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Claws

Woman stop talking hand gestureI was one of an estimated 500,000 participants in the Women’s March that took place in Washington, DC on January 17th. Sister marches occurred in cities across the country and around the world. Women of every culture and ethnic group participated. Sisterhood was evident. The mood was intoxicating. There were some men there supporting us, too. But this isn’t about the men. It’s about us. Women.

In addition to appearing to enjoy the camaraderie, every woman who I encountered was polite and pleasant, even when we were so crushed together that we were stepping on each other’s toes. I’m not a novice to rallies and marches, but I’ve been riding the natural high of the Women’s March ever since that day. Then, recently as I was chatting with a male friend of mine, he burst my bubble by stating what I already knew.

He did not bite his tongue when he said that the irony of the situation is that some of those same women were “Perpetrating. Hypocrites and haters.” They were showing solidarity with their “sisters” but would soon be back at work or going about their everyday activities, and then the claws will come out. “They will be bad-mouthing, mean-eyeing, back-stabbing and hating on” other women. Ouch! Women know that this stuff goes on, but you feel so transparent when hit with the naked truth by a man. So as much as I wanted to disagree with him, I didn’t.

Do you wonder what makes women so cunningly (or sometimes obviously) envious and hateful toward other women? I don’t know a woman who hasn’t either been the object of clawing or has shown her own claws. It is not improbable that many women wearing those pink kitty caps during the march had their claws concealed within mittens and gloves on that chilly day.

We’ve all seen it or we’ve been IT. If an insecure woman perceives that another woman is smarter, prettier, or more popular than she, it triggers her ire and the claws come out. If she is not only an insecure but also a manipulative and controlling woman, she will do whatever she can to diminish or destroy the woman who she perceives to be her competition, her imaginary enemy. You would think that this is something you see only among immature school girls; but many grown women act just as childish.

When will women realize that your self-worth cannot be measured by someone else’s?  But your empowerment can come from being supportive of like-minded women. Face it; there will always be another woman who is prettier, smarter and depending on your personality – she may even be more likable than you.

The instinct of many of my self-confident friends and my nature is to be helpful to other women; not only in the workplace but everyday situations.

Some women refused to vote for Hillary Clinton for no other reason except that she was a woman. Oh, they made up flimsy excuses like, “You know those emails.” Or “How could she stand by her man considering ….” Truth be told some women refused to vote for Hillary simply because they envied her. Hillary had the chutzpah to get into the campaign trenches. She had the audacity to do something that – given the opportunity – some women wouldn’t or couldn’t garner the nerve to do. Women need to be supportive of each other. To do otherwise is irrational.

Author Nkem Ikeke wrote, “A lady walks into a room, and some other ladies in the room start to hate for no reason…Unlike men, women will often dislike another woman for no logical reason at all.”

Will the day ever come when women stop seeing other women as their competition? Perhaps the Women’s March was a beginning.

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Secreting the Journal

Elegant leather journal with calligraphy pen on white backgroundBlogging is a lot like journaling. Although I often blog about communal issues, sometimes I write about personal matters like the subject of this post.

Oprah Winfrey was quoted as saying, “Keeping a journal will absolutely change your life in ways you’ve never imagined.” She may be right.

I’ve kept a diary and journal off and on from the time I was a young girl. That was decades ago. I’m a big girl now, and my current journal is a cluttered catchall for everything from important appointments to excellent quotations. My journal is also my secret place where I go to express my opinions without fear of judgment, blame or requirement for justification. No need to concern myself with proper grammar, spelling, or proofreading. In my journal, I am free to be me.

My first diary was a cute, little dime store book with a pretty pink

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Crybaby

Very strong Image Of a afro American woman Crying isolated on BCall me a crybaby. I accept that. I’ve been turning on the waterworks since childhood. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not talking about infancy when all babies communicate that they are hungry, need changing or are otherwise discontent over something. I was a grade-schooler when – get ready – I turned on the waterworks over a television program.

Depending on the circumstance, I’ve been comforted, teased, or criticized for shedding tears. When I weep over a devastating event or at a funeral, there are usually others commiserating with me, so unless I become hysterical (I only lost it once), my tears don’t raise eyebrows. On the other hand, witnessing someone else’s joyous moment, like a wedding or a long-awaited reunion, could make me grab a Kleenex and wipe happy tears. Feelings of extreme anger or deep stress might produce a small waterfall. A tearjerker movie could cause a Tsunami. I am an equal opportunity crier.

I’ve discovered that a lot of people are uncomfortable around crybabies. I first realized this when I was around ten years old. I remember it like it was yesterday. I am sitting alone in the living room watching an adventure film. Everything is fine until the handsome male lead is captured and blinded by the bad guys. As the villains continue torturing the protagonist with a hot branding iron, my dad walks into the room and sees me frowning at the screen with tears streaming down my face. Immediately concerned he asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

Fighting to close the floodgates, I turn my watery eyes toward dad and whimper, “They are killing him.”

