What this Blog is about

Durtee Lawndree: [dur-tee lawn-dree]
1. A place to air grievances, outdated catch phrases, clichés, and Freudian slips.
1. A dusty old story that needs to be aired out and given a second chance at life.
3. A place to soil yourself with words.
 
Origin: 2008 My backyard 

I originally created this blog back in 2008 so that I had a place to write snippets from my memoir. We can all see how well that's gone because it's still in progress. Don't worry, it's still happening and it even has a title More Peoples than you can handle. That's slated for release sometime in 2032.
Until then, I am turning this into a place for venting, writing about what interests all of us from time to time - dramatically boring gossip, and just a general place for me to let the world know what I'm excited and pissed about - these things can in fact simultaneously exist.
On that note, let me know what you've got a lot of strong feelings on and I'll write about it in the blog!

Email me at durteelawndree@gmail.com

What's all the fuss? It's just Vacuum Day isn't it?

It’s February 14^th, which means it’s V Day!

When people tell me it’s V day, I’m not really sure what to think. Is it Vagina Day, Vacation Day, Vacuum Day, Vagabond Day? I mean really what does this damn V stand for? I ask someone and they tell me it’s Valentines Day, a day to celebrate love and the joy that comes from having love for friends, family, and lovers. Well that certainly sounds like a holiday I can get down with because I’ve at least got some friends and family and I definitely love them but where does it come from? I decided to search online for some answers and I so I googled “The History of Valentines Day.”

Valentines Day is supposedly named after a Saint named Valentine of Terni (Valentine of Rome), who was martyred on about AD 269. There is a rich tradition of legends that surround him and this day. What is not contested is that he was killed in some way, so may he rest in peace. The question is, was St. Valentine put to death in protest of Emperor Claudius outlawing marriage for single men in order to keep a healthy and strong armed forces? Was he martyred for freeing Christians from Roman prisons? Did he actually create the modern Valentine card by sending a greeting card to a young girl while imprisoned? Or was it actually the Christian church turning the pagan tradition of Lupercalia, a day connected to fertility, into a more holy day?

The fact is that we don’t know the true story of Valentine’s day, just what we’ve pieced together and that it likely is a mutation of many of the legends. We also get the main gist and it’s that Valentines is about love.

How did we go from the death of a martyr and pagan feasts to greeting cards, boxes of chocolates, and romantic dinners for two? Well it comes down to poetry. Poets, writers, artists, etc have notoriously fucked things up for the rest of the world, turning what could just be normal sadness into those of heart wrenching and debilitating throes of madness and melancholy, battles into ill fated losing conquests, and love into the only thing worth living for on earth?

It is told that The Parliament of Fowls, a love poem, was written by Geoffrey Chaucer in 1382 to honor the first engagement of King Richard II of England to Anne of Bohemia. You can go here to read it in Old English. He references St. Valentine in his poem.

“For this was on Saint Valentine's Day,

when every bird cometh there to choose his mate”

Well, thanks for nothing Chaucer. As the day itself grew, love poems such these ones became more expected.  The rise of greetings really began after this era. Take note, this is more than 1100 years after St. Valentine was martyred.

As we all know by now, Valentines day is one of the most contentious holidays of the year. It tends to be one that is either loved or despised by the masses, but what about the huddled few that honestly don’t give a shit at all? It’s just a day in my calendar and I’ve got at least five other things that need to get done today like my workout and a blog. (Oh… getting the latter done right now).

Last year alone, people spent about 20 billion dollars on things like dining out (this is the biggest spender with almost about 10 billion going towards food alone), candy, flowers, getaway’s, jewelry, and more. All this for a holiday that may never have existed if it hadn’t gotten a little traction from the arts community.

For all those people getting valentines, the majority are for lovers, with the minority given to friends and family. My opinion is that people are really just giving out these “other” valentines so that the singles don’t feel slighted.

Many singles have decided to rise up and start their own tradition of an Anti-Valentines day, which ironically enough still often includes things that they rise up against, including anti-valentine greeting cards, voodoo dolls, and candy. We all know that candy fits right into feeding both happiness and sadness so it’s a welcome addition to any package.

