Jedi Mind Trickers

 

            As an unattached woman past the age of 40, I may not know married life, but I know single well. I have plenty of dating scenarios—both good and bad—that shape my life experiences. Not originally a big Star Wars fan, I have grown to appreciate the wisdom of the Star Wars Universe.  In Star Wars, the Jedis use the power of force to influence weak-minded people. Jedis make verbal suggestions and tell sentients what they want, and then the sentient restates the position and if the mind trick works, the sentient actually does what the Jedi requests. It is said that strong-minded people can resist the influence of the Jedi.

All of this Star Wars babble came back to me in an epiphany recently as I was reflecting on past relationships. I had been thinking about a conversation that I’d had with a guy I was dating at the time that turned into a full-blown argument after I made some off-the-wall comment that blew his gasket. He claimed that since I had never abused by a man (as in beat me) I didn’t have anything to complain about. Taken aback by his comment because although I had not been “abused,” my relationships had been far from perfect. Priding myself on rarely getting into escalating arguments or being called out of my name (to my face), our conversation made me stop and think of ways men had tried to steal my self-worth.

It was in that moment of reflection I realized some of the Jedis had escaped from the Star Wars Universe and were masquerading as mortal men. In a society that measures a woman’s worth by being married and/or having children, some women become light-headed and giddy when dealing with men and find ourselves under their influence. These Jedi Mind Trickers (JMTs) have words so smooth they go down like Cognac, and before you know it, we have the hang-over from hell because of too many refills of the sweet wine of his words. Do you recognize any of these JMTS?

The One Upper is a very polished guy—most likely metro sexual with exquisite taste in everything—car, clothes, food. Unlike some men, he keeps a spotless house without the aid of a housekeeper or wife, and definitely appreciates good linen. But herein lies the problem, no matter what you have, he can always show you something better, but he’s not willing to buy you better or show you how to get it yourself. Why? Because if you had what he had, he wouldn’t always be able to do you one better which would knock him off his superior post.

Now opposite of The One Upper, is the Understrapper. This JMT thinks that you are a dream the come; the answer to his prayers, only he doesn’t deserve you. You’re too good for him, he tells you in hopes that you’ll believe him. So, you stop trying to better yourself so as not to intimidate your man, and if you’re already accomplished, you downplay yourself. He wants you to sit on the curb with him and swing your feet, and if he can climb on your shoulders and sit, that’s even better.

 The Changer is another Jedi in disguise. Nothing about you satisfies him, but you don’t know that at first because you mistake his JMT behavior with him being a man that really knows what he wants. You wear your hair long, but he thinks short hair is really sexy. You wear your hair short, but he loves to run his fingers through long hair. He likes his women—you fill in the blank (taller, shorter, thicker, thinner etc.)—than you.  You can’t make him happy unless he can change something about you. It’s a power thing, and he thinks he has the power if he can change you.

The Naysayer knows you better than you know yourself. He doesn’t see the glass as half-empty, he sees a glass that’s dirty and contaminated and wants to protect you from it and all of the rest of the dangers in the world. He is the boyfriend of Doom. He thinks going back to school is a waste of time because you’re not going to get the job anyway. He discourages you from losing weight, and then when you do, he still wants you to hold on to your “fat girl” clothes just in case you gain the weight back. The Naysayer has no faith in you because he lacks faith in himself, and he is strong believer in the misery loves company adage.

The Pretender is probably the most Jedi mind tricking of the JMTs. The two of you have great chemistry, good conversation, and he’s the perfect gentleman. He opens doors, carries bags, and does all of the things that make us feel like ladies when we’re in his presence. But as wonderful as he his, there is something not quite right about him. He lies but we don’t know because we’ve been sipping on his sweetness. By the time you realize that you’ve been tricked, bamboozled, and run amok, there’s nothing left for you to do, but pick up the pieces of your broken heart and bank account and move along.

Many of us have found ourselves under one or more of the JMTS influence and, while we may become temporarily inebriated, we don’t have pass out from the drunkenness of our encounters. If you happen to run into one of these JMTs, may the Force NOT be with You!

Cold Vs Snow

Slipping and sliding my way home on the unplowed streets of Chicago while holding on to the steering wheel like a pair of panties with the elastic missing, I am convinced that Cold is hands-down better than Snow. So, sit back and listen and let my words show that Cold truly is better than Snow.

