Tis the Season

Jesus in a manger it's busy this year.

What in the devil's eggnog was i thinking, when i decided to take on a new job, move into a house, re-decorate said house, all promptly around the holiday season?! I do know one thing, next year this time will be a lot more quiet. Unless you know, the Mayans and Hippies were right, and the world will end. Then I'm thinking this time next year will be a little stressful.

day dreaming and I'm thinking of you

I have some incredibly creative friends.

No, seriously. They are fucking creative. Like painting/drawing/acting/musical/vocal/sewing/knitting/crocheting creative. Many of them perform on the regular and get compensation for their crafts.

You understand now? I'm friends with artists which is pretty amazing. Even my boyfriend, who wouldn't classify himself as an artist per se, can build a computer out of thin air. Can you do that? I for hell can't.

So what am I getting at... well, I'm proud. Very proud, and feel that I am in a very unique circumstance of surrounding myself with people who are doing quality things for themselves. I just wish I could emulate this creativity. Now that I'm settled in my job, I feel more comfortable sneaking in a little bloggie-bloggie every now and again. So hopefully this will stir the juices. I'm crocheting again... which is nice. I think it just takes practice and major dedication to make sure your craft is fulfilled. Also, to be inspired by the ones that surround me instead of jealous. Jealousy does nothing but create wrinkles.

As much as I like being a librarian, I do have a dream... that one day I'll be interviewed by some one famous (like oprah or conan) and one of the wacky facts about me will be that I was once a high school librarian.

:-/

When "big" and "black" evoke the image of scary, you begin to wonder what people think of you as a tall African American Woman.

sigh.

If I had a goddamn tumbr would that make me cool or passe. Or does it even matter any more. The Cool Meta factor has gotten out of control.

yo.

What? No write for month? Damn.

Will write more. Thanks. Good. Bye.

PS- I totally bought a slut wear costume this year for Halloween... I know right, I normally would go as something witty and inanimate, like Bea Arthur's sensible hand clutch... oh that's a good one. Yet this year, teenagers, boyfriend, and the deathly crawl towards 30 has lead me in to the boob hugging petty coat land of ridiculous that defines being sexy. Here's the real sad part... I found my costume in the Teen section.

God Bless America.

and good night.

Dear World

I have been sucked into the realm of new jobs and teenagers. Currently I think my brain is leaking from my ears. Someday I will write again. Someday...

Meanwhile- I did complete a short story. Which I reread shortly after completion and decided it was the worst thing ever. I might revisit that junk later in life... but yea- at least I finished it.

Go me.

Why I Never Did Acid

There are various reasons why I never did hallucinogenics, but recently it dawned on me the trippy crap that was thrown in my face by various seemingly innocent films. So, I'm just going to take the easy way out and blame them. Below are my top 4 scary montages of freakiness for children:

4. All In The Golden Afternoon- Alice in Wonderland (1951)



Let's be honest, this is actually the tamest of the tame... mostly because the whole damn movie is freaky, but not as spectacularly freaky as the original book(jabberwocky, anyone?)... or frankly, Lewis Carroll. The fact that corporate Disney decided to adapt this book in the gee-golly 1950's is a feat in itself. Yet, there is something slightly disturbing about kissing feline flowers, toast butterflies, and roses that HAD to be the inspiration for Audrey 2.


3) Willy Wonka and the Wonderous Boat Ride- 1971



Scary, dark, spoiled brats, and Gene Wilder's hair! That damn chant he sings, not to mention I swear they cut the head off of a chicken in one of those crazy-ass background clips. I loved this movie, but even to this day I fast forward through this and that lame "Cheer Up Charlie" song that goes on 35 minutes too long.

2) Pink Elephants on Parade- Dumbo- 1941


Now we're getting into horror territory... there is no denying this freak show is scary biz. I don't even know where to start. That song. Mr. I'm made up of entirely angry elephant heads. The two elephants passing by each other only to be connect by their butts. Why were they showing kids this movie during WWII in the first place?! By the by this is definitely the scariest of the bunch, but Dumbo is such a sad movie, this terrifying night tremor is practically a release.

1) Heffalumps and Woozles- Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day- 1968


Let's be honest, did you really expect this out of Winnie the Pooh? I sure as hell didn't! The story is mild, Pooh bear is sweet, and their adventures are nowhere near this drug induced psychobabble. Right when the silly old bear goes floating into the ether, you know some freaky sights about to be had. More marching hyper color elephants?! WHY?! When those jump roping elephant and rat toys stop and stare at you... I damn near peed my pants.

Laughing Jack-in-the boxes... THE. WORST.

Nnekay vs. Daggers of Death: Pt. Two Electric Boogaloo

It was a face melting hot day.

