Image borrowed from Spicy RV

So we have a friend named Melissa who is an amazing photographer extraordinaire. She recently went to the dermatologist for a Microdermabrasion and allowed herself to be talked into getting a chemical peel. The result? Were days of pain and an inability . . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: Think Before You Peel {PSA}]]>

Image borrowed from Spicy RV

So we have a friend named Melissa who is an amazing photographer extraordinaire. She recently went to the dermatologist for a Microdermabrasion and allowed herself to be talked into getting a chemical peel. The result? Were days of pain and an inability to fully move her face (when I went to visit her you could just tell how much pain she was in; she could hardly open her mouth to talk!). She made this video about what happens when you go into something uninformed. She’s not saying Microdermabrasion is bad, but she’s saying educate yourself! Sometimes, we get sucked in by sales gimmicks and slick talking… the Dermatologist Office is probably not one of the places that we should be talked into getting something. I’ll leave you with a before photo and her video (it’s a bit dark, but you can still see the bruising). Hopefully, this will all clear up.

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stripped (http://definr.com/stripped)

adj 1: having only essential or minimal features; “a stripped new car”; “a stripped-down budget” [syn: stripped-down] 2: having extraneous everything removed including contents; “the bare walls”; “the cupboard was bare” [syn: bare] 3: with clothing stripped off

Christina Aguilera . . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: Stripped]]>

stripped (http://definr.com/stripped)

adj 1: having only essential or minimal features; “a stripped new
car”; “a stripped-down budget” [syn: stripped-down]
2: having extraneous everything removed including contents;
“the bare walls”; “the cupboard was bare” [syn: bare]
3: with clothing stripped off

Christina Aguilera had an album called “Stripped,” possibly my favorite album of hers where she bares her soul, per se, revealing the most  intimate parts of herself.

They say that true artists can tap into the depths of their pain to make the most amazing pieces- turning that pain into creativity.

I don’t know if that’s the case here. I mean, I’ve always wanted to be a writer- still do- but I also find being able to release my pain in writing makes it all better and then (really?) no one can see my tears (cause big girls don’t cry, right?).

This is me. Stripped.

My new doctor here had prescribed Lexapro for me (anti-depressant #3) and gave me so many samples I didn’t know what to do with myself. Then? They ran out and I had to get a scrip. Well for the love of everything holy, Lexapro is $99 after my insurance pays their cut.

Uhh yeah, no thanks.

And then? I really didn’t wanna spend $25 going back to see the doctor to start from square one. So, I am without anti-depressants and left to really deal with myself. And it has not been pretty…

Literally.

I wake up in the morning and look at myself in the mirror aaaaand then I’m done. I can’t look too long. I want to lose like 10, 15 pounds. Not for anyone else but myself, but I’m too lazy to motivate myself to workout. I hate my hair in this in-between stage. I’m glad I cut my dreads. I bet my grandpa would have been proud. I raised $1,000+ for cancer research, but now? I’m stuck with thick, unmanageable hair. I don’t feel like I have clothes that fit my body and this phase it’s going through…

Point is, there is no part of me that feels “beautiful” at this moment in my life, so having to stare at myself in the mirror means having to deal with my issues- it’s like staring at damaged goods.

Yeah I said it.

Damaged goods.

That’s how I feel.

Four years of therapy and that’s how I feel y’all.

My dad always told me how beautiful I was, but he’s my dad, that’s his job, right? Even when my husband makes a comment, I shudder at the thought. I often joke with him that he already married me, so the mask is off. Watcha see is watcha get friend, I’m not on the prowl anymore. That means dark circles under the eyes, saggy boobs, fat belly and sweatpants with holes in the crotch that I refuse to part ways with.

I don’t take compliments well. I never actually realized that til more recently when I sat in my AP’s office and she rattled off compliment after compliment and what did I do? I cried.

Yup.

Score. One point for the loser over here.

Why? I don’t know. But as I begged her to stop giving me compliments I had to leave the room.

It’s so much easier to hate yourself and doubt your abilities than to actually walk around with the confidence of a goddess.

Oh and this confidence? That I apparently exude?

It’s all a facade.

I decided that today.

I decided that I am super funny and social and likable (or at least I think I’m likable) and can work a room like nobody’s business because, well that’s so much better than walking around like Sad Sally all the time trying to tell your sap story and making people feel sorry for you.