Why do singles feel the need to get a gift of angst? Honestly I’m still not sure. I’m currently single and sassy and I’m not just saying that. There is no void that I need to fill with gifts and sappy messages. As a single I don’t feel that I’m “missing out” because I’m not and if you’re also single you’re not either unless you’re currently moping around the house hoping for someone to come sweep you off your feet.

Lately I’ve been having a lot of talks with my “taken” friends many of which now are married with children and they have given me quite a bit of perspective. “You get to do what?” They say as I talk about going out to multiple shows a week, playing shows with my band on the regular, sleeping whenever I want to, leaving the city on a whim for another destination, writing blogs. “Where do you get all that time?”

Well… I just don’t have the same obligations. It doesn’t mean that at some point I don’t want to be pressed for time with the whole shebang of kids and husband, it just means that right now I’m enjoying single life because it only lasts for so long.

So single people, I do understand your longing, I really do. At almost 33 I feel my biological clock ticking, but it’s okay because shit… this weekend I get to film a music video with my band, go to a party and not worry about shaving my legs because no one’s going to see that ish till winter’s over. Enjoy your single time, don’t be pissed at the world because some “one” doesn’t love you, hopefully you’ve got lots of wonderful friends and family so some “dozens” love you.
So what am I gonna do this Valentines? Well it's actually a friend's birthday, so I'm gonna spend this day spending a few dollars on her day of birth. It may ultimately be counted as Valentine's spending, but that's okay because I love her too. 

If you really need a Valentine gift, I’ll get you one, it just needs to be in the realm of $0 dollars because I’m currently a struggling writer.  

Are you listening? Receiving critique in the workplace

 I am the last to say that my friendships and relationships are perfect cherry topped sundaes, but I have learned a lot through the years to help me navigate them in more healthy ways and what I had to learn was more about me than the person I’m in the relationship with. To some this seems counterintuitive, but in the long run it has helped me to communicate and let others communicate more effectively with me.

Why? I can’t control another person’s anger, tone, or communication style, but I can control mine and that’s key in maintaining an open dialogue with others.

Listen and Think before you speak       

We’ve all heard this old axiom, but many of us subconsciously believe this doesn’t actually apply to us. I have at times been one of those people, wanting my opinion to be heard before the person I’m talking to and likely about to fight with can get another word in. One of the number one ways to think first is to listen to what someone is trying to say to you before inserting your input into the situation.

It’s tough to listen to someone tell us what is wrong with a project that we’ve turned in, a presentation we’ve done, or worse, something that might actually fall into the “personality problem” category.

I’m an optimist, so I generally believe that when a coworker, friend, or loved one comes to me with a critique then there are probably some words of wisdom that I should glean from it even if all I want to do is yell slurs at them or slink back to my cave and curl in a ball.

With this said, I want your next unforeseen run-in with Colonel Critique to be as productive as possible. How?

Ask yourself:

Can I repeat what this person just said back to me? If not, then you probably weren’t listening and became defensive as the first few words came out of their mouth. The key to listening before responding is taking a second to repeat what you just heard and rephrase it for yourself.  Then ask yourself, is the accusation true or untrue without making excuses or blaming others if it is.

This means if your boss comes up to you and says, “Sam, you screwed this up, the edits aren’t correct. It looks like we’re going to have to delay production for another day because of you.”

What you may have heard was, “Sam, you’re an idiot, I’m going to fire you.”

What you should be hearing is, “Sam, the edits weren’t quite right and you need to fix them, just make sure to review them more thoroughly the next time.”

      If True:

Your response should sound more like this, “I’m sorry I have delayed production, I understand the errors and will make sure to be more thorough next time around.”

Just make sure that next time around you actually are more thorough so that this same conversation does not happen again and escalate.

If False:

Still continue to be civil. You still need to respond to why something that was your responsibility was not well handled. Keep a calm and steady tone in order to keep the dialogue open and both of you as composed as possible. If it was not your responsibility at all let your boss know. ** As a reminder, if you delegated the task it was still your responsibility to follow-up.