On snowy days, you might as well be married to the snow brush. And don't expect to get any where in a rush. Because if you're not cleanning off your car 10 times a day, you're somewhere stuck on the express way.

You can get around cold weather by dressing in layers, but there is no maneuvering around snow thanks to the mayor. Traffic comes to a halt, especially on the southside where it seems like we can't get any salt. And once you get moving, it'll be just your luck to turn down a side street and get stuck.

Another thing I detest about white stuff, is the people walking down the middle of the street raising ruckus. You already feel like you're driving through an obstacle course, and here comes the street walkers begging for you to hit them and get some extra points.

I know cold ain't nothing nice, especially when your body feels like a block of human ice. But once you get inside where it's warm, your body will thaw out to its norm whereas it takes days for snow to go away.

So when it's all said and done, unless you're a kid, snow's no fun. Cold is uncomfortable, but the streets remain the same. Give me Cold over Snow any day.

The Price Of Living

$60.11. I stood there staring at the numbers willing them to change. Then I blinked. Nothing happened. $60.11. That’s what it cost me to fill up my 2 door, dull black, in-need-of-antifreeze Honda Accord 2002 Special Edition.
I had seen the prices and had done my fare share of SMH, but the reality of the gas hike hadn’t hit me because I rarely fill up my tank. When I see my car getting low on gas I put in 10 gallons or $40.00 –which ever registers first. But the other day, the gas light was on and I decided to fill up. To say that I was shocked is an understatement.

Because I earn a decent wage and have a manageable amount of debt, I can afford to put gas in my car. But this trip to the gas station cruelly reminded me of our country’s economic downfall and the fragility of my place in the work world. Teaching was always considered a “safe” profession, but with budget deficits looming large, teachers are being let go without the safety net of yester year.
That’s happened to me last year. I went to work on Monday and was out of work by Wednesday of the second week of June with benefits lasting through the end of the month. I took a position that was guaranteed for a year, and now I’m once again looking for employment. For the second time in my 18 years with the Board of Education, I’m teaching summer school—buying time until principals get their budget in July.

If nothing else, the reality check of my $60.11 trip to the gas station will force me to be more resourceful. I’ll put some air in my bike tires and ride my bike if I’m not traveling far. I can ride to the barber shop or the health club. I was a latent driver so I spent a lot of time on buses and trains so, I know that Chicago has an excellent public transportation system that I can utilize. A friend of mine is 50+ years old, doesn’t drive but manages to get anywhere she needs to go via public transportation. And last but not least, I bought a new HD flat screen, got Cable (finally!) I also have a great backyard, so I can create some wonderful stay-cations this year. I might not be able to beat the high cost of gas, but I can improvise.

All of God’s Creatures

Halloween is almost here and gone. Hallelujah!

Halloween means decorations that include mice, and I hate mice and any other furry animals that resemble them (gerbils, hamsters, squirrels). I don’t like them because—dead or alive, real or not—the sight of them really does give me creepy feeling that starts at the nape of my neck and moves all down my back at the same time that my heart beat revs up for the Indy 500. Mickey Mouse gets a pass because he doesn’t have fur, but Stuart Little is out and so are any stories or movies that feature the little critters. I watched much of The Green Mile through the spaces between my fingers because my hands were covering my eyes. As much as I try, I can’t get away from them because the little monsters are everywhere including Halloween setups. So, for the next seven days I’ll have to tip around stores and peek down aisles so that I don’t happen upon one of the rubber mice and damn near lose my mind.

I know it’s bad because it’s beyond fear; it’s a phobia. A mouse in my presence paralyzes me, and it’s been that way for as long as I can remember. It probably has something to do with my brother holding a dead mouse over my head when I was a child—a charge that he’ll deny to this day, but I know. Sometimes I think it’s getting better because if I see one I only jump five feet instead of ten and I can actually bring my heart back into a normal beating range in a shorter space of time, but I’m not ready to push my luck which is why I’ll be glad when we get to November 1st.

