What’s Black and White and Ghetto at Night

My usual swift Brooklyn strides slowed to a crawl when the question decided to antagonize me. The tiny hand seemed to grip my index finger just a little tighter; excitement bubbling inside the fragile frame. His grin squinted his eyes until they almost disappeared behind the dimpled cheeks I kiss every night. It was the same smile I saw in the mirror when innocence was written all over my face. And it was that same smile that made me question if he was gonna survive another day.

Happy Father’s Day

Today is father’s day
A day to celebrate fathers
To remember the bike pedals scraping along the local park gravels
To be thankful for the endless slabs of meat on the table
I gotta reach into the pocket of my heart
As far as I’m able
To pick out the memories that made me giggle
The ones that made the backs of my eyelids tingle
When mommy didn’t want to stay up
Not even for a little
In my world
You’re in the middle
Standing guard
Keeping tabs on my every wiggle

Today is father’s day
A day to celebrate fathers
I celebrate you
I appreciate you
And when I look into the eyes of my son I thank you

Happy Father’s day
To my father and all the father’s out there.
It doesn’t take much to bring them here but it sure takes a lot to raise them right.

Cheers,
TheDecader

Jump Feet First

I didn’t want to be a bride. The questionable paraphernalia stashed in my dresser drawer were far from the organized clippings of varying color palettes and wedding dresses of the year. I was 22 and the last time I had heard the word relationship I was wrapped around my Latino Papi back when 5th period was our designated stairway time.

Last night I found myself taking some time to step back and remember who I was; who I used to be. And it was in that moment, while praying to the gods that my 2 year old would fall asleep peacefully, that I made the decision to become who I wanted to be. Forget the girl with the awkward handshake and the weak ankles who’s scared shit less of the real world outside. I’m going to be that woman with the smile of confidence and the walk of someone on a mission.

Recently blogger Everythingenj reminded her readers what it was to take risks. It’s not about worrying whether failure is inevitable or not, it’s about taking a chance, jumping feet first and owning what ever it is you’re so ready to show to the world.

What’s the point of living a life full of what if’s and maybes. In our everyday lives we take risks, from buying a different pack of rice at the grocery store to getting married at 23, I’m owning my risks. I live for them. I do it for that adrenaline pump sometimes that bursts out into giggles every time a mirror is near. I do it so I could fall flat on my face only to figure a way back up.

My marriage has yet to become something I regret and it’s not perfect but it’s flaws has molded into something I’ve grown fond of. I get asked why so young almost every time I decide to slip my ring on my finger and I did it because in that moment when he asked me to be his bride, I was ready to take that leap.
I wouldn’t be here if I had made all the right decisions. I wouldn’t be writing if I hadn’t taken the risk. I wouldn’t be me.

What risks have you taken lately?

“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all…” -Helen Keller

Cheers,
TheDecader

Brooklyn, What Happened?

I remember when  the summer times smelled like burning coal and even crispier BBQ chicken. The giggles bubbling up from the front stoop wasn’t something rare after the dawn of night and the local news stations weren’t as local as they are now.

What happened to Brooklyn?

She was never gorgeous but she was beautiful. The type of beauty that came from pride. The kind that held hands with the likes of confidence and swagger. Brooklyn didn’t need to be center of attention because attention was settled around her. From the culture to the crack heads on the corner, Brooklyn has never been one to hurt her sons and daughters.

What happened to Brooklyn?

TheDecader

Daily Decader Tip

Sometimes when you feel like a monkey in a cage, get outside.

N***as Ain’t Sh*t

 

N***as ain’t sh*t Yo

 

Yesterday as the sweet aroma of sour laced the air and the conversation poured from the bathroom window into the buzzing night air, my friend, Lucy blurted the words right before chugging down the rest of her Stella.

Nowadays it seemed as if none of my girls could get drunk without the words tumbling out. When I glanced at my husband we shared the same thought; at some point he wasn’t shit either. I’ve had my fare share of soggy pillow cases and what I could only describe as fairytale excuses when confrontation reared it’s ugly head.

I’d Like to Enjoy Growing Up

“Hey I’m at your door. I got some Merlot!”

The text message sprang at me effectively ruining my appetite for a peaceful night curled up with Rum Raisin and a meticulously rolled up joint.

Nevermind I had high hopes for Detective Amaro’s freedom on the finale of New York’s finest Special Victims Unit, but it was a Wednesday.

I get it; her 20’s were up at the stroke of midnight and the looming decade called for a night of drunk laughs and slurred i remember stories. In my heart I wanted so much to pull the energy from the soles of my feet and toast with her but the awkward quiet she opened my door to wasn’t the inviting she expected.

Sometimes I’m Not The Best Mom

The strong aroma of the chlorine water permeated the air already filled with toddler squeals mixed in with the occasional stern warning. My 2 year old bolted out his stroller impatiently stomping his brand new DC sneakers waiting on me to get my shit together.

Before today, our only sense of adventure was a walk through the neighborhood park or a day slapping paint all over the easel so this was a big deal. Personally I was looking forward to a medal if I survived the day; it should read “Official Mom”.

Walking into the waiting area I swore the clerk hiding behind her laptop pierced her lips when I approached her but it was easier to think she had just let out a tiny burp.

