Screw it, just do it.

Dear Colin Kaepernick,
So you signed a deal with Nike, eh? Worth millions I hear. Obviously it was a poor decision on Nike's part to pull such a stunt. But hey, if Nike wants to take the gamble, that's their choice. Let's talk about your choices Colin.

Obviously, everyone knows you chose to kneel during the national anthem as a way to protest oppression of blacks. I won't get into that whole circus you created, it's old news and you lost your job, so whatever. Also, some people may be surprised to learn that in 2014 you were fined $11K by the NFL for using racial slurs during a game. Nice. What I'm interested in is knowing how much your merchandise will sell for at Nike. Will your shoes cost $200? You talk a lot about wanting to change the world, offer your opinion on what's "right and wrong", and you donate a lot of money to black communities. You wanna do the "right" thing or do you want to be a sell out? We shall find out.

You say you are against the senseless murders of blacks. Does that also involve people getting shot over a pair of shoes? Let's take a look at the story of Jawaad Jabbar. His isn't the only tragic tale involving violence over footwear, but it shows the insane actions some people resort to in order to own a pair of expensive basketball sneakers.

"The nation doesn’t remember Jawaad Jabbar of Columbus, Ohio, but it may remember how he was killed. Jabbar left as one of the empty-handed customers at a Dayton, Ohio shopping mall on 20 December 2014 after lining up for the release of limited edition Air Jordan sneakers. After seeing two men who had secured one of the coveted pairs, Jabbar drew a gun and demanded the merchandise. The man holding the sneakers then pulled out his own gun and killed the 16 year old. Jabbar’s death complemented armed robberies in both New Jersey and Louisiana, a tear-gassed dispersal of prospective customers in Toledo, Ohio, and an April shooting in Houston, all of which centered around attempts to acquire the shoes. Since Air Jordans debuted in 1985, occasional violent crimes have accompanied their release because of the shoes’ limited supply, volatile demand, and price tags that sometimes exceed $200."

Time out for a second.... $200 shoes?? Being pushed by millionaire athletes? Will Kaepernick's kicks follow this trend? I mean, the guy sits on his moral high horse talking about helping out the black community, I'm curious to know the price point of his gear. 

You know one athlete I truly admire? Hakeem Olajuwon. Not only because he was an awesome player, but because he actually tried to change the sneaker industry for the better. He wanted to combat the over-priced sneaker trend in the 90's by signing a deal with Spaulding. His shoes were priced at $34.99 and sold at Payless. I remember my mom taking my brother and I to Payless for school shoes, and my brother walking out happy as can be with his Olajuwon sneakers. 

“How can a poor working mother with three boys buy Nikes or Reeboks that cost $120?” Olajuwon said upon his shoe release in 1995. “She can’t. So kids steal these shoes from stores and from other kids. Sometimes they kill for them.”

Therefore, he tried doing something about it. He made his shit affordable. Here, some more statistics:

While the United States has an overall poverty rate of 12.7 percent, according to the U.S. Census, within the African American community, the poverty rate is 22 percent. This rate is even higher in African-American female-headed households at 34.2 percent. Almost 70% of black children are born to single mothers. 

Olajuwon was right, how can a single parent afford $200 shoes??? 

Will Nike give Kaepernick a say in what the price point will be? If so, will he do the right thing and make his shit somewhat affordable to whatever fans he still has left?? Or will he sell out, sit back, and collect the royalties off his $200 kicks? I bet when Nike put that multimillion dollar contract in front of him, he smiled and thought, "Screw it, just do it."

Words

 "If you’re having a bad day, just remember that you have managed to get through every bad day you’ve had. You’ll make it through this one too."

I think a lot. Actually, I think too much. I always wonder what's going to come around the corner next, and I find myself getting lost in memories of hard times. When I do end up in an endless loop of, "Let's remember that time when such and such bad thing happened", I stop and think about the day that two strangers changed my life.