I’ve tried talking to my rationale self. I say, “Self, mice are God’s creatures, too. And they’re excellent way to conduct research that can be used to make human life better.” I even try to explain that mice are probably as afraid of me as I am of them. “Self!” I shout when I run across a dead mouse. “It’s dead.” But nothing works. My Irrational Self dominates the conversation screaming that she doesn’t want to share the planet with them no matter how valuable they are to research. I’ve told her that we need help and she agrees, but she knows that dealing with her fear means that she must face her fear, and she ain’t having not parts of no mouse. So, until my Irrational Self is ready, we pray that God will keep us and the mice outside of each other’s company.

My Life in Action Part 3

strand—leave in a helpless position: be stranded a thousand miles from home with no money.

I am a food connoisseur. Friend and family alike will tell you I love to eat! And I like food that’s good to me, but not good for me. I like food that sticks to the hips, thighs, butts and bellies long after the taste is gone from my mouth. I’ll do low fat, but not no-fat because my logic is if the food didn’t need the fat, it wouldn’t have been there in the first place. I like the camaraderie and the solitude the comfort of food brings. I eat to cure depression. I eat to celebrate. I eat to eat.

Most women go to the mall to shop; I only shop at malls that have good restaurants nearby. No matter what I’m doing, the foremost question in my mind is when and where are we going to eat when we’re done. One of my friends calls me Breakfast-Lunch-and-Dinner because she swears I am evil amplified when I miss I meal. But I never thought that food would make me lose my mind (albeit temporarily) and do something really stupid!

In 2005 during the Memorial Day weekend, some of Nefertari (Diane, Nicole and me) went to Silver Springs, Maryland for the 1st annual BOCA (Belly Dancers of Color Association) Festival--a weekend of dance workshops. We had an early morning flight, so I didn’t have time to eat breakfast, and the cardboard I consumed on the plane could not be counted as food. So, when we arrived in Maryland, we decided to grab something quick to eat before going to the hotel. I was eenie-meenie-minee-moing between an Annie’s Pretzel and a Cinnabon, when my keen sense of smell kicked in and I got a whiff of something even tastier. Ah, yes! A bakery that sold pecan rolls. It was the pecan roll hands down.

I was as happy as an audience member on an Oprah give-away show. Taking it apart layer by layer, I walked toward baggage claim with the taste of cinnamon on my tongue and the caramel coating sticking to my fingers. I was on the last part—the ooey-gooey center—and just as I was about to put it in my mouth, I saw my luggage come around the carousel. As I reached for my luggage, I watched in agony as my precious roll went airborne and landed nut side down. Bending down to pick it up, I reverted back to my childhood mantra, “God made dirt, so dirt don’t hurt.” I even thought about kissing it up to God to be doubly sure. It may have worked in childhood, but it wasn’t working for me as an adult. Reluctantly I put it in the garbage. But it wouldn’t go away. I kept thinking about it, dreaming about it, wondering how it would have tasted in the end, even though I knew—just like it had in the beginning.

I just knew I was going to get me a pecan roll on the way home, but when we got to the airport, we were on a different concourse. No!!!! It was right at 11:00 and our flight didn’t leave until 11:40. Could I get one? Not on my own. With my penchant for getting lost, I knew better than to wonder off to another concourse by myself. But hey, Nicole has an excellent sense of direction and believes she can get anywhere in 10 minutes. She volunteered to go.

I was all for it, but the sensible one, Diane said no. She is our conscience—when we want to listen. We didn’t that day. So when Diane went to the bathroom, Nicole left with my blessings. When Diane came out of the bathroom and found Nicole MIA, she just looked at me and shook her head. Shortly thereafter, they began calling passengers for our flight. The first 10 rows--No Nicole. The next 10 rows--no Nicole. I called Nicole on her cell phone--no answer. They called the last rows-still no Nicole. My heart dropped into my stomach and came back up again. Diane looked like you could cook an entire Sunday dinner on her head--with smoke coming out the top, and fiery red, coal ready cheeks. She had to get back to finish some paperwork, and we knew this. What was funny at first, turned out not to be quite so amusing. Just as they were about to close the door, and leave us stranded in Maryland, I saw Nicole walking fast with a white bakery bag in her hand. I ran, grabbed her by the hand, and yelled to Diane, to tell them we were coming. We made the flight, but the bakery was out of pecan rolls. We ate cookies instead, and laughed all the way home. I found a little, French bakery in Hyde Park that sells deliciously, delectable pecan rolls, and the three of us remain friends.
And that’s my life in verbs—to be, to see, to feel, to live!