Well not hot in the sense that New Orleans was an ever bucket of sweaty goop, but more in a weenie California- can't handle anything over 75 degrees- way.

Just look at Kail up there... all deflated and sprawled out. Her, me, and my boyfriend, Andrew were sweating it out.

Yet for some reason, I had this tiny little inkling of energy. Which I decided to use towards THROWING KNIVES!

So I went back to my slab of wood Andrew set up for me originally, and began tossing away, in the tomahawk sort of fashion a fine young chap on youtube taught me.

After completely scaring the ducks into a corner of the yard, I finally started making it close to my target:
But as you can see... not that close.

I started getting angry and wildly flailing my arms in the direction of the board:


The results angered me more, causing a wilder-beast to emerge from the deep dark sections of my being. I began lunging the knifes at the board:

Which, with increasing intensity started to land around the yard.

It was at that point, my brave boyfriend called, "Baby..." mind you this was from inside the house, "maybe you should move the board... looks like you might get it lost in the bushes." I replied, with a little bit of crazy in the eye,

"Nooooo, I know what I'm doing!" and continued throwing daggers around his backyard.

This one scared the crap out of me, but when throwing knives a little fear is good... so I considered it a win.

I threw one last knife, thinking this would be my ending shot filled with awesome- it promptly landed in the bushes.

A black hole of bushes if you will.

Feeling very badass from my knife throwing high, I dove head first into the depths. The further and darker I pushed through, a strong nervous tingle began to trickle down my spine.

Would if... there is a wild rat in here?

Would if... that rat is dead?

Would if... I find a dead bird?

Would if... I find a dead bird being eaten by a rat?!?!

While such thoughts were ran rampant through my mind, I stumbled upon something hard and scratchy. I flipped. Stumbling backwards to fall into the safety of the house.

To show how insane my imagination is, this is my boyfriend's cute and nowhere near rat infested garden (he built that fence himself!):
Later on, I watched the real badassness happen as he stoically chopped away ("I didn't like this bush anyway") with a giant hoe, to help find my knife.

Turns out, I was afraid of a small tree stump.

Nnekay Vs. The Dirty South

FYI- I'm a librarian. Shocking I know... and recently all the magical book wizards of the nation gathered for their annual Libros Fiesta. This year it was located in Fiesta Central New Orleans... NOLA... 'nawlins... you get the point.

Being the extra special book wizard that I am, I managed to get a grant to the gathering. So I packed my bags, grabbed my roommate, Heather... and scooted on down to the nether regions of our great country.

Since, Stephanie the blogger, mommy, feminist, and friend extraordinaire was just as excited about this trip as I was, she suggest various challenges for me to complete, to which I said, "BRING IT ONNNNNN!!!"

Challenge 1: Dance to zydeco in the street

Okay... so I thought this would be an awesome idea to document, because I have wildly skinny noodle arms that kinda waggle around when I try to "dance". Zydeco music sorta lends itself to herky jerky feet scootn' movements... Wut? Ya don't know zydeco, baaaby?



Okay, now that's been establish... I didn't do it. I know, you're super bummed that there isn't footage of me do si do-ing with some swamp man. I'm sorry, but I'm lazy... annnnnd I didn't want to gather more attention from the already leery eyeballs of old southern "gentlemen".

Strike one Nnekay.

Challenge 2: Have a beignet for breakfast, po boy for lunch, and a Pimm's cup at dinner

Bam Sucka! Did this 'ish!

For the beignet, I went to the legendary Cafe Du Monde. Which. Was. Pack. Good lord that place was packed. I've never seen so many people lining up for some doughnuts and coffee with cream... wait, wait... sorry a beignet and cafe au lait. That said- it was GOOD. I love me some fried food, and I love me some sugar. This was if Sugar and Fried had a baby, then gave it steroids. Fried food is basically the official food of the south, and I can't quite grasp how people aren't collapsing left and right from the heat/ grease combo!

Here are some pigeons enjoying the local fare:

Speaking of fried....

I didn't have a po boy... I wanted one, but for some reason all the spots we went to eat didn't offer them. Which is kinda insane, but instead I will use up this space to talk about something I did eat, and is often times the content of a po boy: A Fried Oyster. In short, it tasted like a fried piece of sea jell-o.

Oh Mr. Pimm and your Pimm's Cup. This is a drink that taste so old time-y that after your first sip, you feel like slapping on a curled mustache and tossing around a medicine ball.
I wasn't too pleased at first, but like weird Swedish black licorice candy, it was super addicting... I sucked that puppy down. Yet, it didn't taste like a drink, more like a fancy soda pop. Could also be due to the fact that I was drinking this electric nonsense the night before:

Challenge 3: Eat Gator

Gator was the very first food at the very first restaurant in New Orleans. Why I didn't take a picture of it, and why I have so many pictures of me drinking is a mystery I will never solve. The way it looked was nothing to shout home about. Small nuggets of bouncy ambiga-meats served in a dish. I have to say it was super mild in flavor, chewy, and actually very delightful. Until I ate an extremely fishy bit and remembered what I was consuming was neither, fish, nor poultry, nor hooved meat... but rather something that was like a giant jumbled piled of all of it.

