hallway at Lula’s for an hour while Mooch was in class. He told me she was bottle-centric and barely ate actual food all day. I stood steaming broccoli as he let it all out. I understood. It was my daily struggle, only instead of a bottle, she nurses on me all day. Though enjoyable, kids are hard on the body and mind. They have a mountain of energy, and he’s new at it.

Most Saturdays, he’s relieved at three, but when I called after my lunch, he didn’t seem to be headed home, so I went to Del Amo Mall with my best friend. I received frantic texts for “bread” and “more baby food.” At one point, his text that asked, “Is everything okay?” screamed “Please come home. I need you here. Where are you?” His pride wouldn’t let him say that, though. I felt for him, because I hadn’t driven, so I had to wait until I was delivered back to my car.

He’s always so calm, collected and sweet when he comes into our home and sweeps me of my feet with his huge smile and weekly husband flowers. It was strange to be on the other side. I didn’t have any pretty flowers to give him, which is fine, because he’d probably prefer action figures. I’m too short to come up behind him and kiss him on the neck. I just looked at him. I’m not good at consoling people. It feels so awkward when my friends cry. When my mom died, I learned that hugs heal. I tried to think about what he would do if the roles were reversed like they usually are.

Wrapping my hopeful arms around him made his head fall like a cliffside house in Malibu. I rubbed his back through the Menthu t-shirt he wore and whispered, “You’re doing a great job.” Then I lifted his dejected face from my shoulder and tried to kiss his struggle away. He looked relieved (and a little bit horny).

By dinner time he was back to himself. I was proud of myself for making the mature choice. I had copied his behavior, and it worked. It’s so easy to get all Kobe Bryant and launch into, “I do this shit everyday,” but it’s better to remember that you’re on the same team.

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Thematic Thursdays: Back to the Grill, Again


I wouldn’t be able to write this blog if it weren’t for my phone, which has a voice to text feature. I’m that sick! I’m super upset with the choices I made this weekend, and I’m experiencing the consequences big time. Don’t pity me. Don’t wish me well. I apparently have poor pattern recognition and need to feel this awful, so that I will NEVER eat cheese again.

Not even a little bit. A small amount of parmesan sprinkled on a large salad, while tolerable, is only a gateway for Myshell downing two cheese pizzas. Moderation isn’t in my vocabulary. I want it to be, but I just haven’t grown to that place yet. It’s all or nothing, baby.

So this is me returning to pesco-veganism — yes, while breastfeeding (despite hair loss and low energy) — so that I can be my happy, healthy self. Being sick with a baby, who depends on you, is not a good look. That is all.

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Tuesdays With Mooch & Fuss: Politics, Mac & Cheese

My friend, JaNai, visited from DC last week, and it seems that Fuss took an even deeper interest in social justice and politics. On a trip to Barnes & Nobles, she became enthralled with Congresswoman Barbara Lee’s book, Renegade for Peace and Justice. She also fled the the children’s section several times just as she did the day Hannibal and I took her.

Fuss also insisted that she try lemon for the first time and try to fly. Here’s that:

Mooch booked another commercial, which shot last week, but I wasn’t there much, because I had to teach at UCLA. I do know that they had the best pancakes ever! I took one of my former students, Brittni, to chaperone her while I drove from the set in Long Beach all the way to Brentwood. The three of us each ate two helpings.

JaNai kept Fuss under control during the wardrobe fitting the day prior. It takes a village. While Mooch was on set, I took Fuss to drop-in daycare at Tiny Sprouts. She had total separation anxiety and didn’t speak or eat the entire day. She did at least take a nap and get plenty of outdoor time. I felt so bad when I picked her up. Maybe no more daycare until she’s sixty.

 

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