Starbucks makes an excellent Sumatra and I actually like it very strong. Really, it’s just fun to say “Sumatra“, isn’t it? It’s earthy, dark, mysterious and fits into a 16 oz. cup that gets my buzz on. That makes it kind of sexy, no? Meh. Who cares? It does the trick and gets my buzz on.
*I’m going to continue from Friday’s post because I got more private e-mails on that than ANY OTHER POST EVER. Ever. But I’ll do that for tomorrow’s post. MAYBE. Maybe.
My goddaughter, Faith, and her family have recently moved from Michigan to Missouri and has made travel and visiting much easier for all of us. We usually only got to see them once a year and now we’re already making plans to go to some Apple Butter festival in St. Louis at the end of this month.
I saw the words “Apple Butter” in a bulletin and immediately looked at Faith’s mother and said, “I’ll be back for this.”
Faith is the youngest of their two girls and they were quite entertaining this weekend. I saw their Halloween costumes, I taught them cat’s cradle with some colored string (and did this numerous times until my hands wanted to remove themselves from my wrists and slap my face until it turned red), and we also went to an evening church service so my sister-in-law could begin the process of finding a new one. We colored and tickled and teased and giggled and I even pretended to be moving in to Faith’s bedroom just so she would say, “Oh, no! This is my room!” over and over again because she has the cutest voice.
When Faith was adopted from Russia as a 3-year old Kennimus and I were asked to be her godparents. It was a whirlwind time and we know she doesn’t remember it all, so her mother reminded her that I wasn’t just Aunt Kelly, but that I was also her godmother.
“You mean I have a fairy godmother?” she squealed.
“Well, no… not like a …” her mother stammered while trying not to laugh. I interrupted her mother and jumped into the conversation.
“Yes, Faith. In fact, it is like a fairy godmother. I have wings and a wand and even a crown, but I forgot to bring all that stuff with me today.” Her mother winked at me because she knew that Faith wouldn’t understand the real meaning just yet and she let me have a little fun.
For the rest of the afternoon, she addressed me as “Fairy Godmother.”
“Fairy godmother, can I have a cookie?”
“Fairy godmother, I drew a picture for you.”
“Fairy godmother, did you know Mallory was over playing with us?”
Later that evening, she was thinking about it again and getting that “Hmmmm” look on her face. She must have gotten confused about the fairy part because she went over to her mother and whispered, “Where’s my genie?”
“Genie? Where’s your ‘genie’? Huh? What are you talking about?”
“Ooohhhhh, nooooooooo!” she laughed, smacking her own forehead. “I mean my FAIRY GODMOTHER!”
With my own college classes going on I can’t possibly get to the store so Kennimus and the boys take care of that (nope. not. commenting. on it.) and I was pleased as ever that they bought some Starbucks Sumatra while they were out. It wasn’t whole bean, but I will survive. Especially if he keeps getting up to make it. It seemed strong today so I added enough creamer to make it nearly the color of my skin. Oops! I’ll run it off later. There’s enough caffeine in it to give me the energy to run it off.
Several things have happened this week that made me wonder: do I look like a pushover? Like a woman who wouldn’t tell you exactly what is on my mind?
I share an office with a great woman and we get along swimmingly. She teases me about not liking country music (ahem. She teases me. Ain’t that a kick?) because my officemate from two years ago told her to do so since she, too, likes country music and used to play it in our office.
There is a radio on her side of the office that is far enough away that I don’t hear it, but the other day when there were about 5 other people working at the tables in our office (it’s a Professional Development room for teachers where we both have our desks) the music was up louder and country music was blaring.
I jokingly groaned when I walked in and one of the other teachers said, “Oh, Kelly. Someday you’ll be able to appreciate good music and have taste in it.” and another chimed in, “No kidding. How can she think that rap music is any good?”
It should be noted that I was minding my own business at this point and literally walked into this shit. Let me just say that for all the race issues that I notice and point out, this would not be a perceived slight. This was overt.
“EXCUSE ME??? What do you know about the music I listen to? Do you hear me driving up in the parking lot with rap music blaring? I BEG YOUR PARDON, but you don’t know shit about me and what I listen to AND IF YOU THINK YOU HAVE MORE TASTE THAN ME FROM LISTENING TO ONE TYPE OF MUSIC then I want to know what drugs you’re on because that. is. whack.”
So at least three people from work haven’t spoken to me since then. No loss for me, but I did play some really good Miles Davis after work. You know. For some c-u-l-t-u-r-e.
Nothing pisses me off more than assuming that all black people listen to is rap music. As if there is nothing else out there for us to listen to! I’m not a teenager for crying out loud, but seriously. I get so sick of being lumped into one category to define my music when I know for a fact that a few of those people never listen to anything BUT country music.
Something else that totally chaps my ass is the whole Women Are Sensitive At Work And Must Be Handled With Kid Gloves Because They Might Cry. It’s particularly annoying when they try to use my FEELINGS as an excuse to get by with bad behavior.
Wait. Something else DOES piss me off more than assumptions of Black music listening choices.
Wednesday of this week I had to run these Walk Throughs in our building and met with the entire staff (minus the math department) each hour to tell them how it would work and what we were looking for and then do the de-briefing afterward. One teacher, a man, doesn’t want to do it. He’s made it known that he is unhappy about doing it and being forced to have this meeting together. He stomped into the room late (interrupting me while I was leading group discussion) and said this was “crap” and he didn’t want to do it and we were doing it all wrong because HE’S done it before (oh, he’s also a Know-It-All on all things education) and he went on and on and on…
Others at the table looked uncomfortable and I tried a “Ok, but let’s move on to the business at hand” line a few times until we muddled through and finally did the walk through. I was disgusted by his behavior and planned to deal with him later. The only reason I didn’t engage him was because the other people there didn’t need to be dragged into his drama. Before I could go find him, he came back to my office and offered this:
“Kelly. Don’t take it personally.”
My mind works fast. Very quickly, several thoughts went through my brain: I thought that it was interesting that he should caution me about taking HIS tantrum personally. That I was going to be subjective rather than objective about his rant. And it occurred to me that he thought my feelings were hurt and that maybe, just maybe, it was all because I was some sort of sensitive woman.
I said that my mind works fast. So does my mouth. My mouth works in a fashion that makes me wonder if it isn’t in conjunction with my mind.
“I don’t take it personally. I take it professionally because I am a professional. And when you come into this Professional Development office, I fully expect you to behave like a professional.”
After I spoke my mind I turned and walked away. I wasn’t going to stick around to hear more lame excuses from him. I didn’t need to hear anything else and I didn’t care if he needed to say anything else. Hopefully, he wasn’t crying when I left. You know how sensitive men can be.
Let’s just keep with the theme, mmkay? I’m having mocha today and lots of it. Full fat, extra chocolate, MOCHA COFFEE. Listen up, Internet: You want me to have this today. You need me to have this today. I won’t be presentable until I’ve had this today.