In the summer of 2002 I was living in Scranton, PA. I was between jobs and didn't have a penny to my name. I hadn't paid my rent in two months, and my landlord had already started the eviction process. I ended up putting everything I owned outside to yardsale. The first person that stopped told me they would give me $40 for everything. Obviously, I took it. I was left with no furniture, only a few clothing items, my basketball, and a pillow. I slept on the floor, curled up into a ball, with a blanket that was given to me by an old lady at the hospital when my appendix ruptured the month before. My fridge was broken, which didn't make a difference, because I couldn't afford food to put in it anyway. Everyday I would walk to the local soup kitchen, and get my free peanut butter & jelly sandwich and bottle of water. 

One day, I noticed a stack of magazines and newspapers sitting outside. I didn't have a TV, so I sorted through them looking for a form of entertainment. While reading through a two week old newspaper, I saw an ad for plasma donors. I literally jumped up and down when I read that they paid $20 For plasma. 

The next day, I made the almost 4 mile walk to the plasma center. On the way there, I was thinking about what I was going to do with that $20. I planned on getting a Hershey Bar, and a bottle of diet coke. Damn, was I excited with the thought of that!

When I made it into the plasma center, I immediately took notice of the hoards of people already there. I approached the desk and told the receptionist that I was there to sell my plasma, and she gave me a form to fill out. I waited about twenty minutes, and a woman came and called for me to come into the back. She made me sit down and took a look at my arms. As she was pushing and poking my veins with her fingers, she yelled out for a man to come over and take a look. He then started feeling of my arms, then he shook his head no and let out a sigh, "Your veins are no good. They're too small." 

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means you're not a good candidate to donate plasma. I'm sorry." Then the man walked away, as the lady escorted me out. 

I found myself outside, walking slowly down the street. My eyes filled up with tears, and as much as I wanted to hold it in, I couldn't. I started to cry. I was a complete failure. I couldn't find a job, I couldn't pay my rent, hell, I couldn't even sell my plasma. 

About halfway home I noticed a man walking in front of me. He had to have been at least 15-20 feet away. His pace slowed, and eventually I was right behind him. Suddenly, without warning, he turned around and said, "Don't worry. Everything will be ok." Then he turned back around and walked off down a side street. Had he seen me crying?? Was that why he said those words to me? 

I was almost home when, again, I found myself walking behind another man. At this point my tears had dried, and I was keeping my head down with each step I took. Before I knew it I was right behind him, and again, this other man turned around and said, "Don't worry. Everything will be ok." Before I knew it, he was gone, walking off in a different direction. 

I didn't get my Hershey Bar or diet coke that day. I still didn't have a penny to my name. And I was still using the floor as my bed. But you know what? The words those two strangers spoke to me that day had made me feel a million times better. It was as if God put them in my path for the purpose of letting me know that everything would be ok. Times were definitely hard, but within a month I had finally found a job, and the first thing I bought with the money I made was a Hershey Bar and diet Coke. Best tasting Hershey Bar of my life! 

Scars

Have you ever heard of the old Celtic legend about hardships? Legend has it, that every person is given the opportunity to choose every hardship that they will experience in their lives. The point is to choose challenges that will push them to their limits, helping them to learn and grow along the way, while not becoming defeated by them. I guess it's a test, some pick more difficult obstacles to overcome, just to show that they can do it. If we go by this logic, then a lot of people must have picked crappy lives just to be showoffs.

When I read about this, all I could think about was what utter nonsense it was. We don't get to pick and choose what battles we must face, those battles are different for everyone, and they're just a part of life. Some people get dealt better hands than others. But the truth is, everyone goes through something at some point in their life. You can't play hide and seek with it. Pain doesn't discriminate, everyone experiences it.

So, now we move onto the subject of understanding. Some people think they have all the answers, when in reality, they don't even understand the question. There are those who choose to look but not see, to listen but not hear. I know a few like that. The important thing to know is that we have the power to create understanding from pain. How? By telling our stories. Whatever is imprinted on the pages of your storybook is yours to own, it's your story to tell. Don't be afraid to tell it. All those scars covering you from life experiences are priceless. Yes, pain sucks, but without it we wouldn't know joy. Pain shapes you, it molds your character, it teaches you something that cannot be taught from a book. Real learning doesn't come from reading about a particular subject, but from living it.