Changing the way you hear people and speak doesn’t happen in a day; it takes practice and can be a life long process. It can ultimately help you become a better listener and make you a more trust worthy person. If people believe they can come to you and express their views without you going off the deep end then it will make all your relationships a little better.

Does this all mean that you should just let people yell at you at the office? Of course not! You will know when something is necessary feedback and when it’s not. If someone is criticizing you and you just can’t figure out why, pull them aside and ask them what or how these things relate to your job and if it’s something that needs to be escalated to higher authority. Generally you can alleviate some of the tension just by listening and talking it through.

Have any comments or questions about critique at the office? Let me know!

nicolecpeoples@gmail.com

Snail March

On May 15^th of 1987, when I turn the ripe age of seven years old, it’s decided that in order to save money, instead of going to Chuck-E-Cheese or Great America I have to throw my birthday party at our condo on Palm Street with lots of red balloons, a slip-n-slide, and a triple chocolate birthday cake.

I really want a piñata, because I love the idea of being blind-folded, spinning around like a dervish, and striking out for the unknown. If the unknown is the right direction and you hit hard enough then there is a wonderful shower of bubble-gum, blow-pops, lime salts, and coins that spill across the ground and must be fought over and hoarded in pockets, socks, and overfilled hands.

I don’t mention the piñata thing to my mom because I’m worried about being seen with one as one of the only two black girls living in a mostly Latino neighborhood. Worried that Pepsi, one of our neighbors, might be mad and call me a nigger again. They have the market cornered on these things and so I decide that I must come up with something else.

If it’s going to be a house party then there should be plenty of games. There should be games where there are prizes at the end because every kid wants to win something, always. I don’t want to play just any game like red rover or tag, I want it to be mysterious, new, and ingenious, which means I have to make it up. I believe that I am a master of games because I of course have played every game of solitaire in the book of 65 solitaire games my mom gave for Christmas. I also successfully won a few games I made up like find Mr. Bear and hide and seek while playing with my imaginary friend Kimmy, though she wouldn’t be at the party, but my school friends would be.

My solution is a good game of Snail March. To play, someone must be blindfolded and cross a path filled with live snails and marshmallows while attempting get to the other-side without crushing the tiny shells or having a gooey mess of hot melting fluff between their toes.

The first seven year-old to cross the path without maiming an innocent snail wins a whole Hershey’s bar. To a seven year this is a big deal, just like a dollar when the tooth fairy comes is monumental. I lay out the thirty snails I collected the night before and a whole bag of marshmallows on the concrete path in front of my condo and it’s time to go.

Out of the fifteen kids at the party, fourteen of them accept the challenge and one after the other go blind-folded onto the path. Some kids start off believing they can construct a plan.

My friend Jane, another black girl like me but with big fro on her head is first and she tries to tip toe over them. Her first few steps are good, she passes 4, 5, 6 snails and numerous mallows, but on her sixth step she loses her balance and her right foot comes down like a mallet atop one of the shells. The crunching sound of the snail lingers in the air.

“Eew!” she shrieks and she is such a panic that she forgets her strategy  and runs across the path as quickly as possibly, leaving more death in her wake. After this, the game really begins.

Some kids open their legs wide like sumo wrestlers in an attempt to step around the scene. Some walk straight lines trying to remember what the path looked like before the blindfold went on. The problem is that the snails are scared and wiggling their way to the nearest bluff of grass. All the movement is making it worse for the kids and treacherous for the snails; if only they knew how to stay still. By the end, there is a mound of white puss squishing between our toes.

We all mutually agree that no one has won, and are ecstatic because my mom has bought enough chocolate for us all to get our own chocolate bars. We are happy as we wash our feet and devour the chocolate before demolishing my triple chocolate birthday cake a few minutes later.

When everyone leaves and the sun is setting, my mom says I have to clean the path where there are still remnants of marshmallow and snail carcasses. I stare fascinated by the scene, a veritable bloodbath. I try to hose down the path, but it’s no use, it gets worse, the remains grow stickier. I revert to using the straight edge of a dustpan to scrape everything off and this is when I really take notice of a single snail. I see his miniature eyes and tiny massacred body and start to cry.