Truth is, I’m a 24 year old stuck with a 16 year old face and a 2 year old toddler who I’m convinced is already half my height. My tattoos cover half my body and my piercings make me uncomfortable around veteran moms .

So just imagine how much I wanted to die when the locker room doors gave way to a hive of half naked moms toting swimsuit clad tots. The stares didn’t make me half as uncomfortable as the open changing area or rather the open area.

It was only a matter of time before my hands had steadied enough to strap on my bikini and as i made my way to the pool I flirted dangerously with the idea of fleeing.

Nevermind that I knew nothing about swimming myself,I had to stick it out.
No. I couldn’t be a punk. I wanted that medal.

The water was warm and as I took a deep breath I secretly wished the water to drown the nervous pitter patter dancing around in my stomach. I could see the giggles bubbling up from splashing limbs as balls and fishes and ducks served as their prime targets.The eyes that turned to invite us were warm and welcoming; nothing like the cold stares I had conjured up in my hasty imagination.

Looking back, I am not sure if it hit me then or in the 40 mimutes of waddling around playing Humpty Dumpty and Tick Tock in the water but it dawned on me that I was being silly. And maybe a beer after that to admit I wasn’t being silly because of my anxiety, but because I wasn’t ready to give the whole experience a chance.

I didn’t want to have a nice time really.
I wanted to have something to rant to my husband about so I could feel better about my ugly fear of meeting moms.

I didn’t want to enjoy it.

It makes me feel as if im inserted into the episode of Everybody Loves Raymond when Deborah is coerced into throwing a Tupperware party and the poor thing didn’t even know what Tupperware was. I don’t have mommy etiquette and I have no idea what this parenting thing is about.

But that’s okay.

Sometimes I forget the bigger picture; my little guy is the focus here and as long as that smile on his face is always real then I’ll be OK.

How about you?
Please tell me I’m not the only one to feel this way!

Cheers,
TheDecader

Should Advice Have a Price Tag?

“No, pick me, I can show you how to read!”
“No, me! I have an E-book”
“But Wait! I can also give you wings! ”

The promises rolling out from my tablet screen is enough to smother a pig. All I asked Google was for some advice.

Recently I had an interesting read on one of my favorite 20something blogs TwentiesUnscripted where she gave her impression on advice giving in this buzzing time and age.

My normal reaction to words like advice usually involves baring teeth and foaming at the mouth but her refreshing approach provided me with some perspective.

About a month before I launched my blog, I spent my days drooling at the computer screen with burning eyes and an aching tailbone. The pages of my spanking new writer’s journal were filled with tips, tricks and killer ways to run the most awesomest of awesome blogs.

Yet there was still a 2341875 million top blogs out there insisting that I was still and always will be an amateur at this unless I could cough up a small (or not)fee.

Nevermind that I was ready to sell my soul to the Internet and surrender my days to a dim screen and crafty wording. Who cares how many emails I’ve sent out, desperate to transform my primitive writing into skills. I wasn’t doing enough because good advice wasn’t free. There’s no way I could survive and be a perfectly functioning individual unless I pay up to learn how to function right.

Nooo

I needed the type of advice I couldn’t get growing up in the real world or with the intense conversations in the aftermath of getting baked.It was the type that came with a wish and a promise. Preferably in that order.

Are they for real?
Yes
Do they really work?
They wouldn’t be successful if they didn’t right?

I’m not discrediting any of my golden advice givers because they obviously have their shit together but shouldn’t it be natural for someone to give advice?

Shouldn’t it be from the goodness of their heart?

And since when did I need to pay someone for something my mom has been lecturing me for ages; despite where you may end up, working hard is going to place you somewhere you were fighting to be.
Hardwork places you somewhere you deserve to be.

There are no shortcuts to any place worth going- Beverly Sills

Cheers,
TheDecader

Where’s My Time Machine?

Why am I still living in the past? I can’t seem to put my time machine together to blast back to the present. I have to admit; it’s frustrating.

When a problem presents itself, there’s a split second where I ask what would the old me do? When I need to make a decision that change even the slightest norm in my life I think what would the old me do? Gosh even at the dam grocery store figuring out between the low fat and 2% milk what would the old me do? It has become more of a rule to consult my old self but how blind could I really be?

Could I be in such fear of growing up that it’s just easier to just retreat to a place where I knew what I was doing or more importantly, when I had confidence in myself. No I’m not a wreck with a pill bottle for my depression but is it still as bad when I feel like I should have one?

I really thought that this growing up thing wasn’t all what my mom was so desperately trying to warn me about. It was impossible to think I would ever be confused. Impossible to think my dreams wouldn’t have come true by 25. And impossible to be lost in a world where my identity is hiding itself from me.

So what do I do when the past comes in to snatch my present away?

I can’t sweat it. It is important to remember who I used to be but I have to know when to draw the line of what grows up with me. What characteristics would I like to still have about myself in the future. I have to set goals. Goals to provide a guideline for who I would like to be. Goals that would define me, providing a sense of worth and restoring my confidence.

You know that saying

Aim for the moon and even if you miss you will still land among the stars

 

It’s true.

Cheers,
TheDecader