If given the chance to live a life with pain, or live a life of nothing, I choose the pain. Why? Because you can't learn anything from nothing.

No stranger to the rain....

I'm gonna be honest, I am utterly dreading the thought that my daughter will be entering middle school in the fall. For one, I still yearn for the days when she was wandering around the house in her pampers while carrying her bottle. Those days when "Dora the Explorer" and "Blue's Clues" dominated the television. However, my real reason for feeling such dread over her new journey into the world of junior high is because those puberty years are complete hell. Kids are cruel, life seems awkward, and the transition from a child to a teen is a short and bumpy road. One day you're playing tea party with dolls, and the next you're shopping for bras.

Ashley came out and asked me what middle school is like. Part of me wanted to lie and tell her it's better than eating a Snickers bar while surrounded by rainbows and glitter inside the magical unicorn forest. But I couldn't lie. Sure, I lied about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the tooth fairy. Those lies are harmless in comparison to lying about junior high life. I didn't go into specific details, but just reassured her that everything would be ok.

Thinking back to my days in middle school hell, I stumbled upon a memory that I haven't even thought about in decades. 

It was 1997 and I was in the 7th grade at Warfield Middle School, home of the red devils. I always hated that mascot, they should have chosen something more delightful...like the dancing dolphins or some shit. 

Anywho, one day it was pouring the rain. Crazy rain, the kind that is falling so hard it actually blinds you because it drowns your eyeballs. Funny thing is, I always loved that kind of rain.

The school was made up of two separate buildings. When you had to change classes you walked back and forth between them. When the bell rang I gathered my books and started my walk out of building #1 towards building #2. All the girls were screaming as they covered their heads with their books and acted as if the rain would melt their faces off. I mean, God forbid if the mascara that covered their 13 year old eyelashes happened to smear. Surely the world would end, right? (Insert eyeroll here).

So, as the girls screamed and ran, there I was, taking my sweet damn time and cherishing every single second of it. Actually, I do believe I walked a little slower that day, just to enjoy each and everyone of those blobs of rain drenching me from head to toe. 

Halfway to building #2 a boy was walking towards me on his way to building #1. As a pack of crying teen girls scurried past us both, books covering their heads, the boy stopped and looked at me. He said, "Lisa, you're the only girl I know who doesn't care to get soaked in rain like this." I looked at him, and as he walked on past me I wondered if he meant it as an insult or compliment. It really didn't matter, because to me it was, and probably always will be, the best compliment ever given to me. Why? Because it describes who I am. I'm the girl that doesn't care to be different, that lives for the moments when it rains so hard you can't open your eyes fully, and to stand in that rain and feel completely alive in a world that tries to kill you. 

That's exactly how I want my daughter to feel. That's exactly how I want her to see herself when she starts her adventure into young adulthood. Not to be afraid to be different.

Facebook idiot of the day award....

Stupidity or just plain ignorant?? I just asked myself that question while scrolling through Facebook on this boring Monday night.

Someone posted this tweet made by @Education4Libs. Their point is valid....Bi means two. If the LGBTQRXYZ community recognizes bisexuality, then that means they must agree that there are only two genders.

I scrolled down to read the comments and laughed when I read this little gem. Are you ready for this?? 😂🤣

Hmmmmm....Ummmmm...I don't really know what to say other than, "SERIOUSLY??"

As you can see, according to "Scott", bisexual can mean more than two because, wait for it, bilingual means more than two.

What the fuck? Is this guy stupid or just ignorant?? 

Bi = 2. Don't believe me? Pick up a copy of Webster's dictionary and look it up. Don't have one? Google is a powerful tool. Don't be afraid to use it. 

Here are screenshots of my replies to "Scott's" libtarded rant, and since he referenced chess, I'll provide the play-by-play.

1. This is when I captured the majority of Scott's pawns, leaving his more powerful pieces completely exposed.

2. At this point, my bishop, rook, & queen moved into just the right spaces to totally fuck up any chance of him wiggling his way out of a loss.