I realize that I’ve ordered the killings of these poor defenseless terrestrial pulmonate gastropod mollusks, well… I didn’t know that name at the time, but what I do know is that it’s not fair that they had no say in the matter. There must be a proper burial even though there’s not much left to bury. In order to soothe me, my mom says,

“Honey, if they didn’t die this way they would have died eating the salt I sprinkled around the yard.” This doesn’t help at all. I am seized by grief as I scrape the heaps of carcasses into a paper bag and scoop out a tiny grave for their burial that my mom attends and says a few words at.

That night in my journal I draw a snail and name him snaily. He becomes my mascot as I grow older even once I’ve forgotten the reason why. I draw him on everything from test papers to posters and sign him as my name is journals. I become dedicated to snail rights and try at any cost to keep my moms salt off the garden.

I think my mom decides it’s all a little too much. The next year she decides I can choose where I want to go for my party. I choose Great America that year and every year after until I’m an angsty teenager and realize that parties are for losers.  

Women Who Rock

Thank God it’s Friday. I haven’t said this in a long time because it’s been a long time since I’ve had a full-time 9-5 job, approximately 5 months to be exact. Those months have been glamorous sleep filled, mostly stress free months wherein I got to try my hand at owning my own business. What I wasn’t very prepared for is the difficulty of the market and the ability to sell my small home office space. I had to skimp on space in order to cut costs. Well, it’s five months later and it’s not that I’ve given up, but I’ve decided that maybe small business ownership isn’t for me at this time and the future will hold that for me instead.

In the meantime as I transition out of small business ownership I am focusing primarily on writing and creative output. I’m actually transitioning my career as a whole and looking towards fields that will utilize my creative and social skills. I momentarily thought well I could do software development and then just as quickly realized that the field doesn’t give me enough contact with people for me to be satisfied.

I am currently blogging more than ever and working on that memoir I’ve been putting off, which you may get snippets of now and again.

As a woman with fingers and toes in many ponds I want to talk about an important upcoming event called the (Un) Conference and Film Festival put on by Women Who Rock. This group is dedicated to bringing “together musicians, media-makers, performers, artists, scholars and activists to explore the role of women and popular music in the creation of cultural scenes that anchor social justice movements in the Americas.”  

This years (Un)Conference will be held March 9^th, 2013 at Washington Hall on Yesler and 14^th in Seattle, WA.  I will be participating as a speaker with this wonderful organization and presenting on Writing Memoir Through Music. This class will have a two part structure focusing first on how to begin writing your own memoir, filled with examples on how to begin, information on structuring it, and how to create captivating stories. The second half of the seminar will focus on structuring  pieces into musical format. For many writers that are thinking about writing music this can be a very difficult process. Turning a story into song can be full of confusion, frustration, and compromise and so I will be showing women how to make it as a simple and fruitful a process as possible.

I would love to see your face. If you are interested in the seminar but can’t make it that day let me know and I will forward the materials to you the day after the seminar takes place.

My band NighTraiN will also be doing a seminar on starting a band in later life. By later life, we really mean 25 and up. I don’t have any charts or graphs to back this up, but my general belief is that most people don’t pick up new instruments or start playing in bands all that often beyond that age. We want to help women garner enough confidence and knowledge to begin the process of learning an instrument (first or new) and possibly helping them to start new bands. Information from this seminar can’t be sent, but we will be offering this for a small fee after the fact.

            Why is it important to me to participate in a seminar like this? Well… because women are still not well represented in the music industry. But you see lots of girls with guitars you say? Well there are lot of women that love music and want to play it, but generally they are not paid as well as men and primarily remain solo artists. Only about 15% of signed artists are women with men still making the highest figures.

Behind the scenes is almost exclusively male with women accounting for less than 5% of producers, engineers, account execs, etc.

