I’m the worst kind of writer. Looking over what I’ve written is difficult for me, editing is hard to do because I can’t see my mistakes, and when I get into the flow of it I seem to poop out when one sentence is giving me trouble. I can’t commit to the writing! There must be a cure.

The thing that can get me writing though hinges on two things: reading captivating writers (Anne Lamott, David Sedaris, Erma Bombeck) and music. There are certain songs that come on my broken iPod that set my skin to itching to write and I have to sit down RIGHT THEN AND PUKE IT OUT. The iPod, by the way, plays only on the docking station and in order of artist. Yesterday I let it play all the way through and by the end of the day I was up to the B’s only. I’d come into my bedroom and hear Bjork and then Beyonce and finally Bob Marley. Weird playlist, I know.

There’s a weird sense of guilt of not writing here for the last few days. Some of it was forced, however, because my internet cord magically came unplugged. I’m not blaming anyone in particular, but when the PSP needs to be re-charged or a cell phone needs more battery power, IT MIGHT BE NICE TO CHOOSE ANOTHER LOCATION, KIDS.

The other reason, of course, is that writing for other places and guest blogging opportunities are reaching new heights. It’s a nice path to be on, but it leaves me depleted and unable to complete thoughts on so many things I want to explore. Is Imus opening his mouth again? What really went wrong with that entire town where the girls made a pregnancy pact? How on earth can I buy another gallon of gasoline without taking out a loan?

I’ll get to it, I will. Right after I get through the C’s on my iPod. Carmen McRae is kicking my ass with her vocals.

MeL

Daisy

And Angie.

Thanks for all the entries, you beautiful people. Winners, send me your snail mail to receive your prizes!

I have an extra book for the reader who sends the best bio written for me (honestly, my laziness knows no bounds right now) in the comments. Bio away!

The Fall photo contest ends Monday to win an HP PhotoBook to be delivered to your door post-licking a la Mocha Momma. Who wouldn’t want that? Except that I won’t really do that because it would leave a stain on these beautiful fabric covered books that I have to give away and it would be brown, no doubt from the incredible amount of coffee I’ve been drinking of late.

So send in those photos (details here) to me by midnight on Monday in order to be in the running. This power to choose. It’s overwhelming me. I shall soldier on…

…mostly because I also have a new project that I’m working on with some of the most fabulous people on the planet. It’s exciting, inspiring, and I am not in charge. The most important thing here is that I AM NOT IN CHARGE. That appeals to me on a huge scale. Stay tuned for details later this week.

I’m probably going to do NaBloPoMo again, but I’m just not going to kill myself with pithy posts. Somewhere in there are bound to be haiku, shopping for awesome shoes, or testing new products.

Besides all this new brewing stuff going on, I have to write a bio for myself for this new project. True, there is irony in the fact that I’m hating the prospect of it considering I forced people to do the BlogHer 10 Second Interview. I’d love for it to be funny (Mocha Momma was born to a hot cuppa cocoa and some steamed frothy milk in the Spring of 1971…) or include something about my English Lit degree (and she is THRILLED that Beowulf is being made into a movie so that she can throw around her King Hrothgar jokes willy nilly) but I am tapped.

Who wants to write one for me in between those loads of laundry and fixing apple cider for these chilly nights?

Ok, fine. YOU can do it.

*taken from Sunday Scribblings via Krista at The Silent K.

Hi my name is Kelly. I go by “Mocha”, but have answered to far less. In my classroom 10 years ago I agreed to go by “Bitch” but told the 8th grade smartass who uttered it that she was not allowed to use my first name ever again.

I have been a mother for 21 years and still couldn’t tell you the first thing about how I did that. I am jealous beyond measure of the mothers I know now who fret about the skill of parenting because that was a luxury I wasn’t afforded. I did a damn fine job raising that girl and was lucky to find a partner who helped me raise her and the two sons he later gave me.

I am constantly looking for what’s next in life and that restlessness has a price. Not too long ago I hit a wall where that’s concerned and feel oddly like I am trapped in a corner.

I talk fast and use my hands to help express myself, but in my head the words are slow and measured because I want to say the right thing. I look to be profound in my comments to the students I see every day because I fear sometimes that their fragility will take them from me and I won’t be able to say those words again.