And? If everyone thinks you’re confident, then they’ll think you’re not one to fuck with. That you’re a tough cookie. That you’re a force to be reckoned with…

oh, and that you’re lots of fun to be around.

It’s only when I leave work or I leave that party or I leave that get-together that I really have to face myself.

But you know what? I need that.

It’s like a high that I don’t like to come down from. I like feeling cool or that I’m lots of fun or that I’m the life of the party.

And my husband?

Oh Lord.

You know how they say opposites attract? Well what happens when two people who are so much alike attract?

Minus the depression thing- we are both argumentative, we are both stubborn, we are both always right, we both like to be in control, we both love hard and…

We. Fight. I mean we fight. We fight hard.

But he deals with my highs and my lows like no one else could ever. I really think about all of the mood swings he’s had to deal with…

He married damaged goods.

I hope he knows that.

I find myself perplexed about the root of this pain. I guess we didn’t get to that part in therapy.

We talked about my “I’m from a big, loud aggressive family and I’m not like everyone else” syndrome.

We talked about my daddy issues (cause really, every girl has them).

We talked about my mommy issues.

We talked about my “I feel like a horrible mom, I can’t stand the sound of my daughter’s crying and it is truly incessant and makes me wanna hang myself” issues

We even talked about that experience… the one that really defined my sexuality… yeah that stuff.

So what’s my problem?

I wonder if it’s because even though both my husband and I are working, we are still finding so much of our money going towards bills (oh and daycare, bloody $130 per week daycare- ARGH!)

I wonder if it’s because the reason we are in this shotty financial situation is because we took a leap and moved to California then it just so happened that I couldn’t find a job there and we found ourselves being buried in a hole of debt.

I wonder if it’s because I’m still struggling with the day-to-day of being a Mommy… or more importantly of being The Pea’s Mommy. That this child hardly sleeps some nights, is having bizarre night terrors and cries and cries and cries for no apparent reason or just when she doesn’t get what she wants. And this? This ridiculous, non-stop crying? Drives me FRIGGIN insane. When she does not stop crying and whining, I can feel my blood boiling. And so, of course, these negative feelings that I have towards my daughter’s behavior makes me feel like a horrible mom.

I wonder if it’s because I have this insane need to perform. And perform well. And anything less than friggin amazing is not acceptable. So if at work I get feedback, I only hear the negative parts and I internalize it and get sick.

Literally.

Physically.

Sick.

I had an observation today and so my internalization started Tuesday night when I couldn’t sleep and fell asleep at about 2 am. Then all day on Tuesday I was on the verge of tears, my stomach was in knots, I was disgustingly nervous and thought I could puke. I mean why? It’s painful.

Oh, I wonder if it’s because I miss having friends whose houses I could go over (hi Jill!) and drink beer on their couch. I miss having friends that my kiddo can play with so they can do kid stuff and we can do grown-up stuff.

I wonder if it’s because the source of my being (probably in this exact order) goes:

• Mommy
  (which includes chef, disciplinarian, teacher, doctor, boo-boo kisser, and other duties as defined)
• Wife
• Teacher
  (which also includes disciplinarian, doctor, therapist, sometimes even their Momma… and other duties as defined)
• Daughter
• Extended Family Crisis-Manager
  (Notice I said extended family)
• Blogger
• Product Review Website Owner
• Freelance Writer
• …
• …
• …
• …

and somewhere… way down the list. I think there may be room for me to pencil myself in. (Me time? What’s that?)

So, let’s re-cap: I am a basket case, disguised as a confident, strong woman.

I hide behind a mask (and my glasses- my glasses are my security blanket. I hate seeing myself without them. NO thank you to Lasik or contacts, I’ll pass).

I push myself too hard.

And I have expectations for myself that are probably unattainable.

That’s me. Stripped.

You’re welcome.

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I found a barber on base that was willing to donate my hair cut, which was very . . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: Thank You]]> To all of you who helped me raise money for St. Baldrick’s. I was able to raise $836 and you are more than welcome to donate to help me raise $1,000. Click here to donate.

I found a barber on base that was willing to donate my hair cut, which was very nice of him. I had to cut my dreads off before I got there, though, so I did that last night.