           

Why aren’t women well represented? Are we just less gifted? Do our voices strain the collective ear? There are plenty of theories of why women fall behind here just like in most other “male” dominated occupations and they are including but not limited to:

1. Women opt out of music in order to have a more stable life, career, family.
2. It’s a man’s industry so women stay out due to fear and intimidation.
3. Women are notoriously underpaid in the music industry.
4. Women have to ride the fine line of  “grace, charm, and beauty”
5. History shows that women just aren’t capable of being great

           The list could go on for pages. I’m sure you’ve probably thought of another few myths that consistently keep women out of the industry. Some of these reasons such as number #2 are very visceral as women feel out the industry and realize that they are often flying solo while men take the reigns vs #5 where there is just a general feeling that if it hasn’t been done before than maybe it can’t be done.

            It’s important to discuss how to get into an industry that is in fact male dominated and how to get over these fears and move forward. Women Who Rock is a safe space for women to learn and create. As a musical late bloomer (I started at 28) I know that it can be difficult, but it can be very rewarding. It’s necessary to give women tools and this organization is doing that. If you are a woman that is ready to rock, Register here! 

Also for more contacts with other women in music, check out Women In Music

This is just the beginning

5 am has almost got the best of me these days. I’m not used to early mornings where the birds have yet to chirp because it’s just not fucking time for the world to wake up.

Right now I’m waking up for a temp job at a ship yard down by Lake Union. It doesn’t pay much, it has almost shitty hours… the upside is I get off at 3, and the scenery is by far some of the best with ample views of ships, sky - though it generally be gray, lapping water, and the Space Needle.

One of the owners of the company took me on an hour long tour my very first day here within my first two hours of working. We walked beneath the SS something or other on the drydock and I momentarily hesitated and wondered oh shit what if the walls give way and flood us out? What if the boat isn’t anchored properly, I stumble on one of these lines connected to it and it topples over on us all? Needless to say, neither occurred and I’m still living.

I have approximately an hour and a half of actual work to accomplish while I’m here. I’m doing the bare minimum because that’s all they need right now- it’s a temp job.

What have I been doing with my spare 6.5 hours during the day? Well… most of those hours have been fairly productive.

1. Starting my application for an internship at This American Life.
2. Applying for other more fruitful jobs.
3. Writing Blogs
4. Creating a seminar for The Women who Rock Conference.
5. Continuing TAL application
6. Inventing new titles for my mostly unfinished memoir.
7. Drinking coffee because I’m so fucking tired from waking up at 5 in the morning.
8. Daily stretches because my chair is hard and killing my neck, back, shoulders, tailbone.
9. Did I mention the TAL app?

Okay well as you can see my extra hours are not wasted. I’ve actually been more productive in just the last four days than I believe I’ve been the last 6 months. It’s funny how getting out of the house can garner up creativity and drive that had gone missing in action for awhile.   

What’s up with this TAL application you ask? Well, it’s something I’m doing. I’m putting all my eggs in one basket. Okay, I'm not actually doing that. I’m fully aware that this is a lucrative internship and everyone and their mom is applying for it. What I’ve learned thus far from completing the app:

1.      What I thought was stunted creativity is actually just a bunch of underused brain mush that begins solidifying as it’s cooked, much like a chocolate cake - I would like a gluten free one of these please.

2.      I should be pursuing something creatively, if not TAL, then anything where I’m getting to write, market, consult and talk on endlessly about the inanities of life in a profound way.

3.      That I type faster than my brain is working, much faster.

4.      That I’m going to be a little pissed at Ira if he doesn’t take me, but it won’t be the end of the world. I’ll likely just write him a strongly worded letter about what a huge mistake he’s made, likely insert a worm and hope that he gets the reference.

5.      That I can actually be focused. Yup, when you want something really badly it makes it that much easier to focus.

6.      Maybe I should pursue podcasting on my own – I have done a series of interviews with friends to prepare myself for said internship and it has been one of the most enjoyable things I’ve done as of late. Deeply informative, entertaining, and has made me reassess my own personal beliefs. These need to go on if not for anyone else's but my own. There will be posts of each of these interviews as the podcasts are release (please stay tuned for these in early March).