Challenge 4: Go to a Voodoo Shop

I walked passed one. It was sooooo touristy, that I refused to go in. Ladies with faces painted as skulls shaking things at drunk dudes. So instead, I will talk about the time I entered a Voodoo store here in the Bay. Mariposa Botanica may not be exactly "voodoo" but in my little hokey-doke opinion a New Orleans voodoo shop would probably have the same amount of stuffs. Candles... dried fish things, a cranky old lady, a black cat, and a weird bird just chilln'. There were little vials of potions and such, some were even labeled "dragon's blood"-- (which is totally not voodoo) When I went to go sniff at some potions the woman screamed at me to not get so close... so I hustled out the store scared that the tip of my nose might spring a boob or something.

So there you are, A challenge lazily completed. I could write many a posts on librarian wear (teva and hoop skirts), the racial tension of the south (you can cut it with a knife), and the weather (I felt like a glazed ham the whole time there), but instead I will leave this post with the most important parts of New Orleans:

The Food


The Music


and The Beauty

Nnekay Vs. Daggers of Death

I like knives.

I know it's kinda crazy, but I do. My mom is probably looking at this post right now and going, "What the hell?!Who is this carnival kid I raised?!"

Yes, Mom... I like knives.

Now, I've never indulged in the act of getting anything really that dangerous, because I'm a weenie. I've dabbled in a fake Swiss Army knife in college, during my hippie phase. While other kids danced to Sublime and tossed a crocheted hacky sac around a quilt, I perched myself by a tree, loosened up my overalls, and tried my hand at whittling.

I kid you not.

This mostly just resulted in a smaller twig than the one I started with, but the activity was fun for the short amount of time before I decided to pick up the harmonica.

My tiny foray into the wild world of dull blade twig cutting did not calm my knife fascination. I've always been scared of the freaky giant jagged doom daggers, but the ability to stick a knife into a counter and demand service has always been a hidden passion of mine.

I wont ever do it, because I'm a sane person.

Yet, I do linger when walking past the weapon counter at a sporting good store.

With my new blog activity challenge in place- My awesome ass boyfriend suggested that I learn to throw knives. Which sounded mysterious and dangerous at the same time. Being the lazy person that I am, I said, "THAT'S COOL!" Then promptly made a lazy plan to get throwing knives in the indeterminate future of laziness.

Then last night, he surprised me with my very own pair of jet black ninja style throwing knives. To which I said "GAME ON!"

I ran out to the backyard, with the look of crazy in my eyes... my poor boyfriend now realizing the insanity he ignited carefully looked at me with caution as he set up a wooden board for me to try my hand at. As soon as he managed to get slightly out of the way.... WHAP! WHAP! I threw the knives at the board. They collided with a heavy thud against the wood and lay lifeless on the soft dirt. I hustled up to the board grabbed the knives and started again. WHAP! WHAP!

This continued for 45 minutes. I lost the knives a couple times in the bushes... where my fear of a hidden dead animal took over my knife created badassness... and had to solicit the help from my now concerned for my sanity bf. I continued lunging the knives at the board until...

WHAP!

One actually stuck to the board! TRIUMPH! I jumped and pumped my hands in the air, then went to go drag my bf out to check out the damage like a deranged 5 year old.

Now, this oddsey is faaaar from over and I plan to continue to document the process of me learning the ins and outs of knife throwing, so I will try to do some smaller challenges in between this one. Hopefully, I will end up a Jedi master of throwing sharp things at wooden non-alive objects.

Defensive Shyness

If you know me-(and I bet you do since you are reading this and I'm not like some insanely cool hip blogger about town... yet) then you know that I'm kinda the opposite of shy.

But that's fake! Fake I tell you, 'cause in actuality I'm super shy but can do a bang up job trying to pretend that I'm not. Here are three tricks I've learned to hide my shyness:

1. Keep an open happy face- so when non shy people spot me they get fooled that I am from their tribe- so they come to converse. This unfortunately has a backlash known as the Crazy Quadrant. Crazies spot happy faces and are attracted to them like moths to a flaming death. Due to my happy open face, crazies tend to think that I'm the bees knees. Usually, I can escape a crazy, by immediately shutting down my face into a stone cold angry woman- but sometimes I get fooled into a 45 minute conversation about Fern Emotions with someone who seemed normal. Sigh...

