Old Mom (looking very serious -like she was about to teach her young teen a lesson in life): Jill what is the largest denomination of money?
Young Teen (looking concerned): uhhhh?… $100.00 (looking like -duuuhhhh)
Old Mom (looking a bit disappointed): I didn’t learn that until I was grown- probably about 10 years ago. I actually thought there were five hundred dollar bills and thousand dollar bills.
Young Teen (looking concerned): Mom this isn’t Monopoly
I’ve worn a Kevlar Vest for so many years I’ve lost count. I still remember the first time I put one on. The person holding the tape measure was far more comfortable than I. I was as nervous wreck. I’d never felt the need to wear one before, mine had been a straight forward, by the book kind of life. Yes, there were some days that were more trying than others, but I’d always been in total control of any and all situations. I always played close to the edge, but never intentionally and never with any conscious desire to cross it.
On that day, so, so, many years ago I found myself in unfamiliar territory. Was I sure I could handle this? I mean, this was a responsibility that I was sure many dreamed of, but few indulged in. An elite crowd, a closed group… the chosen few… but if they were chosen, who was doing the choosing? From where I stood, it wasn’t a choice, there were no check yes or no boxes. No matter how long or how hard you danced around it, knowingly or unknowingly, and no matter who the dance instructor was, you would eventually trip and stumble, and fate would be standing in the shadows waiting to catch you when you fell.
Little did I realize, measuring me was a mere formality. My vest was ready long before I arrived at this day. The maker, not the measurer, knew me. The maker also knew the challenges I would face once I accepted that unwritten invitation, the one that had been stamped on my heart since the moment I was conceived. They would be more than I could handle alone— and that would never be allowed.
Dear Younger Self,
I feel that it is my obligation, as your senior, to fill you in on a few things. I intend to speak in such a way that you should have no problem comprehending; however, in an effort to eliminate any misunderstanding, I will also use colloquialism most familiar to you.
I am in charge now and I will be sure and remain apprised of all important issues, including but not limited to, annual dental exams. (I run this. I’m the shot caller and you can trust and believe I’m gone stay woke on everything I need to, including keeping my grill tight). In the event that I go out, I will decide when I am to return home and I will not party until the wee hours of the morning. (I bail when I say so and I won’t be turnt when the lights come on.) As a responsible adult, I return all phone calls promptly, I socialize with people in my age group and I dress and behave accordingly. (I’m grown. I hit ‘em back on the celly when I can, I hang with my squad, my gear is always on fleek and I slay every time I hit these streets). Please understand that I enjoy a low key and private style of life where I make every effort to mind my own business. (I’m basic, not boujee at all, and I always stay in my lane). In the run of a day, I make no effort to belittle others – I’m not overbearing, loud or outwardly aggressive, and I never go to the extreme. (I don’t throw shade and I’m never extra.)
Also, I can honestly say that although I drink, I do not have my deceased father’s penchant for libations. (Ion stay lit). My dear younger self, through this letter, you should gain comfort in knowing that I am perfectly fine with where I am. You, on the other hand, are out of control. (Look bae, this letter should give you life. By the way you know you have zero chill, right?) So now, without further ado, I would greatly appreciate it if you would sit quietly in the memories of my subconscious and allow me to take it from here. (now that’s a wrap, bye Felecia!)
Your Older Self
The idea was to potty train an already two and a half year old little girl who reportedly comprehends and articulates exceedingly well for a child of her young years. This was to be a piece of cake for little girl and her family. That family includes a 53 year “old” mom and a 13 year old “mother hen”. Mommy, as she is lovingly called, decided to create a treasure box for the little girl. They would use butcher paper to cover a cardboard box then embellish it with pom poms, stick-on letters, tassels and anything the little girl’s heart desired (after all, this box would hold all sorts of treats and treasures). Mommy and “Tori”, the little girl’s big sister, were sure that this would be more than enough to encourage their little angel. Unfortunately, the little girl with the blazing blue eyes and the cute little button nose lost interest somewhere between wrapping the box and gluing the tassels on. She left the table, grabbed her juice, her tablet and her “Corey”, went to the bedroom and put herself down for a nap.
I was just reminded of the night the power went out in my quaint, little hometown. My aunt sat outside on the hood of our station wagon wearing nothing but a bra and a pair of white cotton “granny” panties. Incidentally, the bra was one of those full coverage deals with enough hooks to trap and hold a bull. My aunt hadn’t seen her feet in years (if you get my drift) but she was ok with that and she always managed to keep the girls securely wrapped and covered. Apparently on that particular night, with it being so hot and so dark she felt like it would be alright to wrap but not cover the girls and to let the “grannies”air out, too. Well, it was ok, right up until my older brother shouted “dear Lord aunt Maggie, you’re outside in just your undies”. Why is it that when the power goes out rendering the entire neighborhood pitch black, the world seems to go totally silent, too? In that instant nothing could be heard except my brother’s loud mouth and it’s grand announcement – which seemed to come less than a millisecond before the street lights flickered…
and then there was light….
……and the sound of crickets,
crickets chirping and Aunt Maggie’s fleshy, backside, flopping forward off the hood of that car,
then thud, thud, thud, thud, thud as she galloped to the house and grabbed the door knob…
but the door was locked.
On July 3, 2017, I celebrated my 28th anniversary as a law enforcement officer. With my busy schedule and this crazy little thing called life going on it really slipped my mind. Sound unbelievable that I’d forget about such a monumental occasion? Follow this link:
and it’ll become crystal clear that I’m not kidding. At any rate 28 is the magic number when you live and work in this state which means I can retire now but I love my job, I love my boss and I love most of my co-workers (two good points about the one’s I don’t love… 1. they know who they are and 2. they’re smart enough to steer clear of me!
(Yes, law enforcement is a tough field, for various reasons, but I’ve always been a “good cop” and my plan is to continue to be just that………
ON YOUR SIX —109
Looking for an opinion and I apologize up front if this offends anyone. (By the way if you are in fact offended, then obviously, you’re one of those people I’m referring to and you’re apparently not smart enough to read between the lines and grab this constructive criticism by the horns and ride it’s ass to the ground)… which is what I think I’d do… but I’m not the one on the other side of this keyboard, am I?
Ever heard someone say, “know what I’m saying”, when conversing? I happen to have several friends who use that question.. or statement… or whatever the hell part of the English language it is. Now in true sarcastic form, which happens to be my chosen form of speech, I often respond by saying “uh-huh” knowing damn well I not only don’t know what they’re saying, I don’t even give a shit at that point. When the first “know what I’m saying” comes out, I know that there are several additional grammatical murderS to follow- so I check the hell out.
Living my life like it’s golden……