Aaand there’s my hair:

5 Years of dread growing down the drain (lol)

This morning, I had a 9:30 appointment to go down and get the rest cut.

Ready to Rock N Roll

Hubby said I should’ve kept the mohawk. Ummm, no.

Cadence cried- the entire time because she was tired and refuses to nap… or get her hair combed for that matter (which is why she looks like a wild child). By the way, that’s my new buddy/barber- Alvin.

It is very hot here, so I need to either but sunblock on my head, or keep a hat on.

The End.

Come on…don’t copy- get your own material. Nobody likes a cheater! Original & Hand Written Plagiarism Will Be Detected. This site is being monitored by CopyGator. Mmkay? Thanks.

Have you tried Bath & Body Works’ Sugar Scrubs? Seriously: Heave in a jar. They smell good and they feel good. Shoot- they make my very rarely taken showers feel like a spa. Hubs and I caught a sale . . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: Bath & Body Works]]> I think I know I have found bliss.

Have you tried Bath & Body Works’ Sugar Scrubs? Seriously: Heave in a jar. They smell good and they feel good. Shoot- they make my very rarely taken showers feel like a spa. Hubs and I caught a sale at B&BW so they were two for $20 (I think). So we got one that energizes and one that relaxes you at the end of the day. I love ‘em both. Leaves your skin feeling silky smooth and stuff like that. Thumbs up Bath & Body Works!

And if that weren’t enough…

I got these from a friend for Christmas. This scent is heavenly. Coconut Lime Verbera. I don’t know what Verbera is… but I’d like to marry it.

I don’t usually shop at Bath & Body Works because honestly I often feel like their stuff is a bit expensive for my taste. But maybe I may have to start treating myself…

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Found this one in my phone. I took it right before one of Chris’ football games on base.

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Chris’ uncle actually got this shot… pretty cool.

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I admit, I have never been good with hair. Bottom line.

I guess you could say I had good hair when I was younger.

As I got older and became responsible for my own hair, I often chose to have it braided . . . → Click Here To Read The Full Blog Post: I Am Not My Hair… Or Am I?]]>

I admit, I have never been good with hair. Bottom line.

I guess you could say I had good hair when I was younger.

As I got older and became responsible for my own hair, I often chose to have it braided (cornrows, whatever you want to call it) because that meant low maintenance for me. I just had to find someone to re-braid it every other week or so. That job usually fell upon my childhood bestie Shawnique and to my knowledge she didn’t mind. She knew that I couldn’t braid hair to save my life.

Now I know what you’re thinking- what do you MEAN you don’t know how to braid hair? Isn’t that like, a black girl requirement?

Yes, I always felt bad because I didn’t know how to braid hair. My mother knew how to braid hair. ALL of my friends knew how to braid hair. Shemaine, Shawnique, Malika- shall I continue? ALL OF MY SISTERS KNEW HOW TO BRAID HAIR!!! What the hell was wrong with me? But I have a legitimate excuse, I promise, ready for it? No one ever taught me how… and that’s the truth. My older sister never really wanted to braid my hair or anyone else’s for that matter, she always had better things to do. Then my younger brother came around and we never really braided his hair. So, who was I to learn from?

I guess in hindsight I guess I could have asked someone, but I never really wanted to bother anyone to take the time out to teach me. It seemed so unachievable, so hard. I didn’t want to waste their time. I was sure that I’d fuck up and they would get frustrated with me and I wouldn’t learn how to do it anyway.

I had a relaxer all the way up until 2003. I loved everything about having permed hair (what we call a perm) except for the part where I had to go to the beauty parlor every two weeks for a wash and set (hair washed, rollers put in to sit under the dryer for 100 years). I also hated the part where I had to go back every month for a touch up (get my hair permed all over again) and have my scalp burn like all hell because I’d been scratching my hair. Even when I tried NOT to scratch my hair, it still burned. It was a complete lose-lose situation.

God forbid you didn’t get a touch-up on time. All of the new growth in your hair started scrunching up and making your hair thick. It was almost impossible to get a comb nonetheless your hands through it… and you just looked like a hot mess.

Yeah, I don’t miss those days. Perms and I were not friends. Which, again, is why I often chose braids instead. Either cornrows or extensions. Now extensions, I know how to do. Somehow my older sister managed to teach me how to do that. I think mostly because when she was putting in her extensions she wanted my help. I usually had to do the back- and now that I think about it she probably made me do the back because if I fucked it up, no one would really see it.