2. I try to think of things to continue a conversation. People might mistake this as actual conversation, but if I don't know you... I'm basically just trying to stay one step ahead of you.

3. I nod and say 'yes' a lot- people like it when you agree with them. Unless it's nazi propaganda or some other wackness- but I usually don't have to deal with racist folks- me being black tends to weed them from the bunch.

Those are my three tips... they work as long as I don't say anything weird, and as a result people tend to place me in the extrovert box.

The only time my shyness completely overwhelms me is at mixers, specifically work mixers. I have no idea why, but I can't seem to work up enough nerve to march up to some and be like, "hey what's up, yo!"

Maybe because my money is on the line. Hmmmm.

Anywho- yesterday I was at one... with wine. The booze factor always ups the shy, because, I don't want to get drunk and booze = fancy. So, as I gripped my wine glass I watched the others mingle. As they slowly revolved around each other- sniffing and feeling each other out as we humans do, I found myself slowly drifting to the cheese table smiling along the way. I dropped the knife and smiled as people eyed me. I tried standing by a clump of people- just outside of the circle- smiling and listening... no room to jump in. So I smiled and slowed melted my way back to a table. Where I stood, gobbled cheese, and guzzled wine. Smiling all the time as the service staff flashed nervous glances in my direction. Eventually, I busted my way into a couple conversations, but man did I hate that initial feel of being a weirdo as I stood there nervously watching people getting to know each other.

Later that night over dinner, my boyfriend casually mentioned an article detailing certain personality traits which helped survival in olden times.

"shyness."

"really?!"

"yea... cause if you look in the eyes of a wolf you might get attacked."

I smiled to myself this time, because I felt a little bit less like a weirdo.

YA Fiction is Addicting

I can't do challenges all the time.

So in the meantime, I'm going to talk about how I stayed up until 5am reading a book.

A book for teenagers.

This damn book


How nerdy is that?! Very nerdy. So nerdy that when I finished the book, I couldn't go to sleep because I imagined that I was in the story- which involves being apart of a to the death game of survival in the forest. I could hear leaves crunching under the feet of some blood thirsty teenager out to send a dagger through my sleeping body.

Then I realized I'm 1 1/2 years from turning 30.

So I decided to fall asleep.

Nnekay vs. The SpaceCookie

Being that I named this bloggy-blog 'SpeechCookie' I thought it would be appropriate to start my new challenge theme with a cookie related task. Thanks to Dan S. who gave me the most excellente challenge of:

Baked Goods shaped like your favorite science fiction/fantasy characters.

I saw that 'ish and I was like 'HELL YEA MO-FO, I GOT THIS'- so I got busy researching how to make cookie cutters and sugar cookie recipes. I wrote all the info down on neat little pieces of paper with those tiny golf pencils the library seems to only have, and considered myself golden with the task at hand.

As soon as my little digital computer clock ticked 5pm- I got the hell out of work and zoomed to the grocery store, where I discovered I left all my notes and instructions... so I kinda winged it. When I wing it I end up buying things like this:

So I can do stuff like this:

Anydoodle, To make the cookie cutters I bought a regular aluminum pan, and cut strips from it:

I'm so hip, that I used a flyer from the Ace Hotel to measure my strips... rulers are for lames. After almost cutting myself about 3o times with these hell strips, I shaped them into blobs.


Look, I can line all my crap up like a bougie cooking blog too:

I took all this crap and turned it into this giant turd looking thing, which I dumped in the fridge for 20 mins, 'cause Martha Stewart told me too. When it was time to roll it out so I realized I don't have a rolling pin- but I do have a giant empty beer bottle:

Which worked just fine.

So I cut out the cookies using my incredibly dangerously sharp cookie cutters. Slapped them in the oven for 12 mins, and eventually these cookie blobs came out:

Can you tell what they are yet? Elf shoes and Pac Man ghost?

WRONG.

With a little creative frosting I ended up with... drum roll please...

R2D2!!!! (if you squint)

And....

Jabba the Hut!!! The bottom one is an experiment in arms after I realized the others looked like they had droopy boobs.

So there you have it, my first foray into doing things that you guys make up. I'm gonna try to keep this going cause it was super fun. I'm always open for more suggestions! Keep em coming in the comments!!!!!


In the mean time look how sad this cookie is.

What do you want me to do?

Omg what's wrong with me?!

I tried to keep up a good pace with this thingy-thang and you know what I got? A heaping pile of procrastination slammed directly into my noggin. Trying to write is haaaaaaaaaaard. I feel like I'm an adequate scribe, but I have nothing really that interesting to write about. Sure there's fiction, but that's for the semi off kilter. I mean they create this giant complex world filled with imaginary people who seem real. The better and nuanced the book is, the freakier the author. I'm being dead serious. If someone ever gives you a book of theirs to read and it's crappy fiction, be happy you don't have a nut job for a friend. That being said, I'm only sorta crazy... I guess you can call me lazy crazy. I get all freaky and into my imaginary worlds, but then one day the normal sets in and I'm like..."what the hell is this? I'm gonna watch some tv and drink a beer."