Well... it looks like the clock is hitting 3pm in just a second, which means I’m out now everyone! Enjoy your day and visit This American Life to see the application process for interning there or just listen to one of their amazing podcasts. Please cross your fingers, dot your i’s and say some prayers for me because strangely enough I really do want to work my ass off there for 50-60 hours a week for six months. 

Questions? Write me at nicolecpeoples@gmail.com

St. Louis Day 4: Poisoned

I can’t run today because Norma’s gonna be here soon. We’ve got 9:30 brunch plans and it’s already 8:30 by the time I wake up.

            “Oooh girl, you slept in late!” says Jean. I think this is not late because in my time zone it’s still just 6:30. I correct her and tell her she is the one that’s late because she’s in her own damn time zone.

            “Well, get ready because Norma Jean’s gonna be by pretty soon.” I hop in the shower and wash off the smoke that I know is gonna stick to me in the few minutes after I hop out. Contacts in, makeup on and I’m ready to see a little more of the city.

            Norma Jean grabs us in her boyfriend's black BMW and Tina and Jean ooh and aww over how luxurious it is.

            “This is a nice ride, a niiiice ride, it sho is,” says Jean. “Mmm… hmm… I gotta get me one of these.”

            We take Skinker all the way down to Keinlin and down some other round about roads till we get to an IHOP that is crowded and bustling. I do not like IHOP in the least and have only had bad experiences here except for the time at 4am in Raleigh when it was the only thing that could sober me up.

            I look at the menu and there are very limited options for a gluten, dairy, soy, and egg free eater like myself and so decide on the grilled tilapia and steamed broccoli. The others go for the cheapest items on the Senior 55 and over portion of the menu, which means pancakes, waffles, bacon, and ample amounts of butterscotch and classic maple syrup.

            We get our own big carafe of coffee and drink it like cold water on a hot day.

            We discuss the previous few days and our visit to see Lois.

            “What about that Darryl guy, don’t you think maybe Tommy’s right that he might be abusive?” I ask.

            “Well, he might be but that sho is her problem and not mine,” answers Jean.

            “He wasn’t very nice when he came out to meet us. He barely said hi to us and gave us some awful glares."

            “Well you’re not that nice either.”

            “What are you talking about? If I were being introduced to people I would at least stick around for more than a literal second.”  She is obviously confusing my shyness for lack of caring.

            “I’m the only friendly one around here! I’m friendly and I care about people. See I go talk to everyone, everyone! You ain’t friendly and you don’t care about people.”

            I can feel my heart galloping now and my cheeks are on fire.

            “Don’t assume you know ANYTHING about me! Just because I don’t talk to everyone doesn’t mean I don’t care, it means I’m shy! Shy and not caring are not the same thing!”

            “Oh girl, you don’t care.”

            “Yes I do, I just don’t express it the same way you do.”
             Norma attempts to mediate the situation and agrees with me but Jean won't listen. I am pissed, decide that this should be the end of our conversation and look away to my phone for moral support.  How dare she decide that she understands me as a person when she has barely known me for longer than these few days.

            Our food comes but only after tables that have ordered before us get theirs. Aunt Jean is steaming mad and already talking about sending her food back because it’s gonna be cold.

            The rest of us tell her to cool down and just wait and see what’s up.

            When it does come it is actually is kind of cool, but Jean doesn't send it back because she’s too hungry to wait for more and doesn’t trust that it won’t come back to us with spit and piss mixed in. 

            My tilapia with mushroom sauce looks fine until I start eating it and it tastes a little off, but I keep eating because I’m once again famished and can't stop shoveling it in. 

            I sit in silence the rest of the time and wonder on how I can get a few moments away from everyone to cool down, but don’t see an out.  I want to sequester myself in a bathroom stall and call friends but when I reach the bathroom it is a single and there is a line so I take my turn and return to the table.

            Norma Jean pays our check, we exit for one of many smoke breaks and then drive across the street to Galleria mall. We enter Dillards and peruse the purses, the shoes, and then I realize that something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong and I need to find a bathroom fast. 