Writing is a hobby, but words I put to paper will likely never make it to this screen. I keep some writing hidden or do so anonymously. The words still need to get out. When I read things like this I am inspired to continue using my words and try to do so without resorting to upper case.

I generally speak in upper case and even when I don’t I command a room because I have learned how to get the attention of thirty 14-year-olds so doing so with 100 adults is really not that difficult.

I am not motivated by money but I have been known to set my sights on something and take on extra jobs to pay for it. I do not miss being on food stamps nor the emotional struggle I felt trying to get off of them. Paying for your own food after getting it free takes a toll on the psyche.

I am loud and raucous and don’t take shit from anybody. When I’m quiet and it looks like I’m taking your shit, I’m plotting.

I am interested in religion as an educational exercise and the most fascinating people I know are Calvinists, but there are some serious hangups for me on that front. I’m glad my boys like their Youth Group, but I cautiously monitor what they learn from their white, privileged leaders and then use that opportunity to help them think for themselves.

I’m super pissed about reading the latest alumni newsletter from my university to see that the scholarship recipients are all white. Well, I’m happy for Vishnu and all, but still I think it’s culturally deficient to display all those white people and boast about the scholarships they’ve given away. I won’t ever send them any money. Ok, fine. I never did anyway. But now I really won’t.

I am currently interested in mental health. I tell myself it is general research, but it is not.

My love languages are physical touch and gifts. I hate that second one because it sounds like I am greedy. I am. I just don’t want to appear that way. I have to touch or be touched every day. My understanding is that skin is the largest organ of our bodies and it requires stimulation.

I love taking pictures and am always surprised by the shots I like the most because they never seem to be of my family. I know what they look like and cameras can’t always capture the myriad things I know intimately about my family, but when they do it becomes an instant favorite.

I used to like to cook and my kitchen has made it impossible to enjoy the task when I’m constantly rearranging my space to fit my needs. Chopping vegetables or fruit please me. There is nothing more comfortable and homey than beginning to saute The Trinity of peppers, onions, and celery. I like fruity wine and dirty martinis and usually regret the shots people talk me into. Tequila makes my throat hurt and my voice disappears the day after drinking it.

I am in awe of my mother’s confidence to try new things, my sister’s confidence in herself and my father’s ever-changing nature. My other sister is newly free from a man I don’t think was good for her, but I am galvanized by her determination to go it alone. I am proud of where I come from.

I am the person you want to stand next to at a party for I can hold my own in conversation. I let my face do the talking. I am transparent if you care enough to pay attention to my words and my body language.

I am a reader of fiction and biographies, but self-help books are a waste of my time. I have my own ideas and have yet to learn something I didn’t know from a self-help book. I am Common Sense. I want to get lost in imaginative worlds when I read and escape reality, not shine a light on it.

Hi, my name is Contradiction in Terms. I am a Foregone Conclusion. Some days I can flutter and coo. Others, I am all schmaltz. I am tender. I kick ass first and take names later.

Hi.

My name is Kelly. And you still don’t know me yet.

Housekeeping stuff

There are some ads that will begin showing up on my sidebar compliments of BlogHer Ads. I’m always so very ten minutes ago. It took 4 separate people asking me and a fantastic Haiku from their people to get me to fill out the paperwork.

Contests! Prizes!

Starting next week there will be some contests going on to win an HP Photo Album. I’m giving away 4 of them. In the meantime, take some Fall pictures as that will be the theme. You know…leaves, pumpkins, football, caramel apples, stilettos… what ever strikes your fancy. It could even be Halloween costume pictures. I’ve been scouring the gorgeous trees here and trying to find some orange leaves and photography shots that make me catch my breath. Easy to do in my neck of the woods.

School Related

Finally, Dana asked some questions the other day that required longer than my own comments had time to respond to, so I’ll answer them here.

What I view in the schools I’ve worked in has been so similar that it gives me a frightening view of what probably happens all over this country. Blacks and Whites don’t always interact in social situations at school (lunchroom, outside, sporting events) as much as I would think they would. Sure, there are many who choose their friends based on other important things, but many of them still seem segregated.