So that being decided, I tend to stick to the self indulgent essays of the memoir variety- buuut I haven't had anything truly interesting or heartbreaking happen to me (thank god). I've never had to saw my hand off from a boulder, no cancer (once again thank god- sheesh), and I'm no major celebrity. I could do something that would warrant some interesting chronicles. Like that damn woman who cooked recipes from the Julia Child's book. Her dumb ass got a boring movie. I was thinking I could run a marathon- which could be interesting from a lazy person's point of view. I was thinking I could also just ask a bunch of people to tell me things to do, and I can chronicle me (a lazy person) trying to do them. Yes. That is what I will do.

What do you guys want me to attempt? I'll try my best, and take pictures of it... as long as I don't have to show my boobies, don't be gross ya'll.

Post in the comments!

Hello Monday

Things I'm too lazy to do right now:

1. Go to the bathroom

2. Eat Lunch

3. Scratch that itch on my elbow

4. Pay bills

Why Koala Mama, WHY?!?!

Skip to 1:03





This ruined Koalas for me, so I guess I had to ruin them for you too.

Remember...........

If you were born in the 80s... these will make you feel nostalgic

Nnekay Goes to A Chocolate Festival

My boyfriend has one of those giant command center type office chairs perched at his giant command center desk. It black, has arm rests, and a wonderful padded high back. Not to mention it spins. Something you would expect some high executive to make power phone calls from. Or at least a super villain to recline in while petting the obligatory white poofy cat. Instead, the poor command chair is desecrated almost every Saturday morning as I flop my chonie covered butt in it to spin around, and fiddle on the internet.

During one of these occasions I stumbled upon one of those in vogue internet coupons for a Chocolate Festival. Normally, I usually scoff at the "saving" these coupons provide- oooo 2000 bucks for a island getaway. But this was a CHOCOLATE FESTIVAL.

ahem... CHOCOLATE.

I personally am not the biggest fan of chocolate, but when attached to FESTIVAL. My heart lights up. I imagine pin wheels of chocolate, chocolate dance parties, chocolate bumper cars, basically a chocolate-y good time of fun-o-rama. Not to mention my boyfriend shares my passion for sweets with a higher attention to chocolate than I do. So I declared we would go to said chocolate festival.

There were no chocolate dance parties, no chocolate bumper cars.... just pushy old ladies. Pushy old ladies demanding samples, in those annoying hot pink Drugstore reading glasses- cause you know they're so 'fun' and 'wacky'.

Sigh.

It was still a chocolate-y good time, though! The BF and I bounced from table to table sampling all the variety of random chocolates from all the various chocolatiers the Bay Area has to offer. Grunting hardly intelligible things to each other like: "yea I liked that one," "ew what was that?" and more often than not "I don't even know, anymore..."

The venders looked miserable.... peddling their wares for the massed of wacky bespectacled festival goers, us, and the random freaks that pop up at things like this (hmmm chocolate festival, I think I'll pull out my best Casual Leather Daddy Look for this event). Of course, there were the venders with some sort of cutesy shtick that almost out shined their chocolate. As we passed one table The BF, turned to me and said, "I didn't know the Four Non-Blondes made chocolate" I turned to my right and there standing behind a red velvet booth, was a elfish man with dreadlocks grassing his butthole, top hat, and goggles. His booth partner completed the look with a fur lined vest, guy-liner, and frosted tips. We decided not to try their gypsy carnival candy.

After about 40 minutes, I didn't have a clue what the hell I was tasting. It was definitely worth it, but I have no idea how Cathy does it.

Late night cute

Those Wacky Victorians...

There are various reasons why I dislike the turn of the century.

1. Freak Shows
2. Street Urchins/ dirty children (unless they are singing about Newspapers in a Disney movie)
3. Tuberculous
4. Coat Tails
5. Metal Wind Up Toys

I could go on and on to prove my point, but there is simply too much to define this creepy era. I know, all you Steampunks are screaming, "Screw you, Nnekay!!!" Well ya'll are creepy, too! With your fake bionic arms and top hats!

As a librarian, I of course, come across a bunch of weird old books. Today a pamphlet promoting good grammar flopped on my desk. What is so freaky-deaky about a book on proper punctuation? Well, dear readers let me demonstrate how being published in the late 1800s can make just about anything weirdly morbid.
This is the cover of the horror nightmare. A man made out of punctuations? Mr. Stops?! Give me a real author you creepy manifesto!