            “I’ll be back,” I shout as I run toward a clerk and ask where the closest restroom is. I’m gonna be sick. My stomach has turned and I think I might throw up. Getting to the restroom feels like wading through a desert to an oasis.  When I find it, I am seconds away from shitting on myself and am grateful I made it in time. My mouth is watery and tingling so I make sure I have a bag in front of me just in case.

            Right now I am sure that I have been food poisoned.

            Why the fuck did you keep eating it?  I ask myself, but I know the answer and it is stupid and I am angry at myself for knowing that something was wrong and letting it go.

            My head is in vertigo as I leave the restroom and my body shivering. I know all is not yet well, but I must get back to my family. When I find them they are upstairs and Tina is just taking off a pair of Coach boots that are snuggly stuck to her foot and have to be pried off by an extra pair of hands.

            “I’ll take them!” She tells a girl that must have been helping her.

            “Where you been?” They all ask in chorus.

            “Oh, just looking at the lingerie downstairs, needed a few things.” I didn’t want to admit what was really going on, that I was sick and that I needed rest. 

            Not long after, we make our way from the mall to yet another smoke break and then over to Shnucks, a local chain grocery store. In desperation I pick up some lemon, ginger, coconut water, and lemon sorbet. My body is convinced that lemon sorbet is the simple resolution to my sickness.

            While I find my remedies, Norma Jean, Aunt Jean, and Aunt Tina find their way to the fish counter and have a few pounds of catfish fried up for our dinner.

            “Mmm, this is gonna be some good fish!”

            I want to hurl at the idea of having any more fish after that less than savory breakfast.

            Norma Jean drives us to her house for dinner and cards. Dinner is the catfish and some salad. Though I still feel a little nauseous there is still a lasting hunger that makes me go after the cool leafy greens. The salty warm smell of the catfish lingers and I quickly give in and have a small piece because I’ve gotta know what it tastes like. It’s my first taste since I was ten.

            “What do I put on it?”

            “Anything you want. I put ketchup or hot sauce.”

            “Would mustard be fine.”

            “Sure, try what you like.”

            I douse my little fish in mustard, find a seat and devour the catfish and greens as if it’s my last meal. The fish is delicious but I don’t want to take too many chances and decide against more and go for the sorbet, half a container of it. Soon I feel less shaky and more grounded in my body but I’m not sure this is the last I’ll see of my stomach problems.

            We eat around the TV and everyone catches up on As the World Turns. I feel like it’s the same as yesterday’s episode, but they all say “no, no girl, this, this and this has happened.” I’m still pretty sure it’s the same anyway.

            After dinner, once my Aunt Linda finally arrives my Aunties and Norma Jean sit at the tiny plastic kitchen table and start a three hour long game of Spades. The game is fast paced. One game takes five minutes or less and there are two teams. They make up rules and teams and get going. There is hootin and howling in the kitchen the longer the night goes. 

            “Oh no, Oh no!” is what I hear from the living room. I don't want to join the game because I need to get some time alone. It’s time to pray and do some daily devotions from the new So Who Do you think you are?  series at my church.

            I get time for my devotions and a short nap before more people enter the house, because in black houses the door is always open and the people are endless.

            In walks Norma Jean's daughter Stephanie and her brothers of whom I can’t remember the names.

            Stephanie talks and talks about what’s been going on here and there and tells us that we should join her at Stress Free Friday’s, a networking happy hour for professionals in the African-American community.  

            The only thing I know is that I want to go because there were be more people there than just my Peoples.

            “I’ll be there!” I say. Things are looking up.

            Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, but at this point I have been sequestered in rooms, halls, and dining areas with them for the entire trip and I want to meet people who aren’t Peoples like I want a piece of gluten free chocolate cake.  

            When three hours have passed, games have been won and the cards passed to countless people for more games, it’s time to leave once again. Some are just happy while others are happy and drunk. I am neither, but I’m alive.  Everyone makes sure to send love to everyone else and the night is once again over and it's time to meet my blow up mattress once again.