When I was in college, I studied abroad in the Fall semester of 2003. It was one of the most amazing times of my life. Absolutely life changing. I had a lot of time to think about who I was as a person and who I actually wanted to be… turned out those two were not in line. I met amazing people, saw AMAZING countries and maybe I’ll blog about that experience one day.

While aboard the S.S. Universe Explorer I decided to shave all of my hair off. Long story short, it is a Semester at Sea tradition to shave your hair off on the day you first cross the equator. (Again, maybe one day I’ll write about that) So I did it.

Hair is a funny thing. We love it, we hate it, but for some reason so many of us can’t live without it. I never really thought I was attached to my hair. At that point in my life I had a bad dye job (went in for highlights, came out with a big ass bleach line going down the side of my hair- ugh), my hair was breaking from the perms and it wasn’t very long. But when it actually came down to do it, I was second-guessing myself and petrified.

The first cut…             Almost there…

There is a certain type of freedom that comes with shaving off all of your hair. You feel liberated- nothing can bother you. With my new found liberation came deep reflection regarding what kind of person God placed me on this earth to be.

Enter my dreadlocks.

Dreads have always been a topic of major disagreement in my family. I always wanted them and my parents and grandparents AND great-grandparents always said: NO!

I still don’t quite  understand my family’s deep resentment for dreadlocks. I always thought, WE ARE JAMAICAN, WHAT IS THE BIG DEAL? Maybe one day my parents will fully explain.

Truthfully, I didn’t get dreadlocks as a representation of my culture. Though now, I do feel like my dreads are associated to my Jamaican heritage by some people. But, my dreads also get associated with the pot head population here in the U.S. of A. I have had many people say to me: “Oh, you’re Jamaican? Bob Marley dude, he’s awesome!” Uhh no. “So, like, do you like to get high?” Take your bong and go over there. I can’t even remember what I did five minutes ago and you want me to smoke weed? I’ll pass.

Really, I got dreads because I think my friends were sick of looking at my afro- which by the way is VERY hard to maintain. My hair got so nappy and getting a comb or a pick through it was a J-O-K-E.

The afro

My friend Malika, hair do-er extraordinaire, kept offering to twist my hair for me. So I said yes. I thought, if I have dreads it will be so low maintenance and I’m sure that even I can handle that.

Boy was I wrong. My  hair grew so damn fast once those twists came in and there was new growth all over the place! Sheesh. I was at Malika’s door like it was my job trying to get my hair re-twisted! One thing that is good about me having dreads? It is a hairstyle that even I can handle- if my lazy ass so chooses to do so. But, I usually just let it lay dormant. It has gotten so long and I know that it would take me 40 hours to do it. So, I don’t.

Dreads: The early days

Since moving to desert town it’s even worse. There aren’t any dreadlocks hairdressers here and I’m very particular about who I let put their hands in my hair. The last time I had it done I was in New York for my brother’s wedding… IN AUGUST! If I wasn’t so lazy I’d do it myself, but I am.

Now I am at that point again where I find myself attached to my hair. No matter how long it takes me to do it and how long it is actually getting. Never mind that it is disgustingly hot here in the desert and just the thought of wearing my hair down makes me cringe. I hate my dreads and I love my dreads. When I am ready to get rid of them I’ll have no choice but to pretty much start over from scratch with close to no hair… I mean, ya can’t just undo dreads- you have to cut them off. But I’m not there yet.

My hair now.

Really this trip down hair lane spawned from a conversation I was having with a few other Moms on Twitter regarding Cadence’s hair. Some days she looks like a wild child and some days when I’m brave, I tackle the bush.

Cadence does not take lightly to getting her hair done. It is a struggle and she’s tender headed to boot- is she crazy?! You can’t be tender headed.

My Mommy friends were laughing at me because I said I didn’t know how to braid hair. Now to the naked eye, you wouldn’t think that you could braid her hair. Some say it’s too soft, too straight, but you can. I know you can. Two of my Mommy friends have interracial children and braid their hair all the time. Now, all I have to do, is learn how… **cringing**

My hair throughout the years:

And I know you were waiting for it. Here is me, with no hair.

Please, hold your applause.

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