That... is Mr. Stops?! Stops, Mr. Stops! Leave us alone! Why does he have he one hand? OMG A DAGGER! Why would a man made out of commas need a dagger? Who is that lady-baby dressed like a soccer mom? So confused. So scared.

We get it... you don't like Napoleon- but putting political satire in a children book is weird. I'm looking at you Lewis Carrol...
Wanna start a complex? I got idea, let's portray the question mark (or interrogative point) as a leery hunch back dude asking inappropriate questions. Noooo that wont mess a kid up in the head at all.
Are those supposed to be boobies? And why is that guy so sad?!


So apparently this old time-y punctuation means, "watch where you're going!" which is what that lady is trying to say to Mr. Grabby McBoob hands. Sexual harassment jokes in a punctuation book is toootally fine for children.

Opium is a helluva drug.

I Can't Think of A Title For This Post

I don't understand the whole phenomena of calling your dude friend who happens to enjoy relationships with other men one of your "gays". Why am I'm one of the few who get irked by this... or at least vocally irked. Yeeeaaah, people say it's used in a silly, whatever way- and maybe I'm being a PC tight ass, but it sure does sound like extreme marginalization, with a light dash of creepy ownership.

Even huge LGBT activists have been know to use this term (Kathy Griffin, I'm looking at you). It makes it seem like gay dudes are just there to be collected like magical elf men who will give you a fab hair style and pick out a fierce outfit. Which can happen, but it can also not happen. I know plenty of gay people who suck at styling, and I know plenty of straight people who have a knack for it. Yet, the way the media portrays it, one would think that fashion expertise is a direct side effect from having man on man relations. By sectioning off your friends with such a wide stroke title, implies you view them differently then your other friends... which is... kinda homophobic.

I'm lucky enough to have friends across all gender, race, and sexual preference lines... but to me they're all the same... cause they're my friends plain and simple.

Thumb twiddler

I've just spent the last couple hours dicking around on the internet.

If this were 1982, would I have managed to put away my laundry instead of leaving neatly piled land bombs of t-shirts and chonies around my room? Or would I have ended up playing Atari...

If this were 1975, would I have washed my dishes, dried them, and place them in my olive green cabinet? Or would I have been distracted by some Donna Summer's record?

If this were 1947, would I have ironed my a-line skirt, and hung my stocking out to dry? Or perhaps, would I have been tempted by procrastination in the form radio surfing?

If this were 1835, would I have milked the cow, or prefer to waste my time playing with dirt (I dunno, times were rough...)

I like to believe procrastination has stayed the same, we've just found fancier ways to do it.

Progress?

My friend and awesome thinker Stephanie shared this with me:

Nnekay Goes to Kaiser

A few days ago I went to the hospital.

Not in a OMGYOUAREDYING sort of way, more like a "crap, I need to check this weirdness out".

Last week, I started getting pains under my left eyeball. I thought it was nothing, but during a dramatic after work ramble of exhaustion to my roommate, Heather, I flamboyantly mentioned the pains of my eyeball while theatrically covering it with my right hand. I expected her to calmly shrug off my pleas like she normally does to my insanities, but instead she looked tensely at me, and suggested that I at the least call a nurse for advice. Not expecting this reaction, I became a little more worried than dramatic and dialed the advice nurse. After 30 minutes of smooth jazz I found myself trying to explain my problems... which out loud sounded SO. LAME.

Me: um... under my left eye... it hurts.
Nurse: is it red?
Me: no.
Nurse: does it hurt when you move your eye around?
Me: yea... uhh... no.
Nurse: are there bumps on or around your eye?
Me: ew...no.
Nurse: is your sight tinted with red?
Me: no.
Nurse: swollen?
Me: no.
Nurse: Discharge?
Me: no.
Nurse: Vision worse?
Me: no.
Nurse: Yea, you should probably come in and see a doctor.
Me: What?!

She explained that eye pain around the muscle could be bad, so the next morning I made an appointment to have some random doctor poke around my face.

Kaiser is a large looming type of multi-building complex in the middle of Downtown Oakland. When I was circling the parking lot the large colored numbers representing each floor brought back floods of memories from when I was a sickly clumsy child. I had a folder the size of an dictionary due to my frequent falls and gangly limbs that were prone to breakage. As an adult, I suddenly realized how expensive I was as child.

When I initially called to schedule my appointment the receptionist who clearly hated life and all humanity, delicately placed the fear of God in me, when explaining that I could not be late:

DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT BEING LATE, WE WILL GIVE YOUR APPOINTMENT TO SOMEONE ELSE AGHHHH!

As a result I was 45 minutes early.

Sitting in the waiting room, I thought to myself, "this will be fine- you brought a book and you have your fancy new iphone."