Checkmate! This is Lisa gloating while doing my victory dance.

So, as you can see, bilingual means you can speak 2...TWO...languages fluently. Just two. TWO.

If you speak three, you can refer to yourself as trilingual if you wish, or use the more popular term: Multilingual.

I was the only girl that participated in chess club in school. If you wanna play a game, let me know. 

Character

Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved. Character is like a tree and reputation like a shadow. The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the real thing. 

The above quote is completely true. What builds character? It's built through hard times, heartache, and the utter harshness of reality. When does childhood end and adulthood begin? For me, it was the day I realized that my dad wasn't superman. It was the day I realized that everything isn't all rainbows and unicorns. It was the day I realized he was going to die.

I didn't plan on blogging about this...like everyone else on social media, I planned on posting a pic of my dad with the words "Happy Father's Day". But there has been a memory I've carried around for quite sometime, and I feel the need to share it. So here goes. 

A couple nights before my dad passed away, I remember waking up from the sound of him trying to get up from the recliner he was sleeping in. My mom, brother, and I were all camped out on the floor next to him. I laid there, eyes closed, but wide awake listening to him struggling to stand up. My mom quickly went over to him and asked what he wanted.

"I want to lay down next to my baby girl." he said in a frail voice. A voice that had been weakened by the cancer which had eaten away at his body. 

"John Henry, you can't lay down on the floor," my mom said. "Try to get some rest."

After a long pause I heard the most pitiful sounding response pour from his mouth. "Ok."

The sound of the way he said it still echoes in my mind. Sometimes I can't remember the sound of his voice when he was healthy, but the sound of him saying "Ok" is a vivid memory, one that's stuck on repeat.

I opened my eyes and looked slightly up. I saw him laying back in his recliner, eyes closed, and mouth open as he fought for each breath he took. I was a scared 15 year old. Scared of death. Scared to show emotion. What I regret most though was the fact that I was scared to talk. I wish I had said something, anything. 

All I could do was reach over and place my hand on his foot. As I held his foot in my hand I kept wondering if he knew it was me holding it. I closed my eyes as tears ran silently down my young face. I held his foot for hours, until I finally fell asleep.

Deep down I know he had no idea I had his foot in my hand all night. It had already gotten to the point where his mind wasn't capable of being present. There were brief moments here and there where he knew who he was, who I was....but those moments lasted only a few seconds. 

For years I have prayed to God to do me a favor, to let my dad know that I cared. That I heard him that night trying to lay down next to me and hug me. And for God to tell my dad that it was me holding his foot in my hand, because I couldn't bring myself to say anything. 

That moment taught me a very important lesson. Don't be afraid to tell people you love them. Don't miss an opportunity to speak what's on your mind. 

Experiencing what I did, witnessing what I did, built character within me. I see it as a gift given to me from my dad and from God.

Late Night Ramblings....

It's been a little while since I posted any new entries. Life kind of got in the way I suppose. August of last year I unexpectedly had gallbladder removal surgery, followed by a double hernia repair three months later. Truth be told, I'm secretly kinda hoping I'll be able to cash in on all those mesh implant lawsuits LOL.

It's 1am...I'm laying in bed with the window open. I can hear the raindrops dancing on the roof, and the cool breeze flowing in as the curtains softly wave against the wind. Wow, I just quoted a Bob Seger song, go me.

As far as my usual political rants go, I really don't have anything too specific to go off on. Things seem pretty much the same as they were the last time I blogged. The left still hates Trump, fake news still floods our daily lives, and the world is still going to hell.

I'm sad to hear the news about Charles Krauthammer's sharp decline in health. Cancer sucks. I never even knew the man was in a wheelchair up until just a few years ago. The recent letter he penned giving his update, in a way which displayed a humbling goodbye, simply brought tears to my eyes. I always had respect for the man, for his brilliant mind, and his kind temperament. The world will lose a beautiful soul when he graciously takes his last bow.

Mr. Krauthammer, you are one of the very few people in the political arena that actually gets it....Your common sense commentary will be greatly missed. Prayers for you and your family over the course of the next few weeks.