I was thoroughly excited to attend the New Edition concert with my best friend, Amanda. Imagine my surprise when we arrived at the venue and Amanda didn’t want to go inside. Rather, she preferred to drive around the perimeter of the building, hoping to meet VIPs. That was the moment I realized that she and I had vastly different approaches to life: I wanted to see the concert; she wanted to be seen at the concert. Her plan was a success. We met people who knew people. After singing for one, he gave me the number of a music producer.

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It came in handy today when my mother unwittingly let a lizard into the house. Fortunately, my sister was here, but she was just as upset about it as I was. She started knocking on neighbors’ doors, hoping to find someone to assist. She found Jose. Neither of us knew Jose, but we were sure glad to see him.

He didn’t speak English. I said, “Mi español es no bien.” I sure hope that meant “my Spanish is not good” because that’s what I was trying to say.

I must have conveyed meaning because he responded, “Bueno.”

He commenced to ridding my palace of the uninvited guest. Afterward, I was so grateful that I offered to pay him. “Puedo pagar?” That’s how it came out, but he understood what I meant. He declined.

I asked if I could do anything for him… I think. That came out like, “Puedo ayudar cada anything?” I don’t know what I offered that man, but thankfully, he turned that down, too.

He did, however, accept a hug. And boy, did he ever. He held me. I mean, held me like I haven’t been held by a man in a very long time. Then he gazed into my eyes and said, “Tengo mundo…” I didn’t catch the last word. Why is he telling me he has a world? What kind of world is he talking about? I felt as though he were about to offer me a dowry.

Then he cupped his hands around my face and said, “Muy guapa.” I know what that means.

I said, “Gracias,” and tried to scoot him out before the marriage proposal came.

It was flattering, though, especially considering I was wearing a t-shirt, sweatpants, and a hair bonnet.

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It’s subtitled “Rae’s Turn” because I was going to write two other stories about women who got a shot at Jeremy, but my inspiration has not yet returned. I would like to write more interactive stories, though. That was fun.

Similarly, I would like to write another compound acrostic like Seeking, which I still think is my best poem. It’s certainly the most challenging poetic form I’ve written. Just think: 15 metered lines, the first and last letters of each line form a phrase, refrains end with the same sounding word except for the last one that has a twist, AND the sucker rhymes. Who’s a bad bitch? I’m a bad bitch.

Yes, I hope to revisit both forms someday. I love a writing challenge.

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To which I say …

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… the importance of the God being born of a “Virgin” did not come originally from any puritanical impulses. Classically, the term Virgin meant a woman who was “one-in-herself,” who owned herself. She could be sexual and could have children, but she could not be someone else’s wife or property. Generally, this meant that she knew the goddess within her and honored herself.

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When I was 14 years old, I heard a news anchor mention sex crimes against women. It gave me pause. I wondered why he said “against women” because I had never heard of sex crimes against men. As soon as those words spun in my head, I thought that would be a great premise for a movie.

I have spent the last 30+ years trying to figure out the plot. My original idea was about women from outer space doing very bad things to earth men. I was a strange kid. Eventually, the idea evolved into an actual gang of women who sexually assaulted men. The problem was (and is) I could never visualize what that would look like.

At some point, I let go of the idea of women intentionally hurting men and decided to have a gang of women who enjoyed group sex with random men. Everything goes along fine until one of the men dies mid-coitus. I kept changing my mind about how he died. In one iteration, the gameplay gets a little too kinky, and the man has a heart attack. In another iteration, one of the ladies gets upset with him for not fulfilling her fantasy and punishes him whereby he accidentally (?) dies. And there have been even more versions, but in each one, the women then try to cover up the crime, and hijinks ensue. Yeah, it’s a comedy. A sexy, dark comedy. Perhaps I’m still a little strange.

I attempted to write some version of this screenplay around 2008. Actually, it was the first rough draft of a screenplay I’d ever written, which explains why it is SO bad. The scene that I’ve posted is really the only salvageable piece of it. To this day, it just cracks me up.

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Read the origin story of this sequence.

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And that’s how my parents met.

If he were still alive, today would be their 61st wedding anniversary.

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I was around six years old when my father said he needed to leave me home alone for a few minutes while he handled some business. He cautioned me to be on my best behavior, and I promised him I would.

As soon as he pulled out of the driveway, I went looking for trouble. Special trouble. The kind a child can only get into when left unattended for a substantial amount of time.

I found my father’s gun. It was a pistol, a six-shooter. That’s all I can say about it as I don’t know anything about guns.

I wasn’t sure where to aim it. I didn’t want to leave a hole or gash or any other evidence that I had tampered with it. I decided to stand at the top of the stairs and shoot into the living room. That was the best compromise my six-year-old brain could come up with it. I pulled back the safety and squeezed the trigger.

I remember seeing the fire come from the barrel and being jolted backward.

I went downstairs and searched for the bullet–the tattletale–but could not find it. I raced back upstairs to my father’s box of ammunition, hoping to replace the fired bullet so he wouldn’t notice it was missing.

I opened the cylinder (I just looked up that word. Seriously, I know nothing about guns) and much to my surprise, all six bullets were still inside.

Later, I told my sister what I had done. She fiercely scolded me, warning that the bullet could have ricocheted and killed me. Perhaps it was God’s Grace that kept the bullet from coming out.

I was reminded of that incident while recently watching The West Wing (yes, again). Usually, the media depict firing a gun as easy. You just pick it up and fire away. I love that this scene shows that it’s actually pretty hard to shoot a gun. Not just the aiming but the strong kick from it. In this scene, it literally knocked (tall ass) CJ to the floor. I appreciate the honesty.

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