Twenty minutes into checking my Facebook News Feed for the 50th time, a mother and her two sons showed up. One kid was probably 11 or 12, still kinda dopey kid style, but starting to get that teenage grossness about him. The other was a bald little warrior of a three year old. He had on a rad sweatsuit and a wild flair in his eyes. The mother exhausted tried to wrangle the warrior, but he being the brute that he was, freed himself and went running wildly around a group of chairs. He kicked, screamed, jumped, swatted, and finally a full battle cry complete with two arms fisted into the air. Just looking at this kid my eye throbbed. He didn't stop for a full 20 minutes. Until the doctor, a mild mannered man with a gold pinkie ring emblazoned with peace signs poked his head out, looked directly at me and said, "I think... I'm looking for you." I sighed for once in my life I would love it if I actually got to experience a doctor or nurse come into the waiting room and say "Nnekay FitzClarke, please" instead of the:

"err... um... fitz...clarke...ah...um..."

I followed the gentleman into his exam room which was filled with so many gadgets I half expected a beaker with bubbling green fluid tucked in somewhere. I sat down on in the clinical exam chair, and after some mild chuckles he placed my face in a vice sort of thing and began to poke around my eyeballs with a long q-tip... oh excuse me cotton swab.

This started the water works.

As he poked around, my eyes began to pee all over my face- I kept apologizing,

"I'm so sorry... I dunno why my eyes are doing this... I'm so sorry.. oh my god... I'm so sorry."

Which I now believe is possibly one of the lowest moments of my adult life.

He paused and muttered, "Ooooo, I see some swollen glands chuckle chuckle chuckle. Let me get a squeeze. This might hurt."

It hurt like a bitch, which cause real tears... I guess... my eyes were a constant stream as soon as he started harassing them with that damn q-tip. "Yes," he continued to mutter, "There seems to be a waxy toothpaste-y type substance coming from your glands... you have an infection."

Yes, dear reader like you... I almost barfed.

He gave me a prescription for some meds and I fled, leaving Mr. Stabby and his pinkie ring behind.

The waiting room for drugs was drab... even though it was filled with windows. After going up to the counter a woman with a spiderwebby hairline informed me that it would be a 30 minute wait. She was definitely trying to convince me to leave, but I was tired and my eyes were pointing in different directions, so I figured a 30 minute wait would do me well.

Five minutes later my name was called.

I sighed and went to grab the small bottle. As I was walking away, some young baby of a man decided it would be an appropriate time to approach me... perhaps to invite me out to an elegant dinner,

"EH!! Lil' Miss, EHH! Lemme talk at ya for a minute."

I have to say, I've been approached in some random spots, but a hospital pharmacy has got to be the worst. I mean I could be picking up swabs for the exploding sores on my ass... we're all here cause something is wrong with us... call me picky but I probably wouldn't be looking for a future bedroom companion at this joint. So I continued on, he wasn't even worth the "I HAVE A MAN." defense.

As I descended down the spiraling stair case to freedom, I heard a faint, "shit, you ain't gotta be so rude..."

I laughed as I entered the warm sunlight.

For Sadako

I wish I could make 1000 paper cranes for Japan.

Like that book which made us cry at a weirdly young age to be reading about touching thought provoking stuff.

Even though I have incredibly nimble lightening fast fingers, I doubt my 1000 paper cranes wish, could repair all the damage or soak up all the toxic insanity that is going on overseas.

I'm going to keep sending positive thoughts to the people who are suffering.

I'm going to ignore all the ridiculous sensationalized stories, meant to drum up fear.

I'm also going to donate... not a lot, because I don't have the means, but just like the story with Sadako, in order to reach 1000 paper cranes you have to start with one tiny little bit of folded paper.

Donate:

The Red Cross

Or

Text REDCROSS to 90999 to give a $10 donation.

Is It Summer Yet?

Old Lady Rant

Once upon a time I used to be awkward. That point in my life was just a blur of stomach gurgles, and sleeves pulled over my fingers, because for some reason that made me feel more secure.

Then, like any common place grub, I went into to hibernation- and came out a fluttering butterfly in cheap, but sexy clothing.

This time was grand.

Not only could I drink, but I was the youngest in the club, and therefore the best- well, what I thought at least. Booze, work, and failed relationships had yet to scratch the surface of my fresh baby-butt skin.

Then one day I woke up 28.

Still young, but just starting to feel the cold handshake of death.

My back hurts, hangovers are now a bitchier bitch than they used to be, and gray hair (nooooooooo).

Sigh, I could actually kinda handle this bullshit, if I didn't work at an All Woman's College. A lady land of cavorting women, fresh, idealistic, and lacking of bras.

It's the juniors, I really despise.

The freshman are basically glorified babies... flopping around the campus like misshapen muppets.