The unwritten rules are just like you said, but they are based on a long tradition and kids at school are just playing out what they see at home most of the time. There is a lot of interaction, though, but I know they are mirroring the behavior they’ve grown up with and there is caution there. Too much caution, if you ask me. It prevents us getting to know one another. That’s easier said than done because I’m overt and all kinds of words that are opposite of SHY.

Oddly enough, the kids I work with are also steeped in a “North Side” kind of pride in this town and will back one another up at any time based on where they’re from and their loyalty knows no color when it comes to that.

Love! Valor! Racism!

There are always so many good comments to read on many of the topics I throw up (no, seriously. Throw up. Take it as you will.) but the equal number of e-mails on the subject are mind boggling. That tells me two things: you honestly want to express yourself in writing and perhaps there is still some fear in saying things in a public forum.

However, Liza gently reminded me that it isn’t just racism. I would never say to her, “You know you remind me of this OTHER lesbian I know…” because if she reminds me of someone it’s another human being. My heart goes out to her for dealing with that kind of ignorance on a daily basis. Because, of course, as we all know, ALL LESBIANS KNOW ONE ANOTHER AND PROBABLY WANT TO TURN ME INTO A LESBIAN,TOO. Because that’s how The Gay are.

Even Tracy, my sister, expressed this to me as I just read in an e-mail. One of the many questions she brings up is this one:

How do we, on the BLACK end, address people in situations like this?

And I’m sick and tired of the question always being, “How do I, as a White person, relate to Black people? Poor, scared little me. I’m so afraid of saying something wrong blah blah blah…”

Anyone within earshot of my mouthy rantings knows that I would respond with snark. It is a gift, this snarkiness.

I know what you mean. I, myself, don’t know how to relate to White people. I mean, why do you people (fill-in-the-blank here)? You’re just so… hard to relate to. Always touching my hair and asking these questions. Geez. Y’all are weird.

But, hey Fam. If you have something you’d like to add to that, feel free in the comment section. Help a sista out.

A Meme Done My Way

I haven’t gotten a meme request in a while because of the lameness-that-knows-no-bounds on my part. But when I got this one the other day and realized that Lovebabz was heading to serve her prison sentence soon, how could I refuse? Still, I have to be different so here goes:

The rules are to list 7 random facts, but in going to Lovebabz’ site (English teacher that I am, that damn apostrophe has me wondering right now) I heard the always soulful Thelonius Monk on her Sonific Songfest and it got me thinking about the 7 songs I’m currently listening to that are all a little bit old school.

1. Step In The Name of Love by Andre Ward. Screw R. Kelly. This one is much better and reminds me that my family loves to dance. My sister, Erin, and I used to step in our living room growing up and this makes me want to go dance with her right now.

2. Where Do We Go From Here? by Staci Lattisaw and Johnny Gill. A little gospely sounding in that feel-good way. Church, anyone?

3. Trouble Man by Marvin Gaye. Makes me close my eyes and wish I were in a cafe in Belgium where he spent a lot of his later years. Still makes me sad to think of that talent gone from this planet. My head moves involuntarily to this song.

4. Baby Come To Me by Regina Belle. This song has been a favorite since I was young. Too young to have understood it, even. Great slow dancing song. Grab a partner and swoon appropriately.

5. Me And Mrs. Jones by Billy Paul. Oh, come on. You know you’ve listened to this song by yourself and tried to scream out, “Meeeeeee aaaaand Mrs. MRS. JONES!” at one time or another. A lovely symphonic accompaniment in this tune. Pour yourself a glass of wine and belt it out. You’ll feel better.

6. Shining Star by The Manhattans. Would anyone like to get a boy band together and choreograph something to this song? I can do jazz hands like nobody’s business.

7. Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough by Michael Jackson. Song. Totally. Stuck in my head. Can’t. Stop it. Mason keeps playing this when it’s his turn to do the dishes. I think he wants it to motivate him, but I just keep telling him to wash the dishes every night so I can hear the song when he plugs his iPod into the speakers near the kitchen. Little does he know…

Feel like doing a meme? Do it for Lovebabz and hand out some linky love. And listen to some good “old school” music this weekend.