Perhaps not knowing how to handle the situation caused dad discomfort, because he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and left the room shaking his head side-to-side and grumbling. “Crying over a stupid TV show. Don’t make no sense.”

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No Bra-ha-ha

Let me put this right out there and say that I hate wearing a bra. Bras might be a sensual turn-on for men, but they are the ultimate torture garment for women. They pinch and poke. They’re uncomfortable and constricting. The first thing you want to do when you take it off is vigorously scratch those girls. And based on conversations had and overheard, I’m not the only female who has a hate-hate relationship with bras.

Whoopi Goldberg would agree with me. I’ve heard her say, countless times, on The View,  that she hasn’t worn a bra in over 40 years. I don’t understand why she feels the need to disclose that personal information to a national television audience, but I can relate to why she ditched the darned thing.

Some of my girlfriends and I have shared bra horror stories. One thing we all agree on is that there is nothing more disappointing than investing $40 or more for a bra that rides up, curls over, shifts around, and advertises the back fat.

Buying a bra can be as stressful as wearing one. Women who dislike wasting money with the trial and error process can get assistant from a bra fitter. Tape measure in hand, she is often available to measure you in stores like Victoria’s Secret or Norstrom. Or you can measure yourself at home. There are Internet sites that provide instructions on how to determine your bra size. But be forewarned, doing it yourself and getting the right measurement is not always as easy as A, B, C or double D.

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Bedtime Story

Counting SheepOne of my regular blog readers, Vye, recently left a note in my “What do you want me to write about?” box. She even signed her name (Gutsy, aren’t you, Vye? Just kidding.)
Vye said that although she enjoys reading my “two cents worth” blogs, I write too many serious posts (Was she alluding to the last one that I wrote about transgenders?). “Lighten-up,” she said. “I know from reading you in the past, that you have a great sense of humor. I’d like to see you write more entertaining, personal posts, and less newsy material. There are already too many blogs being written about contemporary trends and doom and gloom issues.”

Well, excuse me! I was tempted to tell her, “Girlfriend, I am serious by nature. If you want humor watch Donald Trump — on any platform.”
But I didn’t go there. To appease her – since she is one of my many loyal blog followers — Is it up to three now or four? — I decided to lighten the mood, this time, by writing something less opinionated and more personal. Like this.

Several months ago, I bought a new bedroom suite to replace an aging, 20-year-old mahogany set. The timeworn and crammed dresser drawers would not slide in and out smoothly and the armoire, with a slightly unhinged door, had become a nuisance. I held on to that furniture for as long as I did because I dreaded the thought of transferring all of my stuff from one storage place to another. But it was worth the change.
My current, beautiful bedroom suite has a cherry finish and plenty of storage space. The chest and mirrored dresser has lots of drawers with shiny knobs. But my favorite piece is the queen-sized platform bed. Ahh, the bed. It is my dream bed with a bookcase headboard and ten spacious drawers around the frame. I love a platform bed. The one that I have now is the second one that I’ve owned. Box springs begone!
The best thing about a platform bed is that it eliminates the irritating squeaky noises and groans commonly made by an old mattress and box spring set. If you’ve ever had that kind of bed or have one now, then you know what I am talking about. You climb into bed; it squeaks. You roll over during the night, squeak! If there is more action than rolling over it is squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak. And there is additional squeaky, creaky noise when you are getting out of bed. Take it from someone who habitually tosses and turns in her sleep most nights, my platform bed with its memory foam pillow top mattress is as quiet as a monk in monastic silence.
Unlike when I was a child who delighted in jumping up and down on my mattress and box spring twin bed, my neighbor’s four-year-old grandson could jump on my current bed and not create a single bounce. Although he’d better not try it. There is only one downside to my platform bed. It is unlike the first one I owned which was low, down near the floor. I could sit on the side of that old bed, stretch out my legs on the floor and lay back on the mattress without bending my knees. My current bed gives new meaning to the term “climb into bed.” It is high. Waaay high. I am a five foot six woman. I consider myself in excellent health and flexible, but I almost need a springboard or step ladder to climb on that high a** bed. And Lord help me if I roll over while sleeping and fall on the floor. Regardless of the carpeting beneath it, from the top of my bed to the floor is a 32-inch drop. If I don’t break every bone in my body, I’d probably be hospitalized and in traction for months.
There, Vye. I have let you and the rest of the Internet community peek inside my bedroom. It won’t get much more personal than that. Can I now get back to expressing my two cents about the rest of the world?
[To buy my book, Legacy, at Amazon.com. Click on the “Buy My Book” tab above.]

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