The sophomores... I mean, to be sophomoric is to be stupid.

The seniors- well, they're about to be spat out into a cruel-cruel world, so I can't really be jealous of their blind optimism, which will get crushed in a stampede of rejected resumes.

Oh, but the juniors... damn you juniors!!! Just turned 21 year olds cushioned in the comfort of college. By this point they know exactly how to work the system, taking all late afternoon classes, frequenting local bars, and still fresh enough to engage in social activist conversations most seniors can't help but roll their jaded eyes too.

I shake my fist at you third years!!!! Enjoy it while it's hot cause, baby shit will get real in a couple of years.

Rock Bottom

Everyone has moments when the bottom of the barrel has been completely scraped.

Sometimes it manifest in clothing:

"All my underwear is dirty, so I'm wearing bikini bottoms..."

Sometimes it manifest in television:

"I watched 5 hours of 'Say Yes to the Dress' last night..."

And sometimes it manifest in food, like it did for me two Saturday mornings ago. I woke up with a strong desire to eat cereal. I knew that I didn't have any, but I remembered Heather, my roommate did.

Step one: Steal food.

When I went to the kitchen and looked in the cabinet, I saw her bag of granola... I sighed, I was hoping for something better than granola, but it was all that was there, and I really wanted cereal.

Step two: Steal something lame like granola.

What I did know, was that I had Soy Milk... I went into my refrigerator, pulled out the blue carton and sniffed it. It smelled fine, but the expiration date told a whole different story. I figured this date was just something the company printed to protect their asses, but since it was a month expired I decided to do the pour test in the sink.

Clumps.

I had already added my granola to the bowl, and started to analyze my options. I didn't want to try to eat dry granola, thus shredding the roof of my mouth into a horror show of ripped flesh. I looked sadly at the water faucet, and turned my head away in disgust- how dare I even consider such an abysmal option.

Water-Granola is the saddest thing shy of a Rodeo Clown.

Then, like a lightning bolt from the heavens it dawned on me.

Step Three: Use Non Dairy powder creamer mixed with water as "milk"

As I shook the French Vanilla power over the cereal, a tiny little voice whispered, "you've hit rock bottom."

As I turned the faucet on and watched it bubble up through the chunks of granola and power, the voice clearly stated, "Wow, Nnekay, you've hit rock bottom."

As I mixed the glop into something the reminded me of what porridge must look like the voice sighed and said, "Are you really going to do it!?"

... and I did... I ate it.

It was... good-ish?

Tuesday Trendz: OscarBarf

After looking at hundreds (okay maybe like 30) red carpet pictures of thespians and their stretchy faces and shrink wrapped bodies I have one thing to say about Sunday's Night of Glamor:

Snooze, Fart, Turn-Over

Good grief what the hell happened to everyone? Were they too afraid of what that evil plastic witch, Joan Rivers would say? I wish there were more risks. I wish there was more glam. I wish there was some sort of statement: political or insane, I don't care... I want to be knocked on my caboose by the ridiculousness of you overpaid drama nerds.

Instead I got a barrel of "meh" with a side of "who cares". Anyway here are some of the dresses that rated higher than a stale cookie.



Anne Hathaway, Atelier Versace

Couple things about good ole Anne: Props for rocking 8 looks that night, kept me from being annoyed with her showboat theater geek antics. I liked the the Versace dress the most- the detailing on the bodice was unusual, fresh, and interesting to look at. Plus I feel this frock matched her age the most appropriately. Not too baby-frou frou, and not too matron long sleeves. Ya... she kinda looks like a vampire, but whatever people are still jonesing for that Twilight crap.



Camila Alves, Kaufman Franco

Oh Cammy, you look like you could fit an entire Matthew McConnaughey under that gown, but I thank you for finding something that was kinda prom-y and awesome. The band around the waist, the negative neckline, and the POCKETS (yay!!!)



Cate Blanchett, Givency Couture

Okay, so many people gave this dress shit, and I think this is the reason why Oscar fashion was such crap this year. All the loud mouth peons thwarting fashion risks, only to make things BORING. I mean it's like Gladiator Gone Pink, and only Cate Blanchett's tough ass could pull this off.



Mila Kunis, Elie Saab

I say "yes" to this dress. While watching the red carpet a friend of mine blurted, "it looks like her boob might fall out," well, you know what? I would wear this dress even if I had one of my big ole nips peeping through the whole time. The lavender color and her dark hair were a perfect match. The lace and the slight sexiness of peekaboo skin was spot on.



Emma Roberts, Jenny Packman

What the hell? Isn't she a baby?! Anyway, I give baby Julia props for bringing on the sparkle. Gotta love those see through-sleeves. You done good, child, you done good.

Monday Cute: Hug

Sometimes you just need one...